Other Scenes
A taxicab was driving slowly down Regent Street in the neighborhood of
Piccadilly Circus in London with a woman and a girl inside it. The woman
leaned back in a relaxed position with her eyes not on the scene about
her, but on the face of the girl. For she was sitting upright with her
hands clasped tight together in her lap, her eyes sparkling and her
cheeks glowing.
It was nearly six o'clock in the afternoon, the hour when English
people, having just finished their "afternoon tea," were returning to
their homes, so that the streets were crowded with fashionably dressed
men and women. And to the girl in the cab they were entirely absorbing
and interesting. For whatever the closeness of their relation, American
and English people when seen in any numbers are strikingly different in
their appearance. The English are taller and fairer, the men better
dressed than the women, and with less energy and less grace than
Americans. And to a young girl's eyes there were also hundreds of other
details of unlikeness and of fascination that older persons possibly
might not have noticed. Besides there was the spectacle of big,
beautiful, gray old London itself!
"Is there any other place on earth quite so wonderful?" Polly O'Neill
queried, turning to glance shyly into the face of the woman beside her.
"I feel that I should like to do nothing else for the rest of my life
but just sit here in this cab and drive about Piccadilly."
Miss Adams smiled. For Polly's exaggerations, that oftentimes annoyed
other people, merely amused her. Thus far, and they had been away for a
number of weeks, the great lady had not repented her invitation to the
girl to be her guest in Europe during the summer. For some reason she
had taken an odd fancy to Polly. Moreover, she was weary of her usual
summer amusements, wishing to enjoy life through younger eyes than her
own. And the special value of Polly O'Neill as a companion was that
with her ardent Irish temperament she could see and feel more in half an
hour than many persons do in half a life time.
Now, however, with her swift vision of her companion's expression, the
girl's altered. "You are tired," she murmured, with one of her quick
changes of mood and of opinion, "and I am sure that I have seen all I
wish to this afternoon. Don't you think we had better drive back to the
hotel?"
Miss Adams made a little sign to the cabman. "It is getting late, Polly,
and I forgot to tell you that I am having a friend to dinner."
The girl was silent for the next few moments after this speech, yet her
cheeks were flushing and her eyes so intent that it was evident she was
trying to say something without having sufficient courage to begin.
Finally she did speak in an embarrassed fashion:
"Miss Adams, I don't quite know how to say this, but I have been
wondering lately if you were not growing tired of London and staying on
longer here on my account. You remember that you told me before we
sailed that you were going to find some quiet place in the country to
rest. And it has not been much rest for you showing me both Paris and
London, with people after you all the time, even though you do refuse
most of their invitations." A sudden overwhelming shyness confused the
girl so that she could not continue for the moment. For in spite of the
weeks of daily intimacy with her new friend, Polly was not yet able to
think of her nor to treat her like any other human being. Not that Miss
Adams was ever anything but simple and kind like most great people. She
made no effort to be impressive and was not beautiful--only a slight,
frail-looking woman with a figure like a girl's, chestnut brown hair and
big, indescribably wonderful eyes. But to Polly she represented
everything in life worth attaining. Although still comparatively young,
Margaret Adams had won for herself the position of one of America's
leading actresses. Moreover, she had the world's respect as well as its
admiration, and besides her reputation a large fortune. So it was small
wonder that Polly should not so soon have recovered from her first
combination of awe and devotion for this celebrated woman, nor yet
understand the miracle of her choice of her as a traveling companion. It
was true that Miss Adams had no family and no close relatives except her
cousin, Mary Adams, who had been Polly's elocution teacher in Woodford.
The effort to persuade this cousin to accompany her on the European trip
had been the cause of Margaret Adams' visit to Woodford earlier in the
spring. There, finding that her cousin could not join her and yielding
to a sudden impulse, she had transferred her invitation to Polly. And
the thought that Miss Adams may have repented her rashness since their
departure from home had oftentimes made Polly O'Neill grow suddenly hot
and then cold. Some day, perhaps, her mother would discover that this
trip of Polly's with Miss Adams was to teach her the lessons that at the
present time she most needed--a new humility and the desire to place
another person's comfort and wishes before her own.
Perhaps Miss Adams partly understood the girl's sensations, for without
waiting for her to continue her speech she immediately asked: "What was
the name of that place in the German forests about which your friends
have written you? Did they not say that they had found a little house
for themselves and another not far away for us? It might be pleasant to
go there for a time."
In endeavoring to hide her excitement Polly now had to turn her head and
pretend to be looking at something out of the opposite side of the cab.
For this suggestion of Miss Adams represented the summit of her own
desires. Of course she had adored the sights and experiences of the
weeks in Paris and London, and life had never been so fascinating; yet
never for a moment had she ceased to look forward and yearn for a
reunion with Betty and Esther. Moreover, Betty's picture of the country
where they now were sounded like a scene from one of the German operas.
But Polly only murmured: "The village is called 'Waldheim,'" and made no
reply when Miss Adams returned: "Perhaps it may be a good idea for us to
go on there in a week or ten days, if we can make the necessary
arrangements."
By this time, however, their cab had stopped in front of a small,
inconspicuous brown hotel, which was one of the quietest and yet most
fashionable hotels in London, and within a few moments the two women
disappeared into their own rooms.
Half an hour afterwards Polly walked into their private sitting room.
There she sat down at a desk, intending to write to Betty Ashton before
the dinner hour.
In making her European trip under such unusual circumstances Polly had
not brought with her a great number of clothes. Nevertheless her
stepfather had insisted that she have whatever might be necessary and
Mrs. Wharton had taken great care and forethought to see that her things
were beautiful and appropriate. For Polly was not an easy person to
dress suitably. Persons who have more temperament than sheer physical
beauty always are difficult. It is impossible that they should look well
in any character of changing fashion or in the colors that are out of
harmony with their natures. For instance, one could never conceive of
Polly O'Neill in a pale blue gown, though for Mollie or Betty Ashton it
might be one's immediate choice. White and red, pale yellow or pink were
Polly's shades for evening wear and either brown or green for the
street.
Tonight at work on her letter she appeared younger than in truth she
was, like a girl of sixteen instead of nineteen. For although her hair
was worn in a heavy braided coil encircling her head, her dress was
extremely simple. It was of messaline silk of ivory whiteness and made
with a short Empire waist and narrow, clinging skirt. There was no sign
of trimming, except where the dress was cut low into a square at the
throat and edged with a fold of tulle.
On first coming into the sitting room, Polly, who had always an
instinctive attraction toward bright colors, had taken a red carnation
from a vase on a table and was now wearing the flower carelessly
fastened inside her belt.
During the first absorption of her writing she had paid no heed to the
door's quiet opening. Nor did she stir when a strange man entering the
room took his seat before the tiny fire which Miss Adams always had
lighted in the evenings, since the English summer is so often
unpleasantly cool to American people. Neither did the man appear to have
observed Polly.
When the girl finally did become aware of his presence she remembered
that Miss Adams had neglected to mention the name of the guest whom they
were expecting to dinner. And although Polly was becoming more
accustomed to the almost daily meetings with strangers, she always
suffered a few first moments of painful shyness.
The man happened to have his back turned toward her and had seated
himself in a comfortable big leather chair. Nevertheless as soon as she
stirred from her desk he got up instantly, facing her with a kind of
smiling and vague politeness such as one often employs in greeting a
stranger. Their guest was a good-looking man, with clear-cut features,
a smooth face and brown hair. He wore evening dress, of course, and held
himself with exceptional dignity and grace. He must have been about
twenty-seven or -eight years old. There was nothing in the least
formidable or disconcerting in his appearance, so it seemed distinctly
ungracious and stupid of Polly to commence their acquaintance by
stammering, "Oh, Oh, why--" and then continue to gaze into their
visitor's face without attempting to finish her utterly unintelligible
speech.
Also for the space of a moment the man seemed surprised and a trifle
embarrassed by this odd form of greeting. Nevertheless the next instant
he was staring at the girl in equal amazement. Then suddenly he held out
both his hands. "It is the 'Fairy of the Woods,' or I am dreaming!" he
exclaimed, closing and then opening his eyes again.
Polly at once dispelled all possible uncertainty. "If I am the 'Fairy of
the Woods,' then you are 'Grazioso' in 'The Castle of Youth,'" she
laughed, allowing her own hands to rest for the space of a second in
those of her former acquaintance. "But as I happen to remember your real
name, Mr. Hunt, and you cannot possibly recall mine, I am Polly
O'Neill."
"Then will you please sit down and tell me everything that has been
happening to you and how I chance to find you here in London with Miss
Adams?" Richard Hunt insisted, drawing up a chair to within a few feet
of his own.
Polly sat down. And quite unconsciously dropped her pointed chin into
the palm of her hand, murmuring with her elbow resting on the arm of her
chair:
"You remember that time when I met you in New York, we were both playing
in a fairy story," she said. "Well, sometimes fairy stories come true,"
she said.
Ten minutes afterwards when Miss Adams entered the drawing room to greet
her guest, to her surprise she found that he and Polly were already deep
in intimate conversation, so much so that they did not immediately hear
her approach. And Polly was ordinarily so diffident and tongue-tied with
strangers!
"I am glad that you and Mr. Hunt have not waited for me to introduce
you, Polly," Miss Adams began. Polly jumped to her feet, and her face
grew suddenly white. For she had never spoken of her escapade of two
years before to Miss Adams, and did not know just how the great lady
might receive it. Richard Hunt waited politely for the girl to
acknowledge her previous acquaintance with him. For if she did not wish
to speak he must, of course, by no word or sign betray her. However, in
less than a moment Polly had fought out a silent battle with herself.
There was no positive reason why she should confess her misdeed to this
woman whom she admired beyond all others. And yet to pretend a falsehood
to her friend, Polly could not endure the thought.
The girl made a charming picture as she stood there in her white dress
with her eyes cast down, not trusting herself to look into the face of
either of her friends. Quite frankly, then, she told the entire story of
her sudden yielding to temptation and of her two weeks' experience in
stage life, which had resulted in her meeting with Mr. Hunt.
Nor did she allow her speech to take but a few moments of time, not
wishing to draw too much attention to herself. At the instant of her
finishing, it happened that dinner was announced, so that Miss Adams had
no opportunity for expressing an opinion of Polly's conduct either one
way or the other. As they walked out of the room, however, she did
manage to give Polly's arm a tiny sympathetic squeeze, whispering, "I'll
tell you of my own first stage appearance some day, dear, if you remind
me of my promise."