It was a golden July afternoon two months later when all nature was a
splendid riot of color and perfume. In a hammock under a group of pine
trees a girl lay half asleep. Now and then she would open her eyes to
glance at the lazy white clouds overhead. Then she would look with
perhaps closer attention at the figure of another girl who was seated a
few yards away.
If the girl in the hammock was dreaming, her companion fitted oddly into
her dream. She was dressed in a simple white muslin frock and her hair
had a band of soft blue ribbon tied about it. In her lap lay an open
book, but no page had been turned in the last fifteen minutes and indeed
she was quieter than her friend who was supposed to be asleep.
"Betty," a voice called softly, "bring your chair nearer to me. I have
done my duty nobly for the past two hours and have not spoken a single,
solitary word. So even the sternest of doctors and nurses can't say I am
unfaithful to my rest cure. Besides it is absurd, now when I am as well
as any one else. Yes, that is much better, Betty, and you are, please,
to gaze directly into my face while I am talking to you. I haven't liked
your fashion lately of staring off into space, as you were doing just
recently and indeed on all occasions when you believe no one is paying
any special attention to you."
With a low curtsey Betty did as she was commanded. She even knelt down
on the ground beside the hammock to look the more directly into the eyes
of her friend. But as she continued, unexpectedly a slow color crept
into her cheeks from her throat upwards until it had flushed her entire
face.
"I declare, Polly," she exclaimed jumping to her feet abruptly and
sitting down in her chair again, "you make me feel as though I had
committed some offence, though I do assure you I have been as good as
gold, so far as I know, for a long, long time."
Polly was silent a moment. "You know perfectly well, Betty, that I don't
think you have done anything wrong. You need not use that excuse to try
and deceive me, dear, because it does not make the slightest impression.
The truth is, Betty, that you have a secret that you are keeping from me
and from every one else so far as I know. Of course there isn't any
reason why you should confide in me if you don't wish. You may be
punishing me for my lack of confidence in you last winter."
This last statement was possibly made with a double intention. Betty
responded to it instantly.
"Surely, Polly, you must know that would not make the slightest
difference," she returned earnestly. And then the next instant, as if
fearing that she might have betrayed herself: "But what in the world
makes you think I am cherishing a secret, you absurd Polly? I suppose
you have had to have something to think about these past two months,
when you have spent so much time lying down. Well, when I see how you
have improved I am quite willing to have been your victim."
With a quick motion the other girl now managed to sit upright, piling
her sofa cushions behind her. Her color was certainly sufficiently vivid
at this instant. But indeed she was so improved in every way that one
would hardly have known her for the Polly O'Neill of the past year's
trials and successes. Her figure was almost rounded, her chin far less
pointed and all the lines of fatigue and nervous strain had vanished
from her face. But Polly's temper had not so materially changed!
"It isn't worth while to accuse me of having tried to spy into your
private affairs, Princess," she replied haughtily. "But if you do feel
that I have, then I ask your pardon for now and all times. I shall never
be so offensive again."
There followed a vast and complete human silence. Then Polly got up from
her resting place and went and put her arm quietly about her friend.
"Princess, I would rather that the stars should fall or the world come
to an end, than have you really angry with me," she murmured. "But you
know I did not mean to offend you by asking you to confide in me, don't
you? Anyway I promise never, never to ask you again. Here, let me have
the Woodford paper, please. I believe Billy brought us the afternoon
edition. I wonder if he and Mollie will be gone on their boating
expedition for long? They must have been around the lake half a dozen
times already."
As though dismissing the subject of their past conversation entirely
from her mind, Polly, resuming her hammock, now buried herself in the
columns of the Woodford Gazette. Apparently she had not observed that no
reply had been made either to her accusation or apology. She could see
that Betty was not seriously angry, which was the main thing.
"Get out your embroidery, Princess, and let me read the news aloud to
you;" she demanded next. "I love to watch you sew. It is not because you
do it so particularly well, but because you always manage to look like a
picture in a book. Funny thing, dear, why you have such a different
appearance from the rest of us. Oh, I am not saying that probably other
girls are not as pretty as you are, Mollie and Meg for instance. But you
have a different look somehow. No wonder Angel thinks you are a fairy
princess."
But at this moment an unexpected choking sound, that seemed in some
fashion to have come forth from Betty, interrupted the flow of her
friend's compliments.
"Please don't, Polly," she pleaded. "You know I love your Irish blarney
most of the time beyond anything in this world. But now I want to tell
you something. I have had a kind of a secret for over a year, but it is
past now and I'm dreadfully sorry if you believe you find a change in me
that you don't like. I suppose sometimes I do feel rather blue simply
because I am of so little account in the world. Please don't think I am
jealous, but you and Sylvia and Nan and Meg are all doing things and
Esther and Edith and Eleanor are married and Mollie helps her mother
with your big house. I believe Beatrice and Judith are both at college,
though we have been separated from them for such a long time. So you see
I am the only good-for-nothing in the old Sunrise Hill Camp Fire
circle."
"Yes, I see," was the somewhat curt reply from behind the outspread
paper.
"Mrs. Martins told me yesterday that the surgeons Dr. Barton brought to
see Angelique think she may be able to walk in another year or so and I
believe Cricket is to give up her crutches altogether in a few months,"
Polly presently remarked.
In the sunshine Betty Ashton's face shone with happiness. "Yes, isn't it
wonderful?" she remarked innocently.
"Of course, doing beautiful things for other people isn't being of the
slightest use in the world," the other girl continued, as though talking
to herself. "Yet Mrs. Martins also said yesterday, that she and
Angelique believed they had strayed into Paradise they were so happy
here at the cabin with the prospect of Angel's growing better ahead of
them. And I believe Cricket dances and sings with every step she takes
nowadays."
"But I?" interrupted Betty.
"No, of course you have had nothing in the world to do with it and I
never accused you for a single instant," her friend argued, and then
Polly fell to reading the paper aloud.
"'The friends of Doctor and Mrs. Richard Ashton, now of Boston,
Massachusetts, but formerly of Woodford, New Hampshire, will be
delighted to hear of the birth of their son, Richard Jr., on July the
fourteenth.' How does it feel to be an aunt?" the reader demanded.
"Delicious," Betty sighed, and then began dreaming of her new nephew,
wondering when she was to be allowed to see him, until Polly again
interfered with her train of thought.
"'Mr. and Mrs. Frank Wharton entertained at dinner last night in their
new home in honor of Mr. Anthony Graham, our brilliant young congressman
who has returned to Woodford for a few days.' Well, I like that!" Polly
protested. "Think of Frank and Eleanor daring to give a dinner party and
asking none of their other old friends or relatives. They must feel set
up at being married before the rest of us."
For the first time Betty now actually took a few industrious stitches in
her embroidery. "Oh, they probably did not have but two or three guests.
You know how papers exaggerate things, Pollykins, I would not be so
easily offended with my relations," she protested.
"No, but you used to be such an intimate friend of Anthony Graham's. Do
you know I look upon him as one of your good works, Betty? I wonder if
he will condescend to come to the cabin to see us, now he is such a busy
and distinguished person. Is he as much a friend of yours now as he used
to be?"
Unexpectedly Betty's thread broke, so that she was forced to make
another knot before replying.
"Friend of mine? No, yes; well, that is we are friendly, of course, only
Anthony has grown so fond of Meg Everett lately that he has not much
time for any one else. But please don't speak of anything I ever did for
him, Polly. I beg it of you as a special favor. In the first place it
was so ridiculously little and in the second I think it pretty hard on
Anthony to have an unfortunate accident like that raked up against him
now that he has accomplished so much."
"Oh, all right," Polly returned, thoughtfully digging into the earth
with the toe of her pretty kid slipper.
"Good heavens, speaking of angels or the other thing!" she exclaimed, a
moment later, "I do declare if that does not look like Anthony Graham
coming directly toward us this instant. Do go and speak to him first,
dear, while I manage to scramble out of this hammock."
Ten minutes later Anthony was occupying the chair lately vacated by
Betty, while Polly was once more in a reclining position. Knowing that
she was still regarded as a semi-invalid, Anthony had insisted that she
must not disturb herself on his account. He had explained that the
reason for his call was to find out how she was feeling. So, soon after
this statement, Betty had left the two of them together, giving as an
excuse the fact that as she had invited Anthony to stay with them to tea
she must go to the cabin to help get things ready.
After Betty's disappearance Polly did not find her companion
particularly interesting. He scarcely said half a dozen words but sat
staring moodily up toward the dark branches of the enshadowing pine
trees. This at least afforded Polly a fine opportunity for studying the
young man's face.
"You have improved a lot, Anthony," she said finally. "Oh, I beg your
pardon, I am afraid I was thinking out loud."
Her visitor smiled. "Well, so long as your thoughts are complimentary I
am sure I don't mind," he returned. "Keep it up, will you?"
The girl nodded. "There is nothing I should like better. You know it is
odd, but the Princess and I were talking about you just when you
appeared. I must say I am amazed at your prominence, Anthony. I never
dreamed you would ever amount to so much. It was funny, but Betty used
always to have faith in you. I often wondered why."
This time her companion did not smile. "I wish to heaven then that she
had faith in me now, or if not faith at least a little of her old
liking," he answered almost bitterly. "For the last year, for some
reason or other, Miss Betty has seemed to dislike me. She has avoided me
at every possible opportunity. And I have never been able to find out
whether I had offended her or if she had merely grown weary of my
friendship. I have been so troubled by it that I have made a confidant
of Miss Everett and asked her to help me if she could. I thought perhaps
if Betty--Miss Betty, I mean--could see that Meg Everett liked me and was
willing to be my intimate friend, that possibly she might forgive me in
time. But it has all been of no use, she has simply grown colder and
colder. And I fear I only weary Miss Everett in talking of Miss Betty so
much of the time. She recently told me that I did."
Polly's lips trembled and her shoulders shook. What a perfectly absurd
creature a male person was at all times and particularly when under the
influence of love!
The next moment the girl's face had strangely sobered.
"You are not worthy to tie her shoe-string, you know, Anthony; but then
I never have seen any one whom I have thought worthy of her. Most
certainly neither Esther nor I approved of the nobility as represented
by young Count Von Reuter."
Aloud Polly continued this interesting debate with herself, apparently
not concerned with whether or not her companion understood her.
"Certainly I am unworthy to tie any one's shoe-string," the young man
murmured finally, "but would you mind confiding in me just whose
shoe-string you mean?"
From under her dark lashes half resentfully and half sympathetically the
girl surveyed the speaker. "You have a sense of humor, Anthony, and that
is something to your credit," she remarked judicially. "Well, much as I
really hate to say it, I might as well tell you that I don't think the
Princess dislikes you intensely, provided you tell her just why you have
been so intimate with Meg for these past months. No, I have nothing more
to say. Only I am going down to the lake for half an hour to join Mollie
and Billy Webster and if you wait here you may have a chance of speaking
to Betty alone when she comes to invite us in to tea."
Then quietly Polly O'Neill strolled away with every appearance of
calmness, although she was really feeling greatly perturbed and
distressed. Certainly something must have worked a reformation in her
character, for although she positively hated the idea of Betty Ashton's
marrying, had she not just thrust her deliberately into the arms of her
fate. Yet, of course, her feeling was a purely selfish one, since she
had no real fault to find with Anthony. So if Betty loved him, he must
have his chance.
Then with a smile and a sigh Polly once more shrugged her shoulders,
which is the Irish method of acknowledging that fate is too strong for
the strongest of us. She reached the edge of the lake and madly signaled
to Mollie and Billy to allow her to enter their boat. They were at no
great distance off and yet were extremely slow in approaching the shore.
Evidently they seemed to feel no enthusiasm for the newcomer's society
at the present moment.
"I thought you were asleep, Polly," Mollie finally murmured in a
reproachful tone, while Billy Webster eyed his small canoe rather
doubtfully.
"She won't carry a very heavy load, Miss Polly," he remarked, drawing
alongside. Polly calmly climbed into the skiff, taking her seat in the
stern.
"I can't sleep all the time, sister of mine," she protested, once she
was comfortably established, "much as I should like to accommodate my
family and friends by the relief from my society. And as for my being
too heavy for your canoe, Billy Webster, I don't weigh nearly so much as
Mollie. So if you think both of us too heavy, she might as well get out
and give me a chance. You have been around this lake with her at least a
dozen times already this afternoon. Besides, I really have to be allowed
to remain somewhere."
Plainly Mollie's withdrawal from the scene had no place in Billy's
calculations, for without further argument he moved out toward the
middle of the pond.