POLA LIFTS A CURTAIN
"Where _is_ Isolde?" Mrs. Milliken whispered between her "Note the
gracious proportions of this hall" and "Joseph Romley would never allow
himself to be crowded with possessions."
"She's--she's--" Sidney had a sudden instinct to protect Isolde. "She
has--a headache."
"I am _so_ sorry that I cannot introduce you to Isolde Romley--the
poet's oldest daughter," Mrs. Milliken pitched her voice so that it
might reach even to the girls crowding into the front door. "She is a
_most_ interesting and delightful and unusual young lady. She was
always closely associated with her gifted father and we feel that she
is growing to be very like him. _This_--" smiling affectionately at
Sidney and allowing a suggestion of apology to creep into her tone,
"This is just our little Sidney, the poet's baby-girl. Sidney, lamb,
this is Miss Byers of Grace Hall, a boarding school for young ladies
and these are her precious charges. They are making a pilgrimage to our
beloved shrine--" Sidney, too familiar with Mrs. Milliken's flowery
phrases to be embarrassed by them, faced a little frightenedly the eyes
that stared curiously at her from above the spotless collars.
"We will go right into the study," Mrs. Milliken advised Miss Byers.
"We can take the girls in in little groups. As poor Isolde is not here
I will tell them some of the precious and personal anecdotes of the
great poet. You know we, in Middletown--especially of the League--feel
very privileged to have lived so close to him--"
Miss Byers briskly marshalled the first eight girls into the small
study. The others broke file and crowded into the front room and on to
the stairs, some even spilled over into the dining room. They paid not
the slightest attention to anything about them. Assured that Miss Byers
was out of hearing they burst into excited chatter and laughter. Except
for one or two who smiled shyly at her they did not even notice Sidney.
Sidney, relieved that Mrs. Milliken did not expect _her_ to recite the
"precious and personal anecdotes," drew back into a corner from where
she could enjoy to its fullest measure the delight of such close
propinquity to real boarding-school girls. Their talk, broken by
smothered shrieks of laughter, rang like sweetest music to her. They
seemed so jolly. Their blue serges and white collars were so stylish.
She wondered where they all came from and whether they had "scrapes" at
Grace Hall.
The first eight girls filed back into the hall from the study and Miss
Byers motioned eight more to enter. There was a general stirring, then
the chatter swelled again. Presently a girl slipped into Sidney's
corner and dropped down upon a chair.
"Isn't this the _stupidest_ bore!" she groaned. Then looking at Sidney,
she gasped and laughed. "Say--I _beg_ your pardon. I thought you were
one of the girls. And you're--you're--the poet's daughter, aren't you?"
The slanting dove-gray eyes above the white collar actually softened
with sympathy.
Sidney thought this young creature the very prettiest girl--next to
Vicky--she had ever seen. She did not mind her pity. The stranger had
taken her for "one of the girls" and Sidney would have forgiven her
anything for that!
"I suppose it is a bore. Isn't it fun, though, just going places?"
The boarding school girl stared. "Oh, we go so _much_. There isn't a
big gun anywhere within a radius of five hundred miles that we don't
have to visit. We get autographs and listen to speeches and make notes
about graves and look at pictures. Most of the girls get a kick out of
it slipping in some gore behind Byers' back--but I don't. I travel so
much with my family that nothing seems awfully exciting now."
Sidney wished she'd say that over again--it sounded so unbelievable.
And the girl couldn't be any older than she was. She was conscious that
the slanting eyes were regarding her closely.
"Do you like living here and having a lot of people tramp all over your
house and stare at you and say things about you and poke at your
father's things?"
It was plain magic the way this stranger put her finger directly upon
the sore spot.
"No, I don't!" vehemently.
"_I'd_ hate it, too. And I suppose you always have to act like a poet's
daughter, don't you? Do you have to write poetry yourself?"
"No, I loathe poetry!"
"But I'll bet you don't dare say so when that Dame in there can hear
you! I have to be careful talking about candy. My father makes the
Betty Sweets. Don't you know them? They're sold all over the world. We
have an immense factory. And there isn't any other kind of candy that I
don't like better. But I don't dare tell anybody that. Funny, I'm
telling you! Our spirits must be drawn together by some invisible bond."
Sidney's ears fairly ached with the beauty of the other's words. She
stiffened her slender little body to control its trembling. She tried
to say something but found her throat choked. The other girl rattled on:
"I didn't take any notes. I'll copy my roommate's. You see we have to
write a theme about our visit. Miss Byers prides herself on the girls
of Grace being so well-informed. I know. I'll put you into it. That'll
be fun. Only you'll have to tell me something about yourself. How old
are you? Do you go to a regular school and play with other girls like
any ordinary girl?"
Sidney flushed at the other's manner and found her tongue in an
instinctive desire to defend her lot.
"Of course I go to school. It's sort of a boarding school, only all the
girls go home nights. And I do everything the others do. And I am
fifteen."
"I didn't mean to offend you. I thought perhaps a poet's daughter was
different. If you don't mind in my theme I'll _make_ you
different--pale and thin, with curly hair in a cloud, and faraway
eyes--"
"That's like Isolde, my oldest sister, the one who usually tells the
'precious and personal anecdotes.' I wasn't really offended--and I'll
admit most of the girls do treat me a little bit differently--but
that's Miss Downs' fault; she won't let them forget that I am Joseph
Romley's daughter. She uses it all the time in her catalogue and when
any visitors come to the school it's dreadful--"
"If you don't like it why don't you come to Grace Hall? We'd have no
end of fun--"
"Gracious, I've never been _any_where. I only go to Miss Downs' because
it's here at Middletown and because she gives me my tuition on account
of Dad--" Sidney bit off her words in a sudden panic lest her admission
of poverty shock this lovely creature. It had not, however. The
dove-gray eyes had softened again with pity.
"Oh, I see. Of course, poets are always poor. I supposed they usually
lived in garrets. I nearly flopped when I saw this big house!" This to
comfort Sidney. "Well, it's too bad you _can't_ go to Grace. I like the
riding best. I have my own horse. Gypsy. She's a darling. My roommate
is the cutest thing. She's captain of the hockey team and her picture
was in the _New York Times_. Her mother made a dreadful fuss about it
but it was too late. And she got a letter from a boy in New York who'd
seen the picture--the most exciting letter--"
"Oh, _here_ you are, Pola," cried a voice behind them and a tall girl
elbowed Sidney back into her corner. "Say, Byers will be here at least
a half an hour longer. We'll have time for a dope at that store we
passed, if we hurry!"
All boredom vanished, the girl Pola sprang to her feet. She paused only
long enough to hold out her hand to Sidney. "Don't tell anyone that I
don't like Betty Sweets best of all the candy in the world, will you?"
she laughed. "And I won't tell anyone that you loathe poetry." Then she
ran after the tall girl. Sidney felt engulfed in a great and terrible
loneliness.
For the next half hour she was only conscious of a fear that Pola and
her companion might not get back before Miss Byers discovered their
flight. But just as the last eight came out of the study and Miss Byers
was lingering for a few words with Mrs. Milliken, Sidney saw two flying
figures join the others at the gate. Her little hope that she might
have a chance to talk again with Pola or hear her talk was lost in a
surge of relief that she was quite safe.
Mrs. Milliken remained after the others had filed down the street.
Sidney, troubled by her fib of the headache, wished with all her soul
that she would go and strained her ears for any sound from the floor
above that might betray Isolde's activities.
"A lovely thing--to bring those young girls to this spot," Mrs.
Milliken was murmuring as she looked over the register which the League
kept very carefully. "Here are some well-known names. Jenkins--probably
that's the iron family. Scott--I wonder if that's the Scott who's
related to the Astors." Sidney watched the gloved finger as it traced
its way down the page of scrawled signatures.
"Is there a Pola Somebody there?" she asked, hopefully. Mrs. Milliken's
finger ran back up the page.
"No--not that I can find. The girls were very careless--not half of
them registered."
Of course Pola wouldn't have registered--she had been too bored.
Her survey finished, Mrs. Milliken put the register in its place and
regarded Sidney with contemplative eyes.
"Another time, dear lamb, if you receive, tell Isolde to--well, fix you
up a little. I must speak to the Committee and plan something suitable
for you. Perhaps we have been forgetting that our dear little girl is
growing out of her rompers. Oh--and another thing, tell Isolde I was
_shocked_ to smell gasoline on your gifted father's jacket--"
"Trude thought it had moths in it and she soaked it in gasoline,"
explained Sidney uncomfortably.
"Oh, she _mustn't_ do it again. It--it spoiled the atmosphere of
everything! I will speak to the dear girls. Give my love to Isolde and
tell her to rest. I do not think anyone else will come today for I
posted a notice at the clubrooms reserving this date for Grace School."
With an affectionate leave-taking of her "lamb" Mrs. Milliken rustled
off. Sidney slowly shut the door. Out there, beyond the hedge, went
Pola and the other laughing girls of Grace Hall, out into a world of
fun and adventure. And _inside_ the door--
Pola had dared race off to the corner drug store; Sidney felt certain
Pola would dare _anything_. And _she_ had not even had spunk enough to
speak up and tell interfering Mrs. Milliken that Trude and the rest of
them would soak everything in gasoline, if they wanted to! Most
certainly they were not going to let _moths_ eat them all up alive!
Oh--oh, it was hateful! And Isolde had said they could not escape it;
well, she'd _find_ a way!
* * * * *
From abovestairs the three older sisters had witnessed the invasion of
their home by the Grace Hall girls.
"It's perfectly disgusting!" had been Vick's comment.
Trude was all sympathy for Sidney. "You were cruel, Issy, making Sid
receive that mob."
Isolde reluctantly turned her attention from the faded silks in her lap.
"Sidney might as well realize with what _we_ have to put up. Then
perhaps she will not be so discontented with her own easy lot--"
From where she squatted on the floor, a huge mending basket balanced on
her knees, Trude regarded Isolde with troubled eyes. Her forehead
puckered with little criss-cross wrinkles. Of the three older girls
Trude had the least claim to beauty; from constant exposure her skin
had acquired a ruddiness like a boy's which made her blue eyes paler by
contrast; her hair had been cut after an attack of scarlet fever and
had grown in so slowly that she wore it shingle-bobbed which added to
the suggestion of boyishness about her; there was an ungirlish
sturdiness and squareness to her build--one instinctively looked to her
shoulders to carry burdens. Yet withal there was about her a
lovableness infinitely more winning than Vick's Grecian beauty or
Isolde's interesting personality--a lovableness and a loyalty that
urged her on now to champion poor Sidney and yet made it the harder for
her to express to the others what she felt deep in her heart.
"Stop a minute and think, Issy. Didn't _we_ used to feel discontented
lots of times and fuss about things between ourselves? We knew--though
we didn't exactly ever _say_ it--that we _had_ to be different, on
account of Dad. We couldn't ever bother him, for fear we'd spoil his
work. Of course it was all worth while and doesn't make much
difference--now, but, Issy, _Sid_ doesn't have to put up with what we
did--" Trude stopped suddenly. It seemed dreadful to say: "Dad isn't
writing any poems now." She felt the pang of loss in her tender heart
that always came when she thought of her father, with his bursts of
impatience and his twitching nose and his long hours in the study with
the door closed, and then his great indulgence and boyish
demonstrativeness when some work that had been tormenting was completed
and off or when some unexpected acceptance came with an accompanying
check. She blinked back some tears. "You know I wouldn't talk like this
to anyone outside of us, but, just among us--I wish we could let Sidney
do the things we didn't do when we were her age."
"Trude, I have never heard you talk so foolishly. I'm sure our lot
isn't so tragic that Sid can't share it. She has nice friends and goes
to Miss Downs and hasn't a responsibility in the world--"
"Sometimes we get tired of the brand of our best friends and want a
change--even yearn for responsibility!"
"I'd say we'd spoiled her enough--she doesn't need any more."
"Isolde, you simply don't want to understand me! Goodness knows I
preach contentment the loudest--but-- Are we going to live like this
all our lives? Look at us, huddled up here, now, because the Saturdays
belong to the League. Issy, you and I can go on because we got broken
in to it years ago. Vick won't, of course--" (flashing a smile at the
disinterested Victoria) "but little Sid--She's fifteen now. She has two
more years at Miss Downs'. She may want college--or--or
something--different----"
Isolde lifted her shoulders with an impatient shrug. Isolde's thin
shoulders were very expressive and had a way of communicating her
thoughts more effectively than mere words. They silenced Trude, now.
"Do you think it's a kindness to encourage Sid to want things that we
simply can't afford to give her? You ought to know that we can't live a
bit differently--you keep our accounts."
Trude groaned. In any argument they always came back to that; their
poverty was like the old wall outside that closed them around. If poor
little Sid dreamed dreams it would be as it had been with her. Isolde
was quite right--it might be no kindness to the child to let her want
things--like college. Yet, though silenced, Trude was not satisfied;
there were surely things one could want that could surmount even the
ugly wall of poverty.
Vick broke into the pause.
"While we're considering Sid, what are we going to do with her this
summer? If she's going to have fits like she had this morning it'll be
pleasant having her round with nothing to do. Of course if Godmother
Jocelyn makes good on her promise to take me to Banff _I_ won't have to
worry but--"
"Trude, have you written to Huldah asking her if she can come for July
and August? Prof. Deering wrote last week suggesting that I spend the
summer with them in their cottage on Lake Michigan. I can more than pay
my board by helping Professor Deering with his book and that will
relieve Mrs. Deering so that she can play with the children. It will be
a change for me--"
"Some change, I'd say," laughed Vicky. "A crabby professor and an
overworked wife and two crying babies--"
"Professor Deering _isn't_ crabbed at all, Vick; he's a dear and the
babies are adorable and Mrs. Deering wrote that the bungalow is right
on the water and that she's going to reduce the housework to almost
nothing."
"It would be nice, Isolde. Why hadn't you told us of the plan? I had
better postpone going to New York. Aunt Edith White will invite me some
other time."
"You mustn't do anything of the sort," remonstrated Isolde quickly. "If
you do I'll write to Mrs. Deering and tell her I cannot come. You
didn't go to New York at Easter when Aunt Edith White invited you and
she may think you don't like to go."
"It seems terribly selfish for us to go away and leave Sid with Huldah
in this lonely old house."
"She adores Huldah and she has her chums--"
"And she'll have the Egg to spend--" from Vick.
"But there's such a sameness. And the League brings so many more
people--"
"Trude, you're positively silly about Sid. When we were fifteen--"
"Just the same, I don't want to be the one to tell her the three of us
are going away to have a good time and leave her here with Huldah all
summer--"
"I'll tell her," declared Isolde, firmly. "And I'll try to make her
understand she is very well off. Sidney really owes more to the League
than the rest of us do for we _could_ take care of ourselves. I think
we ought to make her appreciate that fact. Vick, look out, quick! Did I
hear Mrs. Milliken saying goodby?"
"Yes, there she goes!" cried Vick, now boldly at the window. "What luck
to be free so early. Let's see how much is left of poor old Sid."
But Vick, opening the door, saw a very straight, pigtailed figure walk
resolutely down the long hall toward the attic stairs. Her quick "Well,
kid, how did it go?" fell upon deaf ears, nor did Sidney so much as
glance in her direction.