The next afternoon a dark-haired woman a little past thirty came into
the boarding house sitting room to see Richard Hunt before Polly made
her appearance.
"I am Mrs. Martins, Miss O'Neill's chaperon," she explained. "Or if I am
not exactly her chaperon at least we are together and I am trying to see
that no harm befalls her. No, she is not calling herself by her own
name, but she will prefer to give you her own reason for that. I have
met her mother several times, so that of course I understand the
situation." Mrs. Martins was a woman of refinement and of some education
and her pronunciation of her own name showed her to be of French origin.
Already the situation was slightly less mystifying. Yet there was still
a great deal for Polly to make clear if she chose to do so. However, it
was curious that she was taking so long a time to join them.
Mrs. Martins continued to talk about nothing in particular, so it was
evident that she intended making no betrayals. Now and then she even
glanced toward the door in some embarrassment, as though puzzled and
annoyed by her companion's delay. And while Richard Hunt was answering
her politely if vaguely, actually he was on the point of deciding that
Polly did not intend coming down stairs at all. Well perhaps it would
serve him right, for what authority did he have for forcing the girl's
confession? And she was certainly quite capable of punishing him by
placing him in an absurd situation.
Nevertheless nothing was farther from Polly O'Neill's intention at the
present moment. She was merely standing before her mirror in her tiny
upstairs bedroom trying to summon sufficient courage to meet her guest
and tell her story.
Once or twice she had started for the door only to return and stare at
herself with intense disapproval. She had rubbed her cheeks with a crash
towel until at least they were crimson enough, although the color was
not very satisfying, and she had arranged her hair three times, only to
decide at the last that she had best have left it alone at first.
Now she made a little grimace at her own image, smiling at almost the
same instant.
"My beloved Princess or Mollie, I do wish you could lend me your good
looks for the next half hour," she murmured half aloud. "It is so much
easier to be eloquent and convincing in this world when one happens to
be pretty. But I, well certainly I would serve as a perfect illustration
of 'a rag and a bone and a hank of hair' at this moment if at no other."
Polly glanced down at her costume with more satisfaction than she had
found in surveying her face. It was not in the least shabby, but a very
charming dress which her mother had sent as a part of her Christmas box.
The dress was of dark red crepe de Chine with a velvet girdle and collar
of the same shade. And although under ordinary circumstances it might
have been becoming, today Polly was not wrong in believing that she was
not looking even her poor best. She was tired and nervous. Of course it
did not matter so very much what Mr. Hunt might think of the story she
had to tell him, but later on there would be many other persons whom she
would have to persuade to accept her point of view. And somehow she felt
that if she failed to convince her first listener she must fail with the
others.
Then unexpectedly, before hearing the sound of her approach, Richard
Hunt discovered a cold hand being extended to shake his, and in a voice
even more chilling Polly O'Neill was apologizing for having kept him
waiting. Yet on the way down the steps had she not positively made up
her mind to be so cordial and agreeable that her visitor should forget
her other deficiencies?
With a feeling of amazement mixed with despair Polly seated herself in
the darkest corner of a small sofa next Mrs. Martins, deciding that it
was quite useless, that she should attempt no explanation. Mr. Hunt and
her companion could talk together about the weather if they chose, for
she could not think of a single word to say. Afterwards her visitor
could go away and give any account of her he wished, although naturally
this might frustrate all her hopes and ambitions and make her dearest
friends angry with her for life. Yet if one were always to suffer from
stage fright at all the critical moments of one's career what else could
be expected?
At this moment Mrs. Martins excused herself and left the room. Polly saw
her go with a characteristic shrug of her shoulders and an odd glance at
her visitor. The moment had come. Mr. Hunt would discover that she had
not even the grace to keep her promise, and heaven alone knew what he
would soon think of her.
Yet after saying good-by to her companion he continued talking in the
kindest possible fashion, telling her news of Esther and Dick Ashton,
saying how much he admired Betty and Mollie.
Indeed in less than five minutes Polly had actually managed to forget
the reason for her visitor's call and was asking him questions about her
old friends, faster than they could be answered.
"Was their play, A Woman's Wit, still as great a success as it had been
at the start? Was Margaret Adams well or had the winter's work used her
up? Did Betty Ashton seem to have any special admirer in Boston?"
Actually in a brief quarter of an hour Polly's eyes were shining and her
lips smiling. Curled up comfortably on her sofa she suddenly appreciated
that she was having the most agreeable time she had enjoyed in months.
Then again her expression changed and her brief radiance vanished. Yet
this time her companion understood.
"Miss Polly," he said quickly, "please don't feel that after what
happened yesterday I still mean to force you to make a confidant of me.
The truth is I did want very much to hear that all was well with you and
that you were not making any kind of mistake. I am not going to be a
coward, so I confess that I came here today expecting to force your
secret from you simply because I had an advantage over you. But, of
course, now that we have been talking together I can see that you are
all right, even if you do look rather tired and none too cheerful. So I
want to apologize and then I shall go away and not worry you again. Also
you may feel entirely assured that I shall not mention having seen you
to any one."
The man had risen from his chair, but before he could move a step
forward, Polly had clasped her hands together and was gazing at him
imploringly.
"Oh, please, Mr. Hunt, don't go," she begged. "All of a sudden I have
begun to feel that if I don't tell some one my secret and ask you to
approve of me or at least to try to forgive me for what I am doing I
shall perish." Actually Polly would now have pushed her visitor back
into his chair if he had not sat down again so promptly as to make it
unnecessary.
"You are sure you wish to confide in me, Miss Polly? Of course you
understand that I will tell no one. But if your mother knows and
approves of you, why surely no other person is necessary," he argued.
In reply the girl laughed. "Mother is an angel and for that reason
perhaps she does not always approve or understand me exactly. In this
case she is just permitting me to have my own way because she promised
to let me try and do what I could to become a successful actress and she
never goes back on her word. Of course my method seems queer to her and
probably will to you. But after all it is the way I see things and one
can't look out of any one's eyes but one's own. Surely you believe that,
Mr. Hunt?"
Of course any one who really understood Polly O'Neill, Betty Ashton for
instance, would have understood at once that she was now beginning to
explain her own wilfulness. Yet her question did sound convincing, for
assuredly one can have no other vision than one's own.
Richard Hunt nodded sympathetically, although Polly was looking so
absurdly young and so desperately in earnest that he would have
preferred to smile.
She was leaning forward with her chin resting on her hand and gazing
intently at him. What she saw was a man who seemed almost middle-aged to
her. And yet to the girl he seemed almost ideally handsome. His features
were strong and well-cut, the nose aquiline, the mouth large and firm.
And he was wearing the kindest possible expression. For half an instant
Polly's thoughts flew away from herself. Surely if any one in the world
could be worthy of Margaret Adams it was Richard Hunt. Then she settled
down to the telling of her own story.
"You know of course, Mr. Hunt, without my having to say anything more
about it, that ever since I was a little girl I have dreamed and hoped
and prayed of some day becoming a great actress. Mother says that there
was some one in my family once, one of my Irish aunts, I believe, who
ran away from home in order to go on the stage and was never recognized
again. I have thought sometimes that perhaps I inherited her ambition.
One never knows about things like that, life is so queer. Anyhow when a
dozen girls in Woodford formed a Camp Fire and we lived together in the
woods for over a year working and playing, mother and Betty and my
sister expected me to get over my foolish ideas and learn something
through our club that might make me adopt a more sensible career. I
don't mean to be rude to you, Mr. Hunt," Polly was profoundly serious,
there was now no hint of amusement in her dark blue eyes or in her
mobile face, "you understand I am only telling you what my family and
friends thought about people who were actors--not what I think. I don't
see why acting isn't just as great and useful as the other arts if one
is conscientious and has real talent. But the trouble with me has been
all along that I haven't any real talent. I suppose if I had been a
genius from the first no one would have cared to oppose me. Well the
Camp Fire did not influence me against what I wanted to do; it only made
me feel more in earnest than I had ever been before. For we girls
learned such a lot about courage and perseverance and being happy even
if things were not going just the way one liked, that it has all been a
great help to me recently, more than at any time in my life."
Richard Hunt nodded gravely. "I see," he said quietly, although in point
of fact he did not yet understand in the least what Polly was trying to
explain, nor why she should review so much of her past life before
coming to her point. He was curiously interested, although ordinarily he
might have been bored by such a disjointed story.
Polly was too intense at the moment to have bored anyone. There she sat
in her red dress against the darker background of the sofa with her
figure almost in shadow and the light falling only upon her odd, eager
face.
"I ran away from Miss Adams and from you, not because I was such a
coward that I meant to give up the thing I was trying for, but because I
knew that I must have a harder time if I was ever to amount to anything.
You see people were trying to make things so easy for me and in a way
they were making them more difficult. Margaret gave me that place in her
company when I did not deserve it; you tried to show me how to act when
I could not learn; my friends were complimenting me when all the time
they must have known I was a failure. I couldn't bear it, Mr. Hunt;
really I could not. I am lots of horrid things, but I am not a fraud.
Then Margaret told me what a difficult time she had at the beginning of
her career and how no one had helped her. Of course she meant to make me
feel that I might be more successful because of my friends' aid, but I
did not see things just that way. Oh, I do hope you had to work
dreadfully hard at the beginning of your profession and had lots of
failures," Polly concluded so unexpectedly and so solemnly that this
time Richard Hunt could not refrain from laughing.
"Oh no, it wasn't all plain sailing for me either, Miss Polly, and it
isn't now for that matter, if it is of any help to you to know it," he
added, realizing that his companion was absolutely unconscious of having
said anything amusing.
"Before I gave up trying to act Belinda I got a small position in a
cheap stock company." Polly had at last reached the point of her story.
"The company has been traveling through New England all winter and is
still on the road. We only happened to be in Boston during the holidays.
I have been playing almost any kind of part, sometimes I am a maid,
sometimes a lady-in-waiting to the queen; once or twice, when the star
has been ill, I have had to take the character of the heroine. Of course
all this must sound very silly and commonplace to you, Mr. Hunt, but
honestly I am learning a few things: not to be so self-conscious for one
thing and to work very, very hard."
"Too hard, Miss Polly, I am afraid," Richard Hunt replied, looking
closely at his companion and feeling oddly moved by her confession.
Perhaps the girl's effort would amount to nothing and perhaps she was
unwise in having made it, nevertheless one could not but feel sorry that
her friends had suspected her of ingratitude and lack of affection and
that she was engaged in some kind of foolish escapade. Richard Hunt felt
extremely guilty himself at the moment.
"Oh no, I am not working too hard or at least not too hard for my
health," Polly argued. "You see both my mother and Sylvia are looking
after me. Sylvia made me promise her once, when I did not understand
what she meant, that I would let her know what I was doing all this
winter. So I have kept my promise and every once and a while good old
Sylvia travels to where I happen to be staying and looks me over and
gives me pills and things." Polly smiled. "You don't know who Sylvia is
and it is rather absurd of me to talk to you so intimately about my
family. Sylvia is my step-sister, but she used to be merely my friend
when we were girls. She is younger than I am but a thousand times
cleverer and is studying to be a physician. She has not much respect for
my judgment but she is rather fond of me."
"And your chaperon?" Perhaps Mr. Hunt realized that he was asking a good
many questions when he and Polly O'Neill were still comparative
strangers; yet he was too much concerned for her welfare at present to
care.
Polly did not seem to be either surprised or offended by his
questioning, but pleased to have some one in whom she might confide.
"Oh, just at first mother sent one of her old friends about everywhere
with me. But when she got tired we found this Mrs. Martins who was
having a hard time in New York and needed something to do. She is really
awfully nice and is teaching me French in our spare moments. She used to
be a dressmaker, I believe, but could not get enough work to do."
Suddenly Polly straightened up and put out her hand this time in an
exceedingly friendly fashion.
"Goodness, Mr. Hunt, what a dreadfully long time I have been keeping you
here and how good you have been to listen to me so patiently!" she
exclaimed. "You will keep my secret for me, won't you? This winter I
don't want my friends to know what I am trying to do or to come to see
me act. I have not improved enough so far."
Still holding Polly's hand in a friendly clasp, her visitor rose.
"But you will let me come, won't you?" he urged. "You see I am in your
secret now and so I am different from other people. Besides I am very
grateful to you for your faith in me and I don't like to remember now
that I first tried bullying you into confiding in me."
Polly's answering sigh was one of relief. "I don't seem to mind even
that, although I was angry and frightened at first," she returned. "I
don't usually enjoy doing what people make me do. But if you think you
really would like to come to see me play, perhaps I should be rather
glad. Only you must promise not to let me know when you are there, nor
what you think of my acting afterwards."