A Boomerang
Two weeks later Polly received a note at the cabin asking that she come
into Woodford on the following Friday afternoon for an interview with a
friend of Miss Margaret Adams, who happened by chance to be in Woodford
for a few days and wanted an opportunity for talking with her about her
future. For whatever resulted from this interview Polly had herself
chiefly to blame. She most certainly should never have replied to a note
signed by a name which was unfamiliar without consulting the guardian of
the Sunrise club. But Polly knew perfectly well that Rose would never
have permitted her to have any such conference. She knew also that their
guardian and her mother's friend was almost as much opposed as her sister
Mollie to her ambition and considered that she was behaving most unwisely
in letting her mind dwell on a possibility which in any case was very
indefinite and far away. Indeed, Rose had had a quiet talk with Polly
asking her not to discuss the subject of the stage with the other girls
and to try and give her own energy and attention solely to their Camp
Fire work. Polly had agreed and was apparently keeping her promise, since
she felt so assured that the Camp Fire ideals must help every woman in
whatever work she undertook later in life.
Nevertheless, when the first temptation came Polly fell. One night she
spent in indecision, wondering why Miss Margaret Adams had not written to
her about her friend or why Miss Adams, their elocution teacher, had said
nothing. These questions, however, Polly finally answered satisfactorily
to herself, since it is usually easy to find answers that accord with
one's own desires. By morning she had made up her mind that she would go
and see the stranger and have a talk with him, since no harm could come
of one small visit.
The appointment was to take place at the home of Meg, whose Professor
father was one of the most prominent men in the village and Polly was
told to bring a chaperon, so from the standpoint of propriety she was
committing no offence. She had not seen Meg for a week and so could ask
her no questions, and as Betty was the only person who could be relied
upon in the emergency, to Betty she confided the whole situation, not in
the least asking her advice, since this was not the way with Mistress
Polly, but begging Betty to be present with her during the call. If Betty
demurred at first, suggesting Miss Dyer, Miss McMurtry, Miss Mary Adams,
as more suitable chaperons, she did finally agree. So early on Friday
afternoon the two girls started into town in their best clothes, saying
that they were going in on an errand. Betty was driving Fire Star and
Polly carrying a volume of "Romeo and Juliet" and "Palgrave's Golden
Treasury." The note had suggested that since Miss Margaret Adams had had
no opportunity to hear Miss O'Neill recite, the writer would be
interested to know what she could do.
Polly was cold with nervous excitement all the way into town. She was not
in the least sure whether she did not dread the coming interview more
than anything that had ever happened to her in her life and she also had
very uncomfortable twinges of conscience, since this venture of hers had
no grown-up sanction. There had been no time as yet to write her mother
about it and she had not confided in Mollie, who once had known all her
secrets. Indeed, had she not even felt glad that Mollie had decided not
to return to the cabin after school that day but to remain in town with a
friend, so that no uncomfortable family questions could be raised.
By special request Betty was invited not to talk on the journey in, so
that Polly could have the opportunity for repeating to herself the poems
she had made up her mind to recite and go once more over Juliet's famous
lament.
The hall at the Professor's was unusually dark when Meg herself, to the
girls' delight, opened the front door. Polly was by this time in too
agitated a condition to stop for asking questions, but although Betty was
not, Meg did not seem willing to answer them. Instead she kept shaking
her head and pointing mysteriously toward their drawing room door. "The
stranger was already in there, yes, her father knew him, Polly must not
mind that the visitor had his wife with him, she was also an actress upon
whose judgment he placed the greatest reliance, but the girls were not to
do more than bow to her, as it bored her to meet people."
If the hall was dark the drawing room was even darker, but then before
joining the Camp Fire club Meg had been a proverbially poor housekeeper,
so she probably had neglected to open the drawing room shutters and, as
it was a dark February afternoon, the light that came through the slats
was not sufficient. Betty felt most distinctly that she was not going to
enjoy the approaching interview, that there was already something odd and
uncomfortable about it, but she had no opportunity for confiding her
views and Polly was not in a critical humor. As for the darkness Polly
was decidedly grateful for it. If she had to get up and recite before Meg
and Betty and the two strangers it would be far easier to be in the half
shadow than to have their critical glances full upon her. This drawing
room recitation before so small an audience did not appeal to Polly
anyhow, certainly it held none of the glamour of the stage, the music,
the footlights, the feeling that you were no longer your real self but a
performer in some other drama in some different world.
Betty sat down at once in a far corner, as she saw no notice was to be
taken of her, but Polly felt herself having her hand shaken coldly by a
tall, broad-shouldered, middle-aged man wearing glasses, with an iron
gray, pointed beard and iron gray hair pulled low down over his forehead.
He seemed, however, not to have the least desire for conversation, for
waving Polly toward the center of the room, he at once asked her to show
what she could do, without introducing his wife nor making the least
satisfactory explanation of his own presence in Woodford, his
acquaintance with Miss Margaret Adams, nor his right to have solicited
this meeting with Polly.
However, none of these points weighed upon the girl's mind at the time.
The man looked just as she expected an actor-manager might look, and as
for his wife, she could see nothing of her but a figure dressed in a long
traveling coat and wearing a hat and heavy veil, who had not even deigned
to glance in her direction.
"What--what shall I begin with?" Polly inquired anxiously. "Miss Adams,
our teacher of elocution at the High School, says that young girls should
try simple recitations, that it is absurd for us to attempt to reveal the
great emotions such as one finds in Shakespeare's plays, or Ibsen's or
Maeterlinck's, that we must wait until we know something more of life for
them. I did not feel sure what you would think about it, but I know some
English poems, very famous and very beautiful, perhaps you would like me
to begin with one of them?"
There was a slight hesitation in Polly's voice because personally she
found the simple poems much more difficult than the big ones and her
taste did not incline toward Whitcomb Riley, or Eugene Field, toward any
of the simple character work, which would have been the best possible
training for her at the present time.
But the critic fortunately agreeing with Polly's point of view shook his
head gravely over her suggestion of English verses.
"No," he said a little pompously, it must be confessed, "try the most
difficult thing you know and even if you do not make an entire success of
it I will be better able to judge what you can do." The man spoke in a
hoarse, strained voice which to Betty's ears sounded forced and peculiar.
"Would you--would you think it very foolish if I tried Juliet's speech
before she takes the poison?" Polly then asked timidly. "I know I can't
do it very well, it is one of the greatest speeches in the whole world of
acting, but perhaps for that very reason I like to attempt it."
Polly had thrown off her red coat and hat in the hall, but she was
wearing her best frock, a simple cashmere made in a single piece, with a
crushed velvet belt of a darker shade and a collar and cuffs of real
Irish lace which her mother had sent as a Christmas gift from Ireland.
Her hair was very dark and her coloring vivid, so perhaps she did not
look so utterly unlike the Italian Juliet, whom it is difficult for us to
believe was only fourteen at the time of her tragic love story.
"Farewell,--and God knows when we shall meet again," Polly began in a far
less melodramatic fashion than one might have expected; indeed, Betty
thought her voice exquisitely pathetic and appealing and even Meg, who
had not the slightest sympathy with Polly's dramatic aspirations, was
subtly impressed.
"I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins,
That almost freezes up the heat of life.
I'll call them back again to comfort me.--
Nurse!--What should she do here?
My dismal scene I needs must act alone.
Come, phial.
What if this mixture do not work at all,
Shall I be married, then, to-morrow morning?
No, no;--this shall forbid it:--lie thou there--"
And here Polly is being carried away by the thrill of her own
performance. Almost she believes she beholds a slight suggestion of
admiration in the blue eyes of the critic who most assuredly is watching
her efforts with a great deal of interest. Unhappily, however, in her
preparation for this great occasion, Polly has forgotten the necessary
stage equipment and now at this instant remembers that Juliet requires a
dagger to make this moment properly realistic. The girl is in a delicious
state of excitement. For the time being actually she is feeling herself
the terrified and yet superbly courageous Juliet, and there on the parlor
table, as though by direct inspiration, is reposing a steel paper cutter
of the Professor's.
With a quick movement of her hand Polly seizes the desired dagger, but
also she seizes something else along with it, for the table cover comes
off at the same instant, almost overwhelming Juliet in a rain of papers,
ornaments and books.
Polly feels as though she would faint with chagrin and mortification, so
suddenly and so uncomfortably is she brought back to the hard realities.
"I am so dreadfully sorry," she starts to say, but before she has
finished, her attention is arrested by the behavior of the mysterious
veiled lady.
She had given a hysterical giggle, first one, then another, as though she
were never going to be able to stop. Meg's face is also crimson with the
effort to control her laughter, although she is looking nervously, almost
imploringly, toward her strange visitor.
The solitary man in the room has simply turned his back upon the whole
situation and is gazing steadfastly at the closed windows.
Polly thinks perhaps she is losing her senses, for there had been
something familiar in that excited laughter which is now turning almost
into a sob, and yet of course the idea was ridiculous. Polly then turned
entreatingly toward Betty Ashton as her one sure rock of salvation in a
vanishing world, and Betty never forgot the expression in her friend's
eyes, the look of wounded dignity, of disappointed affection, of almost
resentful disbelief. For in Betty's returning glance she found a
confirmation of her worst fears.
The truth of the matter was that Betty had been suspicious of the little
group of spectators of her friend's recitation almost as soon as Polly
began her speech. She was not under the pressure of so much excitement
and had time and opportunity to look about and examine people and things
more closely.
The woman in the long cloak--evidently her clothes were of the ready-made
variety, for they certainly did not fit. Also she seemed very slender for
a full grown woman, and in spite of her intention to remain unobserved
was curiously nervous.
And the man? He was trying to keep his face in the shadow, but from
Betty's point of observation a ray of afternoon sunlight fell directly
across his face. The line where his beard began was extremely distinct
and his cheeks above it brown and boyish. Besides, though he did wear
glasses, his eyes showed fear, amusement and Polly was right in a way,
for they did show a certain amount of admiration, although they were
certainly never the eyes of a censorious dramatic critic. For several
moments Betty had been longing to interrupt Polly's speech-making but had
not known exactly how, and indeed had hardly dared. Perhaps if she could
get Polly away before she ever found things out it would be best. Polly's
temper was never very good, and this would hurt her in all the ways in
which she was most sensitive.
The girl's face was white as chalk as she now ceased gazing at Betty and
walked quietly across the room toward the supposedly strange woman who
had risen at her approach and was trembling violently.
"It is a joke, Polly, don't be angry; we thought if you could just see
how silly play acting seemed to other people you would give it up," the
voice shook a little.
For Polly was ominously pale and quiet as she gently untied the veil and
lifted off the stranger's hat.
"So you wanted to see how much of a fool you could make of me, didn't
you, Mollie? Well, you have succeeded splendidly, dear; I can't imagine
how you could have had any greater success!" And Polly shut her lips
tight together and clenched her hands. If only Betty and Meg and Mollie
knew how furiously, suffocatingly angry she was they would probably be
afraid to have anything to do with her.
But Meg was approaching her with her usually happy face somewhat clouded.
"I am afraid you must think pretty poorly of us all, Polly, really it
just looked funny to us at first, we only meant to tease you. But now,
while I am willing to confess, it does seem rather hateful of us and I
want to apologize to you for my part in this whole proceeding."
Still Polly made no answer, only when Mollie rather timidly put her arms
about her saying: "Please do, Polly dear, forgive us and don't take the
whole thing so seriously, you are fond enough of a joke yourself," she
quietly pushed Mollie aside and turned toward Betty.
"Please take me home then, Betty, for I am afraid I have furnished all
the amusement this afternoon that I feel equal to." But when Betty's arms
went about her, Polly trembled so violently that she had to hide her head
on her friend's shoulder and just for an instant a choked sob shook her.
Both girls, however, were moving toward the closed drawing room door, but
before they could leave the room a tall form barred their way.
"You can't go until I have spoken to you," Billy Webster said almost
rudely in his determination to be obeyed. He had taken off his beard, wig
and glasses and his face showed almost as white as Polly's.
But Polly looked directly at him with eyes that apparently did not see
him.
"I never wish to have to speak to you again so long as I live, Mr.
Webster," she said quietly, "And you can be quite happy, because whatever
old scores you may think you owe me, you have paid me back this afternoon
with interest."