  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.” |
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