"BOBBIN"
ALL her life Polly O'Neill had felt a curious shrinking from physical
cruelty, and growing older had not made the least change in her feeling.
She had never talked about it, but had always been fearful that at heart
she was a coward. The Camp Fire girls used to laugh at her because, of
course, she had learned to do all of the things that their rules
required without feeling any possible nervousness. But then no one of
them understood what physical cruelty might mean and possibly might
never see an exhibition of it.
Yet nothing was farther from her own mind at the present moment than
this fear. She had come in about fifteen minutes' walk to a clump of
cottonwood trees by a small stream of water, and there in their midst
stood a crude two-room shanty with a bare space of ground in front of it
and a lean dog sitting in a patch of sunshine.
But the sight that froze Polly's blood and made her stand suddenly so
still that she might have been a wooden image was the figure of a man
with a long whip in his hand, such as one might have used in driving
cattle. And this whip was now whirling and stinging through the air and
twisting itself about the body of the little girl who had been the first
vision that Miss O'Neill's eyes had rested upon on waking that morning.
But the strangest thing of all was that the child was making no outcry
and showing no effort to run away. Indeed, she stood perfectly still,
hugging half a loaf of bread in her arms.
Polly made an inarticulate sound which she thought was a loud cry:
"Stop!" But the man had not seen her approach and was too occupied with
his hateful task to hear her, and to her intense shame she felt all at
once desperately afraid of him. She was so far from any one she knew,
she had so little physical strength and this man was so much more brutal
than any one she had ever seen before in her life. Perhaps he would
cease hurting the child this instant.
Then, without in the least knowing when nor how she had accomplished it,
Polly rushed forward and seizing the man's thick wrist in her own
slender fingers, clung to him desperately, while the thong of the whip
curled and fell in a limp fashion about her own shoulders.
Too surprised to speak, the man took a step or two backward. In the
course of her stage career Polly had acted a number of tragedy queens;
and notwithstanding her slightly rumpled appearance at this moment, she
had never looked the part better than now. Her thin figure was drawn up
to its fullest height, her Irish blue eyes flashed Celtic lightnings.
She even stamped her foot imperiously.
"You beast!" she exclaimed. "What do you mean by striking a little girl
in that cruel fashion? I'll have you arrested! I don't care in the least
if you are her father or what she has done, you have no possible right
to be so brutal."
The man had dropped his whip to the ground and Polly now stooped and
picked it up. It was absurd of her ever to have dreamed she could have
been frightened by mere brute strength. The man was a good deal more
afraid of her for the instant. The sudden apparition of a fashionably
dressed young woman, appearing out of nowhere and springing upon him in
such a surprising fashion, had destroyed his nerve.
"I wasn't doin' nawthin I hadn't a right ter," he growled. "That young
'un is allers stealin' somethin'. I caught her red-handed running off
with that there loaf of bread."
For the first time since her arrival on the scene Polly O'Neill turned
toward the girl. She was still staring at her with almost the same
expression she had worn earlier in the day. But somehow something in her
look touched Polly, brought her sudden inspiration.
"Why," she exclaimed with a break in her voice, "I believe she was
bringing the bread to me. I told her I was hungry just a little while
ago."
There was no one in the world who could be sweeter or simpler than Polly
O'Neill when her feelings were deeply touched. This had always been
true, even as a young girl, and of course, as she had grown into a
famous woman, her charm had deepened. Now she put her arms about her
new friend's shoulders. "You were going to give the bread to me, I'm
sure. Thank you." Oblivious of the fact that the little girl's dress was
exceedingly dirty and that her face was far from clean, Polly leaned
over and kissed her.
Then she turned to the man. "If you will get a horse and drive me to my
hotel I will pay you well for it," she explained.
In reply the man nodded and moved away, so that Polly was once more left
alone with the girl.
It suddenly occurred to her that the child had never spoken since their
meeting. Could she possibly be deaf and dumb? That might explain her
strange expression.
"What is your name?" Polly asked gently.
Still the girl stared. Miss O'Neill repeated her question.
Then the girl, picking up a stick from the ground, slowly and
laboriously printed in big letters, such as a child of six might have
made, the word "Bobbin."
"Bobbin?" Polly repeated the name aloud as she read it. What an
extraordinary title! One could scarcely call it a name.
"Is that the only name you have?" she inquired again, wondering at the
same time how it was possible for the little girl to understand what she
said without being able to reply. But Bobbin bowed her head, showing
that she had understood. In some fashion she must have learned the lip
language. Yet it was curious why if the girl had ever been sent to
school she had learned nothing else. She appeared the veriest little
savage that ever lived so close to wealth and civilization.
Polly sought in her mind to find out what she could do or say to show
her gratitude. She had a sudden feeling that she could not turn her back
upon the girl and leave her to her wretched fate, and yet of course the
child had no claim upon her. It was something in the expression of
Bobbin's eyes that seemed to haunt one.
With a slight, unnoticeable shrug of her shoulders, as though giving up
the problem as too much for her, Polly now slipped her hand into her
pocket, drawing out her purse bag. Opening it she found a large silver
dollar, such as one uses in the West.
"Won't you buy yourself something from me?" she asked, trying to speak
as distinctly as possible. She had not observed that in taking out the
money she had carelessly dropped a handkerchief from her bag.
With a fleeting expression of pleasure the girl accepted the gift, but
the next instant, when Polly turned to watch the man who was now
approaching her with a lean horse hitched to a cart, she swooped down
toward the ground and picking up the crumpled white object thrust it
secretively inside her dress.
Five minutes after, when Polly and the man had started for Colorado
Springs, Bobbin remained in the same position, watching them until they
were out of sight. Then she began eating the neglected bread.
Upon arriving safely at her hotel, Miss O'Neill discovered that the news
of her disappearance had been spread abroad by her frightened maid, and
that a thorough search was being made for her. For although Polly had
been trying to live as quietly as possible in a small, obscure hotel,
the fact of her visit was well known to hundreds of people. You see, at
this time in her life not only was her name celebrated from one part of
the country to the other, but her face was equally familiar.
Through her maid, Marie, Polly was told that a gentleman, whose name she
had not learned, had been particularly kind and interested in seeking to
find her. So as soon as she rested she had every intention of inquiring
his name and thanking him personally. But by late afternoon, when she
finally dressed, this was impossible. Evidently the man did not wish to
be annoyed by her thanks, for the message brought her was that on
hearing of her safety he had suddenly left the village.
However, Polly was able to acquire some actual information about the
girl she had seen earlier in the day, for "Bobbin" was apparently a
well-known character in the famous Western resort. She was a little
stray daughter of the place. Years before, the mother had come to
Colorado from some city in the South and had died. Afterwards no one had
ever claimed the child.
So the town had taken care of her, sent her to school and tried to
teach her to talk. She was perhaps not entirely deaf, although no one
exactly understood her case. But the girl was a hopeless little rebel.
In no place would she stay unless kept there by iron bars. She seemed to
have an unconquerable desire to be always out of doors, and in the
brilliant Colorado climate this was nearly always possible. Recently she
had been living with some gypsy people, who had established themselves
in a temporary shanty at some little distance from the roads usually
followed by sightseers. So Miss O'Neill had certainly wandered from the
beaten track. Nevertheless she need not make herself unnecessarily
unhappy over "Bobbin," for the girl would again be brought back to
school as soon as she could be captured.
Yes, her name had been Roberta, an old-fashioned Southern name, and then
in some way it had been shortened to Bobbie and now Bobbin. The child
had a last name, of course, but the woman who told the story to Miss
O'Neill had either never heard the mother's name or else had completely
forgotten it.
Late that night in reflecting over her adventure Polly wished that she
and Betty Graham could have changed places for a week or so. For Betty
would certainly do something for the unfortunate Bobbin to make life
happier for her, as she had a kind of genius for looking after people.
Her Camp Fire training had taught her a beautiful sympathy and
understanding. But Betty must have been made that way in the beginning,
Polly concluded with a sigh and a smile. She had no such gift herself.
The girl's story, fragmentary as it was, interested her, but there could
be no possible point in undertaking to interfere with the child's
future.
Nevertheless, try as she might, all night it was impossible for the
famous actress to get the half tragic, half stupid figure of Bobbin out
of her vision.