Mollie's Confidant
Of her visit to Miss Adams, Polly never afterwards spoke, except to Betty
and her sister Mollie, asking that they tell Rose Dyer that it was right
that she as their guardian should know and promising to write her mother;
however, several of the other Camp Fire girls believed that they saw a
slight change in Polly dating from her visit. Afterwards she never seemed
to give up, at least without some struggle, to her old, utterly
unreasonable changes of mood.
To Betty and Mollie, however, Polly confessed that, although Miss Adams
had been kind beyond her wildest dreams, she had not said that she had
seen any evidences of genius or even of marked ability in her interrupted
dramatic efforts; although she had suggested that only the most
remarkable people the world has ever known have betrayed exceptional
gifts at the age of sixteen, that most people only achieve success by
endless patience, faith and work and by what sometimes looks at first
like failure. She had then told Polly something of her own early
struggle, but this Polly of course did not reveal even to her sister and
dearest friend. However, to Mollie's relief, she did announce that she
meant to spend the next two years in doing everything she could for her
health by obeying every single Camp Fire rule, that she meant to learn
more self-control, to study harder and also to memorize all the plays and
poems that she possibly could. For at the close of her graduation at the
High School the wonderful Miss Adams had asked that Polly write her and
then if her mother was willing, if Polly was well and of the same desire,
she would see that she had an opportunity for the kind of study she would
then need should she adopt the stage for her profession. For the truth is
that though the great actress had not been particularly impressed by
Polly's acting she had discovered two things about her, one that she had
the expressive face with quick mobile features and the graceful carriage
more to be desired on the stage than either beauty or stateliness and,
moreover, like most other people, she had taken a decided fancy to the
girl herself.
For a few weeks following Polly's famous interview her sister Mollie
found herself and Polly farther apart in sympathy than they had ever been
before in their lives. Under nearly all other circumstances Mollie had
always allowed herself to be influenced by her twin sister's wishes;
Polly had always seemed to want things so much harder than other people
that she and her mother had usually been willing enough to give in, but
now on this question of Polly's going upon the stage after she had
finished her education Mollie made up her mind to stand firm in her
opposition at every possible opportunity, even if her mother should give
in to Polly's persuasion. It was utterly impossible for Mollie O'Neill to
understand her twin sister's restlessness and ambition. How could she
ever wish to leave her home and mother, to leave _her_, to follow after
such a will-o'-the-wisp?
It was in vain that Polly explained that it was no lack of affection on
her part, that she surely loved her own people as much as they could love
her, but that she felt she must see more of the world, live a wider life
than Woodford could give her. Mollie was always obdurate. There was only
one way by which Polly could silence her twin and that was to inquire if
Mollie meant always to stay at home, to remain an old maid? And when
Mollie most indignantly denied any such suggestion, Polly would then ask
how if she loved them could she make up her mind to go away from home on
account of a strange man, and if a career wasn't as good as a husband,
until Mollie became too indignant and unhappy for argument and usually by
making no further replies carried off the honors of war.
If only Mollie could have had another girl to unbosom herself to, but
there was no one; Polly had asked her not to discuss her affairs with any
one of the Camp Fire girls except Betty Ashton, and Betty openly
sympathized with Polly. Having no gifts herself she used to say that all
she could do would be to live in the successes of Polly and Esther;
although Polly used always to assure her in return that a Princess was
above the possession of small abilities like ordinary mortals, and Esther
that she never expected to have any success beyond learning to sing well
enough to make her own living and perhaps some day to have a position in
a Woodford church choir.
So Mollie for the month succeeding Christmas kept most of her worry to
herself, and to the entire Sunrise Camp Fire club's surprise and
consternation grew quite unlike her usually sweet-tempered, happy self.
Sometimes she used to insist upon taking the daily exercise prescribed by
the Camp Fire rules entirely alone, if she were allowed, in order that
she might think up some possible way of influencing Polly to give up her
wholly foolish ambition. Since Polly felt that she must do something
toward supporting her mother and herself, she should try to learn to be a
teacher like Miss McMurtry or Miss Mary Adams.
One Saturday afternoon, being particularly low in her mind because Rose
Dyer had thought Polly not very well and had suggested that she stay at
home and take her walk outside the cabin with the newest Camp Fire girl,
Mollie had deliberately stolen off while her friends were getting ready
for a hard tramp through the woods. She did not care at the time that
their guardian might object to her going off alone. She almost hoped that
something might happen to her to make Polly feel uneasy. Since Polly was
always making her perfectly miserable why she might as well experience
the sensation occasionally herself. So, knowing that the other girls were
to strike out through the pine woods, find the road and walk over toward
the asylum to escort Esther home (who was now having a weekly music
lesson with Herr Crippen), Mollie first walked back of the cabin and then
found the road through the Webster farm. She didn't walk very far
however. It was perfectly ridiculous of her of course to anticipate
trouble, and yet somehow she felt that she and Polly were never going to
be just the same that they had been in the past to one another, in some
way they would be separated. Suddenly Mollie felt a wave of homesickness,
of longing for her mother such as she had not felt since the first few
weeks after Mrs. O'Neill's sailing for Ireland the spring before. So
quite unmindful of consequences Mollie dropped down on the stump of a
tree, deliberately giving herself up to the enjoyment of tears. It was so
utterly impossible ever to cry at the cabin. Some one was always about
seeing you and besides all the other Camp Fire girls Mollie solemnly
believed to have outgrown the foolish weakness of crying, it was so
utterly in contradiction to all their training.
The tears, however, must have been extremely near the surface, since they
dried so instantly, and Mollie jumped to her feet indignantly when a hard
ball of snow went whizzing past her ear, almost striking her. A moment
later she heard footsteps coming up behind her.
"Hope you won't mind my appearing to pay off old scores in this way; I
really had no idea of hitting you, but I had to attract your attention in
some fashion, so you wouldn't run away from me," said a voice Mollie
immediately recognized and a moment later Billy Webster appeared by her
side. "Would any one in the world except Miss Polly O'Neill seat herself
calmly on a stump in the midst of the winter woods with nothing but snow
and ice all about her as if she were in the lap of spring?" he asked. And
then, when Mollie made no answer and catching just a side glance at her
downcast face, he puckered his lips as though intending to whistle, but
better manners prevailing said as sympathetically as he could: "Dear me,
Miss Polly, you look as though you were desperately unhappy over
something or other. What is it that is troubling you this time?"
Mollie was wearing a long brown coat exactly like Polly's red one and her
brown tam-o'-shanter she had pulled down as low as possible over her face
because of the cold January wind, but now she turned with some
indignation toward her companion. "I am not Polly," she announced with a
good deal of vexation (the twin sisters never liked being taken for one
another). "I am sorry, but I suppose Polly hasn't a monopoly of all the
trouble in this world. Or at least she very often passes it on to other
people."
Instantly Billy's fur cap was off, showing his heavy hair, which was
browner than during the months of exposure to the summer sun, but
although his face was also less tanned, his eyes were as blue and as full
of humor as ever.
"It is I who am sorry and glad too, Miss Mollie," he answered as
gallantly as possible. "It seems to be my fate everlastingly to put my
foot in it with both you and your sister. I could have sworn not long ago
that I would never again mistake you for one another and here I am at it
again. But you will forgive me this time. You see you don't look quite
like yourself to-day; you are so much paler and kind of uncertain
looking--and cross. But now I beg the other Miss O'Neill's pardon," and
Billy laughed, not so much as though he cared a great deal about having
made fun of Polly, but more in order to cheer up Mollie.
"Better not let Polly hear you say that," she returned, smiling a little.
"You know, like the tiger in 'Little Black Sambo,' she would have to eat
you up. But Polly is really a great deal better tempered than I am and
sweeter than anything nowadays; ask anybody in camp. It is I who am the
cross one. And it is all because I am so unhappy."
And then, to Mollie's own surprise and Billy's decided embarrassment, she
began crying a great deal harder than before.
There was nothing a fellow could do but just to stand there and watch her
for a moment and then Billy had a feeble inspiration. He tucked her arm
through his comfortingly. "Come, it is getting dark, these days are so
dreadfully short. Let me walk on back to the cabin with you."
And on the way Mollie discovered herself unexpectedly confiding
everything that troubled her about her sister to this comparatively
unknown boy friend. Although the Camp Fire girls had seen more of Billy
Webster than any one else because of their living so near his father's
farm. For the first few minutes Mollie felt she might regret her
outburst, but not for long, for to her satisfaction and indeed to her
very real consolation, Billy felt exactly as she did about Polly. It was
utterly absurd for Polly to talk about going away from Woodford even to
study for the stage; she was not strong enough; the life was a perfectly
abominable one for a lady, but for a delicate high-strung girl like Polly
O'Neill it was worse than absurd; it was wicked! Mollie should write for
her mother to come home to prevent Polly's getting the idea more firmly
fixed in her mind. Later on it might be more difficult to influence her.
Billy Webster fairly spluttered with indignation. His mother was a
perfect farmer's wife, devoted to her husband, to her son and a younger
daughter, and to the life and work of her farm and very naturally Billy's
mother was his ideal. He liked the two O'Neill girls very much, had known
of their struggle to get along and of their mother's efforts to give them
an education, and believed, like Mollie, that it was ungrateful of Polly
to wish to leave her home so soon as she was grown up. Besides he did not
like to see Mollie so worried! What a strangely difficult person Polly
was! There were times when he felt that he almost hated her and then
again she was rather fascinating.
"I have got about half as much influence with your sister as that totem
pole," he announced, when he had brought Mollie almost back to the
Sunrise cabin, "but if there is anything I can ever do to help you make
her change her mind, why count on me up to the limit. Don't you think the
best thing would be somehow to joke the whole idea out of her? She is
just the kind of a person to be more influenced by joking than any real
opposition."
Mollie bowed her head in entire agreement. "Yes, but what kind of a joke
could we ever think up that could have anything to do with Polly's
wishing to be an actress and meaning to study several years from now?"
she inquired doubtfully.
And to do Billy Webster credit he did look considerably confused.
"Well, I can't say right off," he confessed, laughing a little at
himself, "but if you and I think things over for a week or so, perhaps an
inspiration may come to one or the other of us. And in the meantime," he
added this rather hastily, "I wouldn't mention to your sister that you
have spoken of her plans to me. It is all right though, for I shall never
breathe what you have told me to any one."