Kitobni o'qish: «The Camp Fire Girls Across the Seas»

CHAPTER I
Two Years Later

A young man strode along through one of the principal streets of the town of Woodford, New Hampshire, with his blue eyes clouded and an expression of mingled displeasure and purpose about the firm lines of his mouth.

It was an April afternoon and the warm sunshine uncurling the tiny buds on the old elm trees lit to a brighter hue the yellow Forsythia bushes already in bloom in the gardens along the way.

Standing in front of an inconspicuous brown cottage was a large touring car, empty of occupants. Within a few yards of this car the young man paused, frowning, and then gazed anxiously up toward the closed door of the house. A short time afterwards this door opened when a girl, wearing a scarlet coat and a felt hat of the same shade pinned carelessly on her dark hair, hurried forth and with her eyes cast down and an air of suppressed excitement moved off in the opposite direction, without becoming aware of the onlooker. And although the bystander's lips moved once as if forming her name with the intention of calling after her, his impulse must have immediately died, for he continued motionless in the same spot until the girl had finally turned a corner and was lost to his view. Then the young man walked on again, but not so rapidly or resolutely as at first.

Indeed, he was so intensely absorbed in his own line of thought as to be unconscious of the other passers-by, until some one stopped directly in front of him and a familiar voice pronounced his name.

"Why, Billy Webster, where are you going?" Meg Everett demanded. "You look as if you were giving Atlas a holiday this afternoon and had transferred the weight of the world to your own shoulders."

Two years had changed the greater number of the old Sunrise Hill Camp Fire members from girls to young women, but they had not made a conspicuous difference in Margaret Everett. Her sunny yellow hair was tucked up, but today the April winds had loosened it, and though she was dressed with greater care than before the Camp Fire influence, she would never altogether approach her brother John's ideal of quiet elegance, as the Princess always had. Yet her eyes were so gay and friendly and her face so full of quick color and sympathy, that there were few other young men besides her older brother who found much to criticize in her. And certainly not the small boy at her side, who had once been "Hai-yi," the Indian name for "Little Brother," to the twelve girls at Sunrise Hill.

Returning Meg's interested gaze, Billy Webster, who was never given to subterfuges, had a sudden impulse to seek information and possible aid from her.

"Is it true, Meg," he asked, "that Miss Adams, the actress, is here in Woodford visiting her cousin and that Polly O'Neill has been going to see her every day and riding over the country in her motor car? I thought Mrs. Wharton had insisted that Polly was to have nothing to do with anything or anybody connected with the stage until three years had passed. It has been only two since Polly's escapade, and it seems to me that nothing could so awaken a girl's interest as being made the companion and friend of a famous woman. I thought Mrs. Wharton had better judgment. Polly had almost forgotten the whole business!"

As she shook her head Meg Everett's face wore a slightly puzzled look. For she was wondering at the instant if it could be possible that Billy had any special right to his concern in Polly O'Neill's proceedings. Mollie O'Neill was her dearest friend and for several years she knew Mollie and Billy had been apparently devoted to each other. Yet she would have been almost sure to have guessed had their old affection developed into something deeper. Moreover, Mollie was only nineteen and Mrs. Wharton would have insisted upon their waiting before agreeing to an engagement between them.

"Oh, I don't think it worth while for you and Mollie to worry over Polly," Meg returned, even in the midst of her meditations, which is a fortunate faculty one has sometimes of being able to think of one thing and speak of another at the same instant. "Miss Adams is going away in a few days, I believe, and though she has invited Polly to be her guest and travel with her in Europe this summer, Mrs. Wharton has positively refused to agree to it. I can't help being sorry for Polly, somehow, for think what it would mean to see Esther and Betty again! Two years has seemed a dreadfully long time to me without the Princess; I only wish that there was a chance for me to go abroad this summer."

And in the midst of her own wave of the spring "Wanderlust," which is aroused each year in the hearts of the young and the old alike, the girl had a moment of unconsciousness of her companion's nearness and of the manner in which he had received her news. The next instant he had lifted his hat and with a few muttered words of apology for his haste, had walked off with his shoulders squarer than ever and his head more splendidly erect.

Meg's eyes followed him with admiration. "I hope you may look like Billy Webster some day, Horace," she said to the small boy at her side, who was now all long legs and arms and tousled hair. "But I don't know that I want you to be too much like him. Billy is the old-fashioned type of man, I think – honest and brave and kind. But he does not understand in the least that the world has changed for women and that some of us may not wish just to stay at home and get married and then keep on staying at home forever afterwards." And Meg laughed, feeling that her little brother was hardly old enough to understand her criticism or her protest. She herself hardly realized why she had made it, except that the spring restlessness must still be lingering within her. Meg was not usually a psychologist and there was no reason to doubt that Mollie would always continue a home-loving soul.

On the broad stone steps of the Wharton home, which was the largest and finest in Woodford, except the old Ashton place, Billy Webster was compelled to wait for several moments before the front door bell was answered. And then the maid insisted that the entire family had gone out. Mr. and Mrs. Wharton were both driving, Mollie was taking a walk with friends, and Polly paying a visit. Sylvia was not living in Woodford at present, but true to her Camp Fire purpose was in Philadelphia studying to become a trained nurse.

"Do you mean that Miss Polly gave you instructions to say she was not in?" the young man inquired, trying his best to betray no shadow of offended pride in his question. "Because if she did not, I am sure that you must be mistaken. I saw her leave the place where she was calling some little time ago and – "

But the maid was crimsoning uncomfortably, for at this moment there arose the sound of some one playing the piano in the music room near by.

"No, sir," the girl stammered, "no one asked to be excused. Miss Polly must have come in without my knowing." And in her confusion the girl ushered the visitor into an almost dark room, without announcing his name or even suggesting his approach.

However, the recent visitor was so much in the habit of going frequently to the Wharton home that he did not feel in any sense a stranger there. Besides, had he not spied the familiar scarlet coat and hat on a chair outside the music room, where no one but Polly would have placed them? And was it not like her to be sitting in the semi-darkness with the shutters of four big windows tightly closed, playing pensively and none too well on the piano, when the rest of the world was out of doors?

Billy felt a sudden and almost overmastering desire to take the musician's slender shoulders in his hands and give them a slight shake, as she continued sitting on the stool with her back deliberately turned toward him.

"I hope I am not disturbing you," he began with a little laugh, which even to his own ears did not sound altogether natural.

And then, when the girl had swung slowly around, he walked up toward her and leaning one elbow on the piano, with his eyes down, continued speaking, without giving his companion the opportunity even for greeting him.

"Polly," he said, "I have just heard that Miss Adams has invited you to go abroad with her this summer and that your mother has refused to let you accept. But I cannot entirely believe this last part of my news. I don't dare unless you tell me."

There was a slight sound from his listener, an effort at interruption, but the young man went on without regarding it.

"I did not mean to speak to you so soon. I know you are too young and I expected to wait another year. And certainly you have not given me much encouragement. Sometimes I have not felt that you liked me any better than when first we knew each other. But you can't have completely forgotten what I said to you that day in the woods two years ago. And you know I never change my mind. Now I can't bear to have you go so far away from Woodford without saying again that I care for you, Polly, in spite of our sometimes disagreeing about things and that I will do my level best to make you happy if you, if you – "

But the girl at the piano had risen and Billy now lifted his eager blue eyes to her face. Immediately his expression changed, the hot blood poured into his cheeks, and he moved forward a few steps. Then he stood still with his hands hanging limply at his sides.

For the girl, whose pallor showed even in the semi-darkness of the room and whose lips trembled so that it was difficult for her to command her voice, was not Polly O'Neill! Although her hair was almost equally dark, her chin was less pointed, her lips less scarlet and her whole appearance gentler and more appealing.

"I am sorry," Mollie O'Neill faltered, "I did not understand when you began, Billy, or I should not have listened. But I didn't dream that you and Polly – oh, I didn't suppose that people could quarrel as you do and yet be fond of each other. And you were my friend, Billy, and Polly is my twin sister. I cannot understand why one of you did not tell me how you felt without waiting to have me find out like this." And in spite of her struggle for self-control, there was a break in Mollie O'Neill's soft voice that Billy would have given a great deal never to have heard, and a look on her face which, though he did not entirely understand, he was not soon to forget. She had put out one arm and stood steadying herself against the piano stool like a child who had been unexpectedly hurt and frightened and who wished to run away, yet felt that if she lingered a little longer she might better understand the puzzle.

Nevertheless Billy said nothing for a moment. He was too angry with himself, too worried over the surprise and sorrow in Mollie's eyes, to speak. For they were deeply attached to each other and nothing had come between their friendship since the morning, now almost five years ago, when she had cleverly bandaged up the wound in his head. They had been foolish children then, but so long an intimacy should surely have taught him by this time the difference between the twin sisters. If only the room had not been so dark when he came in, if only he had not been deceived by the crimson coat and cap and by his own excitement!

"There was nothing to tell you before, Mollie, at least nothing that counts," Billy began humbly. "Sometimes I have wanted to explain to you my feeling for Polly. We do quarrel and she makes me angrier than anyone I know in the world, and yet somehow I can't forget her. And I like being with her always, even when she is in a bad temper. Then I don't wish her to go on the stage. I think it a horrid profession, and Polly is not strong enough. I would do anything that I could to prevent it. But you see, Mollie, I have no reason to believe that Polly cares for me; though now and then she has seemed to like me better than she once did. Still I am determined to try whatever means I can to keep her away from this Miss Adams' influence. For if once Polly leaves Woodford with her, the old Polly whom we both know and love will never come back to us again." And Billy appeared so disconsolate and so unlike his usual confident, masterful self, that Mollie smiled at him, a little wistfully it is true, but in a perfectly friendly and forgiving fashion.

"I'll go and find whether Polly has come home," she answered. "I ran in for a moment to call on Miss Adams and found that Polly had left there half an hour before. I wore her old coat and cap, so I think she must be dressed in her best clothes and paying visits somewhere." And Mollie laid a hand lightly on her friend's arm.

"Don't be discouraged at whatever Polly says to you," she begged. "You know that she may be angry at the idea of your opposing her having this European trip with Miss Adams. But she is not going. Mother is positive and Polly will not do more than ask for permission since there is a whole year more before her promise ends."

And Mollie slipped quietly away, grateful for the darkness and her old friend's absorption.

In the hall, a few feet from the music room door, she encountered Polly herself, with her eyes shining and her face aglow with the beauty and fragrance of the April afternoon. And before she could slip past her Polly's arms were about her, holding her fast, while she demanded, "Whatever has happened to make you so white and miserable, Mollie Mavourneen? Are you ill? If anyone has been unkind to you – "

But Mollie could only shake her head. "Don't be absurd; there is nothing the matter. Billy Webster is here waiting to see you."

Nevertheless, a moment afterwards, when Polly had marched into the music room and opened wide a shutter, her first words as she turned toward her visitor were, "Billy Webster, what in the world have you said or done to make Mollie so unhappy?"

CHAPTER II
The Wheel Revolves

It was midnight, yet Polly O'Neill had not gotten into bed.

Instead she sat before a tiny, dying fire in her own bedroom with her hands clasped about her knees and her black hair hanging gypsy-fashion over her crimson dressing gown. Mollie had gone to her own room several hours before. In a moment there was a light knock at the door and Polly had scarcely turned her head when her mother stood beside her.

Mrs. Wharton looked younger than she had several years before, absurdly young to be the mother of two almost grown-up daughters! Her face had lost the fatigue and strain of another spring evening, when Betty Ashton had first hurried across the street to confide the dream of her Camp Fire club to her dearest friends. Of course her hair was grayer and she was a good deal less thin. Notwithstanding her eyes held the same soft light of understanding that was so curiously combined with quiet firmness.

"Why aren't you in bed, Polly mine?" she asked. "I saw that the gas was shining or I should never have disturbed you."

In answer Polly without rising pushed a low rocking chair toward her mother. "I wasn't sleepy. Is that the same reason that keeps you awake, Mrs. Wharton?" she queried.

In all their lives together Polly O'Neill and her mother had always held a different relation toward each other than ordinarily exists between most mothers and daughters. In the first place Mrs. Wharton was so very little older than her children that in the days in the cottage when they had lived and worked for one another, they had seemed more like three devoted and intimate friends. Of course the two girls had always understood that when a serious question was to be decided their mother remained the court of the last decision. However, in those years few serious questions had ever arisen beyond the finding of sufficient money for their food and clothes and occasional good times. So that there had been nothing to disturb the perfection of their attitude toward one another until Mrs. O'Neill's marriage to her former employer, Mr. Wharton. And then there is no doubt that Polly for a time had been difficult. Naturally she was glad for her mother's sake that she had the new love and wealth and position; nevertheless she was homesick for their old life and its intimacy and in her heart half sorry that her own dream of some day bringing fortune and ease to her mother and Mollie was now of so little account. And then all too soon, before matters had really become adjusted between the two families, had followed her own act of insurbordination and deception and her mother's mandate.

Of course Polly had bowed before it and had even understood that it was both right and just. She had been happy enough in these last two years, in spite of missing Betty Ashton almost every hour, and had come to like and admire her stepfather immensely. Nevertheless there had remained a slight shadow between herself and her mother, a misapprehension so intangible that Polly herself did not realize it, although Mrs. Wharton did.

"I suppose you are not sleepy, dear, because you are sitting here thinking that never in the whole world was there ever a mother so narrow and so dictatorial as I am," Mrs. Wharton began. "Oh, I have been in bed, but I have been lying awake for the past hour looking at myself with Polly's eyes."

Polly frowned, shaking her head, yet her mother went on without appearing to notice her.

"I wonder if you think that I have no realization of the wonderful opportunity I have just made you refuse. Do you think, Polly, that I don't appreciate what it must mean to a girl like you to have made a friend of a great woman like Margaret Adams? And to have her so desire your companionship that she has asked you to be her guest during her summer abroad? Why such a chance does not come to one girl in a hundred thousand and yet I have made you give it up!"

With a little protesting gesture Polly stretched out her hand. "Then let us not discuss it any further, mother of mine," she demanded. "I promised you not to speak of it again after our talk the other day and I am going to exact the same promise of you."

The girl shut her lips together in a tight line of scarlet and all unconsciously began rocking herself slowly backward and forward with her expression turned inside instead of out, as her sister Mollie used sometimes to say. But Mrs. Wharton leaned over, and putting her finger under Polly's chin tilted it back until her eyes were upturned toward hers.

"But was I fair to you, dear? Have I decided what was best for you, as well as for Mollie and me? We have not spoken of it; we have both felt that silence was the wisest course; but tonight I should like to know whether, when the three years of your promise to me have passed, do you still intend going upon the stage?" Mrs. Wharton asked.

"Would you mind so very, very much?" Polly inquired quietly. And then with a sudden rush of confidence, which she had never before shown in any of their talks together on this subject, Polly faced their old difference of opinion squarely. "It has always been hard for me to understand, mother, why you are so opposed to my trying to become an actress. You are broad-minded enough on other subjects. You have worked for your own living and ours; and you were willing enough to have Sylvia, who is younger than I am and who will be very rich some day, go away and study to become a trained nurse, just because she believed it her calling. Yet because I want to learn to act, why the whole stage and everything connected with it is anathema. You do not even like Miss Margaret Adams as much as you would if she were in some other kind of work. Oh, of course I appreciate that people used to feel that no woman could be good and be on the stage, but no sensible person thinks that nowadays." Polly stopped abruptly. "I don't mean to be rude, mother," she concluded.

But Mrs. Wharton nodded. "Please go on. I came in tonight to find out just what you were thinking. I don't believe you realize how little you have explained your real feeling to me on this subject since that unfortunate time in New York."

"I didn't want to trouble you," again Polly hesitated. "It is hardly worth while doing it now. Because honestly I have not made up my mind just how to answer the question that you asked me a few minutes ago. Whether at the end of another year, when you have agreed to let me do as I like, I shall still insist upon going upon the stage, knowing that you and Mollie are at heart unwilling to have me, I can't tell. Perhaps I shall give up and stay on here at Woodford and maybe marry some one I don't care about and then be sorry ever afterwards."

Instead of replying Mrs. Wharton got up and walked several times backwards and forwards across the length of the room, not glancing toward the girl who still sat before the fire with her hands clasped tightly over her knees. But Polly had small doubt where her mother's thoughts were. And a few moments afterwards she too rose and the next instant pulled her mother down on a cushion before the fire, and resting close beside her put her head on her shoulder.

"Dear, you were mistaken when you came in and found me awake," Polly explained, "in supposing that I was thinking of my own disappointment in not being allowed to make the journey with Miss Adams or feeling hurt or angry with you because you decided against it. Really, I never dreamed in the first place that you would be willing. Still, I was thinking of asking you to let me break my word to you after all! You said that I was to stay here in Woodford for three years, and yet I want you to let me go away somewhere very soon. I don't care where, any place will do."

Now for the first time since the beginning of their conversation Mrs. Wharton appeared mystified and deeply hurt.

"Is your own home so disagreeable to you, Polly, that you would rather go anywhere than stay with us?" she queried. And then to her further surprise, turning she discovered that tears were standing unshed in Polly's eyes and that her lips were trembling.

"I don't know how to tell you, mother. It is all so mixed up and so uncertain in my own mind and so foolish. But I wonder if you have ever thought that Mollie liked Billy Webster better than our other friends?"

"Mollie?" Mrs. Wharton could hardly summon her thoughts back from the subject which had lately absorbed them, to follow what she believed a quickly changing idea of Polly's. "Why, yes, I think I have," she answered slowly. "But I have never let the supposition trouble me. Mollie is so young and her deepest affections are for you and me. Besides, Billy is a fine fellow and perhaps when the time comes I shall not be quite so selfish with her."

But Polly's cheeks were so crimson that she had to put up her cold hands to try and cool them.

"And you have always believed that Billy almost hated me, haven't you?"

Mrs. Wharton laughed. "Well, I have never thought a great deal about it, except that you argued a great deal about nothing and that each one of you was determined to influence the other without producing the smallest result."

"Yes, mother, and that is what makes what I want to tell you so horrid and silly," Polly went on, intentionally making a screen for her face with her dark hair. "Because Billy Webster has a perfectly absurd idea that he cares for me, simply because he wishes to manage me. And – and he was tiresome enough to tell me so this afternoon."

Surprise and consternation for the moment kept Mrs. Wharton silent. "But you, Polly?" she managed to inquire finally. "How do you feel? What did you answer him?"

Then for an instant the girl's former expression changed and the old Irish contrariness of spirit hovered in a half smile about her lips.

"Oh, I told him that I did not like him any better than I had in the beginning of our acquaintance and that I had only been nicer to him now and then lately because he was your friend and Mollie's. And no matter what happened to me, if I never, never stirred a foot out of Woodford, I should never dream of marrying him even when I am a hundred years old."

A sigh of some kind escaped Mrs. Wharton, partly of relief and partly of annoyance.

"Then why should you wish to go away, dear?" she queried. "If you said all that, surely Billy will never trouble you again!"

A characteristic shrug was Polly's first answer. "Oh, Billy only cares about me because he can't have me," she replied the next minute. "But he insists that he will go on trying to win me until doomsday. Still it isn't either about Billy or about me that I am thinking at present. Can't you understand, mother, without my having to explain? It is so hard to say. It's Mollie! Not for anything in the world would I have her feelings hurt or have her think that I had come between her and her friendship for Billy."

But Mrs. Wharton's manner was immediately quiet and reassuring. "Mollie would never think anything unfair of you, Polly. And perhaps it will be better for you to speak of this to her. If Mollie has had any false impression, if her feeling for Billy has been anything but simple friendliness, now it will not be difficult for her to adjust herself. When later – " However, Mrs. Wharton was not able to finish her sentence, for Polly had murmured, "She does know. Of course she has not said anything to me and I never want to have to refer to it to her. But you need not trouble. Billy was so stupid." Here Polly gave an irrepressible giggle. "He proposed to both of us this afternoon. And I think he was much more worried over Mollie's telling him that she should have been taken into his confidence sooner, than he was over my refusal."

The clock on Polly's mantel shelf was striking one long stroke. Hearing it Mrs. Wharton rose to leave the room, first pulling Polly up beside her. The girl was several inches taller than her mother.

"Polly dear," she said, "so far as Mollie is concerned I don't agree with the wisdom of your going away from home. But I want you to understand something else, something that I have never properly explained to you. It is not just narrowness or prejudice, this opposition of mine to your going upon the stage. You remember, dear, why your father left Ireland and came here to live in these New Hampshire hills. And you know you are not so strong as Mollie, and I used to be afraid that you had less judgment. Recently, however, you have seemed stronger and more poised. And I had almost decided before I came in to you tonight, that if in another year you are still sure that you wish to make the stage your profession, I shall not stand in the way of your giving it a fair trial. You don't know, but in your father's family not so many years ago there was a great actress. She ran away from home and her people never forgave her. I don't even know what became of her. Nothing like that must ever happen between you and me." Mrs. Wharton kissed Polly good night. "Have faith in me, dear, for I have understood the ambition and the heart-burning you have suffered better than you dreamed. I shall go to see Miss Adams again tomorrow. If you must try your wings some day, perhaps there could be no better beginning than that you should learn to know intimately one woman who has fought through most of the difficulties of one of the hardest professions in the world and has earned for herself the right kind of fame and fortune."