POLLY IN NEW YORK
Polly's first journey by herself caused a good deal of excitement in
Lady Gay Cottage. Mrs. Dudley was a little nervous at thought of it,
the Doctor wondered at the very last moment if he had been unwise to
allow her to go alone, and for Polly herself the new experience almost
pushed Ilga Barron and the tea-party from her mind. But the miles were
traveled without any startling adventure, and in two hours she was in
New York, with Cousin Floyd clasping her in his arms and telling her
how glad he was to see her.
The next days were so crammed with novel sights and undreamed-of
pleasures that Polly felt as if she were in a new kind of
merry-go-round and must stop and take breath. But she whirled on
and on, in company with her cousins and other girls and boys, and
everybody was so kind and so gay that she found not a moment to be
homesick or lonely in, although Fair Harbor seemed a very long way
off.
From the first she and her Cousin Harold were comrades. They
discovered that they had read the same books, that they enjoyed the
same sports, that they loved the same flowers and songs and fairy-tale
heroes. Harold had always envied boys with sisters, and now his dream
of a sister for himself seemed actually to have come to pass--only he
knew that the waking time must be soon.
Ever since it had been decided that Polly should come to New York she
had wondered with a vague fear if her relatives would urge her to
remain with them; but for a few days nothing was said of it. Then
Harold spoke out.
"I wish you were really my sister," he told her, as they stood
together watching the antics of some monkeys at the Hippodrome; "then
we could come here every Saturday."
"You couldn't come," Polly laughed. "You'd be away at school."
"No," was the serious reply, "I should get father to let me go to
school here. If you'd stay and be my cousin-sister, it would be just
exactly as good--oh, Polly! won't you?"
Her lips drooped sorrowfully. "I can't! truly I can't!" she answered,
just as she had answered his brother, in Fair Harbor.
Then they went past the cage of the very funniest monkeys of all, and
Harold did not even smile.
The day before the one set for Polly's going home she was given a
grand party by her cousins, and Uncle Maurice ordered the affair with
a free hand. She had never seen a house so converted into a garden of
flowers. Wandering about from room to room, she and Harold watched the
men as they placed potted plants, twined garlands, banked windows and
fireplaces with vines and blossoms, and arranged pretty nooks of
greenery and color. Finally they sat down in a little make-believe
arbor of roses, Polly busily admiring everything.
Harold was more quiet; he was even grave. At last his thoughts became
words.
"Oh, Polly, stay with me! do! I want you!"
"Why, Harold, you know I told you I couldn't!" she answered, almost
reprovingly.
"I know you say so," he retorted; "but you can! You can as well as
not! You just don't want to--that's why! But I think you might, to
please me! Do, Polly!"
She plucked a bit of green from her cousin's coat sleeve before she
replied.
"I don't see how I could leave father and mother," she said softly.
"You wouldn't want to give up your home here and your father and
brothers to go and live with me."
"Yes, I would!" was the unexpected response. "I'd go in a minute!
Polly, I'd go anywhere or do anything for you!"
The boy believed it, and, looking into his earnest eyes, Polly almost
believed it, too. She did not know how to answer. Then she shifted the
viewpoint.
"But father and mother--you don't think of them! How could they get
along without any little girl?--without me?"
Harold thought and sighed. This was a new light on the matter.
"No, they couldn't," he admitted slowly. "They've known you longer
than I have, and I don't see how they could give you up. Well, I
suppose I shall have to let you go." He looked the disconsolate lover,
instead of the merry-hearted boy of ten.
Two weeks before, when Polly's small trunk had been packed, she had
begged to be allowed to take with her the parting present of Chris
Morrow, for hitherto there had been no occasion grand enough to
warrant its being used. At first Mrs. Dudley had been in doubt, but
after a few quite reasonable arguments on the part of Polly the little
case had been tucked into a safe corner. The beautiful ornament had
already fastened Polly's sash a number of times, and it was again
called into service for the home party. She was in a hurry when the
maid clasped it, for Harold was calling her to come out in the hall
and see the caterers bring the things in, and before the evening was
half spent her sash was trailing out of place and the pin missing.
Hastily she confided to her cousin her misfortune, and together they
searched up and down the rooms. Finally, just as Harold was starting
to tell Floyd of the loss, they heard a cry of surprise from one of
the guests not far away, and they saw that the pansy pin was in her
hand.
"I found it right down here!" the girl was saying excitedly. "Where do
you s'pose it came from? Oh, it's just like one my sister had that was
stolen by a burglar last winter--why!" as the back of the pin was
disclosed, "it is hers! There's the 'B' I scratched one day, and Tip
gave me an awful scolding for it! I was going to scratch my whole
name, but she caught me too quick--my, didn't she come at me!"
Harold waited for no more.
"It belongs to my cousin," he explained. "She just lost it from her
sash, and we've been hunting everywhere for it."
He held out his hand for the ornament, but the finder clasped it
tightly in her palm.
"It is my sister's," she declared. "The burglars--"
"Botheration!" he cried. "Of course, it isn't the same pin! This one
is Polly's. It was a present to her, and she thinks a lot of it."
"But I scratched the 'B'--"
"Probably somebody else scratched this. Did you, Polly?" turning to
his cousin.
"No," she admitted slowly, "I didn't; but I noticed the 'B,' and
wondered how it came to be there. I don't see how it could have been
your sister's," she said, addressing the girl who still kept the pin
hidden in her hand. "Chris's father bought it for him to give to me."
Those most interested in this little controversy were now surrounded
by the young guests who were eager to know the cause of the dispute.
Floyd and Julian pressed near, but before they reached Polly's side
she had bravely settled the question.
"Keep the pin," she yielded gently. "I should not wish to have it back
again if you think it belongs to your sister. Come, Harold!" and
turning from the little crowd she ran into the arms of Floyd.
He drew her away to a retired spot, followed only by the eyes of a few
curious ones, and the story was told, beginning with little Chris and
ending with Bertha Kingstone.
Polly was close to tears as she finished, and Harold was openly
indignant that she should have allowed Bertha to keep the pin.
"Of course, there are two pins!" he declared vehemently. "This one
never belonged to Tip Kingstone. If you don't get it away from her,
Floyd Westwood, I will!" His flashing eyes emphasized his hot words,
and he would have carried out his threat if it had not been for his
brother's authoritative advice to let things be as they had fallen
until their father could be consulted.
This little episode came near upsetting the party, but Aunt Sally
Calhoun was a diplomat of no mean degree, and under her tactful
management things quickly regained their smooth course. Yet Polly went
to sleep that night wishing with all her heart that she had never
brought her precious pansy pin to New York.
The next morning, just as she was putting on her hat and coat to go to
the station, a maid appeared at her door with a card. She read,
engraved in small script, "Bertha Curtis Kingstone," and she wondered
with a joyful wonder why she had come to see her.
The girl that met her downstairs in the reception room seemed a very
different Bertha from the one of the night before. She held out the
pin.
"Mother says I have no right to this," she began abruptly, "and I beg
your pardon for keeping it." The words were spoken in a low,
monotonous voice, as if they were a lesson. "I am sorry I was so rude,
and I trust you will excuse me."
Polly was at once generous.
"Oh, it may be yours!" she responded. "I'm afraid I ought not to take
it back."
"Mercy!" the other broke out, "I guess you'll have to! I've had
scoldings enough over the old pin! I wouldn't carry it home again for
a bushel of 'em!"
"I am sorry you have been scolded," sympathized Polly.
"Oh, I don't care!" Bertha returned. "I'm used to it. But I hate to
apologize--that's the worst of doing things. Good-bye!"
Polly ran to find Harold, to share with him her joy in the restored
pin; but the lad was not to be seen. Nor did he appear to bid her
good-bye, although she lingered to search for him until she came near
missing her train. What could have happened? Fear haunted her all the
way home.