"Bobbin"
ALL her life Polly O'Neill had felt a curious shrinking from physical cruelty, and growing older had not made the least change in her feeling. She had never talked about it, but had always been fearful that at heart she was a coward. The Camp Fire girls used to laugh at her because, of course, she had learned to do all of the things that their rules required without feeling any possible nervousness. But then no one of them understood what physical cruelty might mean and possibly might never see an exhibition of it.
Yet nothing was farther from her own mind at the present moment than this fear. She had come in about fifteen minutes' walk to a clump of cottonwood trees by a small stream of water, and there in their midst stood a crude two-room shanty with a bare space of ground in front of it and a lean dog sitting in a patch of sunshine.
But the sight that froze Polly's blood and made her stand suddenly so still that she might have been a wooden image was the figure of a man with a long whip in his hand, such as one might have used in driving cattle. And this whip was now whirling and stinging through the air and twisting itself about the body of the little girl who had been the first vision that Miss O'Neill's eyes had rested upon on waking that morning.
But the strangest thing of all was that the child was making no outcry and showing no effort to run away. Indeed, she stood perfectly still, hugging half a loaf of bread in her arms.
Polly made an inarticulate sound which she thought was a loud cry: "Stop!" But the man had not seen her approach and was too occupied with his hateful task to hear her, and to her intense shame she felt all at once desperately afraid of him. She was so far from any one she knew, she had so little physical strength and this man was so much more brutal than any one she had ever seen before in her life. Perhaps he would cease hurting the child this instant.
Then, without in the least knowing when nor how she had accomplished it, Polly rushed forward and seizing the man's thick wrist in her own slender fingers, clung to him desperately, while the thong of the whip curled and fell in a limp fashion about her own shoulders.
Too surprised to speak, the man took a step or two backward. In the course of her stage career Polly had acted a number of tragedy queens; and notwithstanding her slightly rumpled appearance at this moment, she had never looked the part better than now. Her thin figure was drawn up to its fullest height, her Irish blue eyes flashed Celtic lightnings. She even stamped her foot imperiously.
"You beast!" she exclaimed. "What do you mean by striking a little girl in that cruel fashion? I'll have you arrested! I don't care in the least if you are her father or what she has done, you have no possible right to be so brutal."
The man had dropped his whip to the ground and Polly now stooped and picked it up. It was absurd of her ever to have dreamed she could have been frightened bymere brute strength. The man was a good deal more afraid of her for the instant. The sudden apparition of a fashionably dressed young woman, appearing out of nowhere and springing upon him in such a surprising fashion, had destroyed his nerve.
"I wasn't doin' nawthin I hadn't a right ter," he growled. "That young 'un is allers stealin' somethin'. I caught her red-handed running off with that there loaf of bread."
For the first time since her arrival on the scene Polly O'Neill turned toward the girl. She was still staring at her with almost the same expression she had worn earlier in the day. But somehow something in her look touched Polly, brought her sudden inspiration.
"Why," she exclaimed with a break in her voice, "I believe she was bringing the bread to me. I told her I was hungry just a little while ago."
There was no one in the world who could be sweeter or simpler than Polly O'Neill when her feelings were deeply touched. This had always been true, even as a young girl, and of course, as she had grown into a famous woman, her charm had deepened.Now she put her arms about her new friend's shoulders. "You were going to give the bread to me, I'm sure. Thank you." Oblivious of the fact that the little girl's dress was exceedingly dirty and that her face was far from clean, Polly leaned over and kissed her.
Then she turned to the man. "If you will get a horse and drive me to my hotel I will pay you well for it," she explained.
In reply the man nodded and moved away, so that Polly was once more left alone with the girl.
It suddenly occurred to her that the child had never spoken since their meeting. Could she possibly be deaf and dumb? That might explain her strange expression.
"What is your name?" Polly asked gently.
Still the girl stared. Miss O'Neill repeated her question.
Then the girl, picking up a stick from the ground, slowly and laboriously printed in big letters, such as a child of six might have made, the word "Bobbin."
"Bobbin?" Polly repeated the name aloud as she read it. What an extraordinarytitle! One could scarcely call it a name.
"Is that the only name you have?" she inquired again, wondering at the same time how it was possible for the little girl to understand what she said without being able to reply. But Bobbin bowed her head, showing that she had understood. In some fashion she must have learned the lip language. Yet it was curious why if the girl had ever been sent to school she had learned nothing else. She appeared the veriest little savage that ever lived so close to wealth and civilization.
Polly sought in her mind to find out what she could do or say to show her gratitude. She had a sudden feeling that she could not turn her back upon the girl and leave her to her wretched fate, and yet of course the child had no claim upon her. It was something in the expression of Bobbin's eyes that seemed to haunt one.
With a slight, unnoticeable shrug of her shoulders, as though giving up the problem as too much for her, Polly now slipped her hand into her pocket, drawing out her purse bag. Opening it she found alarge silver dollar, such as one uses in the West.
"Won't you buy yourself something from me?" she asked, trying to speak as distinctly as possible. She had not observed that in taking out the money she had carelessly dropped a handkerchief from her bag.
With a fleeting expression of pleasure the girl accepted the gift, but the next instant, when Polly turned to watch the man who was now approaching her with a lean horse hitched to a cart, she swooped down toward the ground and picking up the crumpled white object thrust it secretively inside her dress.
Five minutes after, when Polly and the man had started for Colorado Springs, Bobbin remained in the same position, watching them until they were out of sight. Then she began eating the neglected bread.
Upon arriving safely at her hotel, Miss O'Neill discovered that the news of her disappearance had been spread abroad by her frightened maid, and that a thorough search was being made for her. For although Polly had been trying to live as quietly as possible in a small, obscure hotel,the fact of her visit was well known to hundreds of people. You see, at this time in her life not only was her name celebrated from one part of the country to the other, but her face was equally familiar.
Through her maid, Marie, Polly was told that a gentleman, whose name she had not learned, had been particularly kind and interested in seeking to find her. So as soon as she rested she had every intention of inquiring his name and thanking him personally. But by late afternoon, when she finally dressed, this was impossible. Evidently the man did not wish to be annoyed by her thanks, for the message brought her was that on hearing of her safety he had suddenly left the village.
However, Polly was able to acquire some actual information about the girl she had seen earlier in the day, for "Bobbin" was apparently a well-known character in the famousWesternresort. She was a little stray daughter of the place. Years before, the mother had come to Colorado from some city in the South and had died. Afterwards no one had ever claimed the child.
So the town had taken care of her, senther to school and tried to teach her to talk. She was perhaps not entirely deaf, although no one exactly understood her case. But the girl was a hopeless little rebel. In no place would she stay unless kept there by iron bars. She seemed to have an unconquerable desire to be always out of doors, and in the brilliant Colorado climate this was nearly always possible. Recently she had been living with some gypsy people, who had established themselves in a temporary shanty at some little distance from the roads usually followed by sightseers. So Miss O'Neill had certainly wandered from the beaten track. Nevertheless she need not make herself unnecessarily unhappy over "Bobbin," for the girl would again be brought back to school as soon as she could be captured.
Yes, her name had been Roberta, an old-fashioned Southern name, and then in some way it had been shortened to Bobbie and now Bobbin. The child had a last name, of course, but the woman who told the story to Miss O'Neill had either never heard the mother's name or else had completely forgotten it.
Late that night in reflecting over her adventure Polly wished that she and Betty Graham could have changed places for a week or so. For Betty would certainly do something for the unfortunate Bobbin to make life happier for her, as she had a kind of genius for looking after people. Her Camp Fire training had taught her a beautiful sympathy and understanding. But Betty must have been made that way in the beginning, Polly concluded with a sigh and a smile. She had no such gift herself. The girl's story, fragmentary as it was, interested her, but there could be no possible point in undertaking to interfere with the child's future.
Nevertheless, try as she might, all night it was impossible for the famous actress to get the half tragic, half stupid figure of Bobbin out of her vision.
Back in New Hampshire
BETTY was driving alone through one of the less crowded parts of Concord. She had been into the country and was now on her way home again. Not very often did she go out alone, but she had not felt in a mood for company and had purposely gotten away by herself.
A week had passed since her midnight talk with Anthony and there was still a coldness between them. Each day Betty had expected her husband to declare that he had changed his mind in regard to finding a position for John Everett and would do as she asked. Yet so far he had not even referred to the subject.
On her way home Betty considered that she had better stop and tell Meg how she had failed in influence with her husband, notwithstanding she could not decide just what she should do or say. Meg would not understand and might believe thatshe had made no real effort for John's sake. Yet she could not be such a coward as to leave her old friends in suspense. Since Anthony would do nothing to help, it was better that John Everett should know, so that he might find another occupation.
They were passing through a quiet street shaded by magnificent old maple trees that were now bare except for a few clustering brown leaves, when Mrs. Graham leaned over to speak to her coachman and the man drew in his horses. The next moment her attention was attracted by seeing some one on the sidewalk pause and lift his hat to her. Betty had returned the bow before she actually recognized John Everett. Then he took two or three steps forward and held out his hand.
"I was just going to see Meg," Betty explained, blushing and wishing that she could escape the confession that lay before her. If John should question her now she felt she might have a sudden panic of embarrassment. Of course she could think up some excuse for Anthony's unkindness; she might even offer the same excuse he had made to her. Yet the fact that he had declinedto do what she so much desired would remain the same.
But John Everett was smiling in the most ordinary fashion.
"I wonder, Mrs. Graham, if you will not let me ride along with you, if you are going to Meg's. I am on the way home myself."
Then in a short while Betty had forgotten her worry and was having the same agreeable talk of old times that she had enjoyed the week before. Moreover, it was John Everett who relieved her from her chagrin.
"By the way," he began, just as they were about to arrive at Mrs. Jack Emmet's house, "please don't worry, Mrs. Graham, or Betty, if I may call you by the old name, about asking your husband to fix me up with a position in his office. I know the new Governor is being overwhelmed with office seekers. I have been lucky enough to secure something to do with my brother-in-law, Jack Emmet, and ex-Governor Peyton. They have a new business scheme on hand in which they think I may be useful."
Of course, Betty could not utter herthanksgiving aloud, although she repeated it very fervently to herself. So, after all, she need not confess to other people Anthony's lack of consideration. It was enough that she should be carrying the hurt feeling about inside her own heart. Instead, she merely murmured something or other that was not clear, about the Governor's having been so very busy recently and having some special annoyance in his affairs. She was by no means certain of just what she said at the moment nor how she explained the situation, but fortunately John Everett did not appear to be particularly interested in the subject.
Meg was not at home when they arrived, but instead of saying good-bye, John suggested that he should drive back to her own home with Betty. It had been years since they had seen each other, except the other evening, and there was so much to talk about.
Then John explained that he had taken a small house in Concord and that his father was soon coming to live with him. Bumps would continue with his course at Cornell for this winter anyhow. So, afterall, there were uses in this world even for old bachelors, he ended smilingly.
It was Betty, however, who suggested that they should go and see this house, although John told her it was a good deal out of her way. Yet it was a beautiful warm November afternoon and would not be dark for another hour. Somehow Betty did not feel that she wanted to go home at once. Faith had gone for a walk with Kenneth Helm, Angel had a half holiday and was spending the afternoon with the children. She and Bettina had a wonderful secret game that they played together in a room by themselves, where no one else had ever been allowed to come. There was no prospect of Anthony's returning home for some time, so the Governor's splendid mansion would seem big and empty to the Governor's wife for an hour or so more at any rate.
There was a caretaker in the little white house with green shutters, who was anxious to show Mrs. Graham and Mr. Everett every detail of it. The house was to be let furnished and yet it seemed to have been peculiarly fitted for old Professor Everett'sneeds. It was pleasant for Betty to imagine the sweet-tempered, learned old man here with John and near his daughter Meg. He had been living alone in Woodford ever since his younger son, Horace, departed for college. Somehow Betty felt that it would be pleasant for her also to have the old gentleman living so near by. He had been a devoted friend of Mr. Ashton's, whom she had certainly loved even more than an own father.
"I shall be running in here very often to see Professor Everett and tell him the things that trouble me, just as Meg and I used to do when we were little girls," Betty remarked to her companion. "He was the one person who never by any possible chance believed that Meg or I could ever be in fault."
"I'm sure he will always be overjoyed to see you," John Everett replied. "Only it is a little difficult for me to imagine Mrs. Anthony Graham ever having anything to trouble her."
As the November evenings grew dark so soon, it was almost dusk when Betty at length entered her own home after sayinggood-bye to her friend, who had insisted on walking back to his sister's house instead of allowing the coachman to drive him.
Going into her private sitting room, Betty was surprised to find that Anthony had come home and was sitting there pretending to read. But most undeniably he looked cross.
"I thought we were going to have a drive and tea together, Betty," he remarked reproachfully. "Where in the world have you been? No one seemed to know. I should think you would leave word where you are going, so that if anything happened to the children or to me the servants would know where to find you."
Actually Anthony was reproaching her in a perfectly unreasonable fashion! Betty could hardly believe her ears, it was so unlike him. Was he going to turn into the dictatorial type of husband after all these years of married life when he had been so altogether different?
Usually Betty's temper was gracious and sweet. Possibly if Anthony had approached her in his usual fashion at this moment they might have gotten over thefeeling of estrangement that had come between them for the first time since their wedding. Moreover, the room was not brightly lighted, so that Betty did not notice how tired and worried Anthony looked. Of course, fatigue and worry explain almost any temporary unreasonableness on the part of human beings.
Quite casually Betty began to draw off her long gray suede gloves. She wore a beautiful gray coat and skirt and chinchilla furs and a hat with a single blue feather.
"Don't talk as if we lived in England and you were a kind of domestic tyrant, please, Anthony," she said lightly. "I am sorry, but I had no possible way of knowing that you were coming home from your office so much earlier than usual. You should have had some one telephone me. I have been having a very agreeable drive with John Everett. And, by the way, it was not worth while for me to have annoyed you by asking you to do me the favor of giving John something to do. He tells me he is going into business with Jack Emmet and ex-Governor Peyton." Then as she moved toward her own bedroomBetty was surprised and annoyed by another speech from her husband.
"I don't like the combination very well," he remarked quietly. "Neither Emmet nor Peyton have very good business reputations. They are going to try and get a shaky bill through the Legislature in the next month or so, I hear. But I suppose Everett knows his own affairs best."
As Betty had now disappeared, she did not hear Anthony's closing speech.
"I am sorry to have talked like a bear, dear. Won't you forgive me and let us be friends? I wish I could have fixed up things for Everett for your sake, but I could not feel that I had the right."
Moreover, the young Governor's back was unfortunately turned, so he did not appreciate that Betty had not heard him. He was under the impression that she had simply refused to pay any attention to his apology.
Well, he was too tired to discuss the matter any further for the present. He had several important decisions that must be made before morning and he and Betty and Faith and Kenneth Helm were to go to some big reception later in the evening.
Loneliness
NEVER in her entire career had Polly O'Neill felt more depressed. She was, of course, accustomed to a very busy life filled with people and excitement. Nothing else is possible to an actor or actress, although Miss O'Neill had tried to keep her private life as quiet as possible.
But here in her little hotel about a mile or more from the celebrated Colorado Springs she was finding existence duller than she had bargained for. In the first place, on her arrival she had let it be known that she desired no callers or acquaintances. Her reason for giving up her work at the present time was that she was greatly in need of a rest cure, so visitors to the Springs had taken herather word and Miss O'Neill had been left to recover her health unmolested. Now and then some unknown admirer had appeared at herhotel or sent books and flowers. Nevertheless, she had so far made no acquaintances.
However, after several weeks of the wonderful, brilliant air, with nothing to do except sleep and write an occasional letter, Polly felt a good deal stronger. Yet she did not feel that she was well enough to return to Woodford, and today the news from home had been depressing.
You see, Mollie had never been told that her sister was ill and considered that if she only required rest it might as well be enjoyed at her own lovely big farm as among strangers in the West. So this morning her letter had urged Polly's return home and had also imparted a great variety of dispiriting reasons. In the first place, Mollie told at great length that Dan, who was Polly's favorite of her sister's children, was not in good health and that he was showing certain oddities of disposition which struck his aunt as very like her own. Indeed, she believed that neither her sister nor brother-in-law understood the delicate, difficult little fellow, and she would have liked to have been near enough to have helped himthrough a trying time. Then more disquieting had been Mollie's information about their mother, Mrs. Wharton, who was beginning to show her age. Moreover, Mr. Wharton seemed somewhat depressed over his business affairs. Then finally the most mystifying and in a way disturbing of Mollie's statements had been her account of Betty Graham.
For several weeks there had been no line to Polly from her dearest friend, which in itself had made Polly vaguely uneasy. It was so unlike Betty ever to fail in her weekly letter which had always followed her friend to whatever part of the world she happened to be. But now Mollie announced that Betty had been on a visit to her mother, Mrs. Ashton, in Woodford, and that she had seemed entirely unlike herself. Instead of having a great deal to say she had been strangely quiet, almost sad.
Moreover, the new Governor's enemies were said to be making a tremendous effort to destroy his reputation and there was a great deal of talk going on about some matter which Mollie did not claim to understand.Possibly Anthony's annoyances may have been worrying his wife.
Polly had been sitting alone on her small, private veranda which commanded a wonderful view of a rim of hills, when her sister's letter had been given her along with her other mail.
Before glancing at the other communications she had eagerly opened this. But now she sat with the pages fluttering in her lap and her eyes filled with tears.
Naturally Mollie had not intended to be so depressing; people seldom do seem to realize just what effects their letters may produce. Often they write merely to relieve their own feelings and once having put down all the gloomy possibilities that worry them at the time, rise up and go cheerfully about their business with the evils forgotten.
So naturally it remains for the unfortunate recipient of the letter to become even more depressed than the writer had been.
Moreover, Polly really wanted desperately to go home. It had been many months since she had seen her own people,and though they often believed her to have less affection than other women, it was not in the least true. She had given up many things for her art and had sometimes seemed selfish and cold-blooded. But it wasn't fair that her sister, Mollie, always seemed to think that she had never desired a home of her own, babies and some one to care for her supremely, that she had never grown tired of the wandering life her stage career forced her to lead.
Finally, however, Polly managed to smile and give a characteristic shrug over her own self-pity. There was nothing in the world so silly. Like the rest of us she knew this to be true, yet, like the rest of us, now and then even this famous, grown-up woman, who had most of the things that people would give worlds to possess, indulged in attacks of being sorry for herself. Moreover, the day before she had sent for her doctor and he had positively refused to consider her leaving Colorado for the present.
You may remember that Polly had a certain inherited delicacy that used to keep her mother uneasy, and lately it hadtroubled her. It was this fact she had concealed from her family and friends, so that now, though she was better, her physician had scouted the idea of a return East. Once near New York he was sure she would begin to talk business with her theatrical manager, or even undertake to study a new play.
No, she must undoubtedly remain at her post a while longer. And yet was it really necessary to have her post quite so lonely?
Just as this idea occurred to her, a slight noise attracting her attention, Polly glanced down into the garden below her veranda.
There stood Bobbin and the next moment she had flung a poor little bouquet at her feet. It was a strange offering, all prickly cactus leaves with a single white flower in their midst. For some absurd reason it flashed through Polly's mind to wonder if her offering could be in any way symbolic of the girl who had given it her. Could there be something beautiful hidden within the child's peculiarities?
For this was not the first token of affection that Bobbin had presented. Indeed,many queer, small gifts had been brought to the strange lady since their first meeting, so that Polly had been curiously touched. For of course Bobbin's offerings came straight from her heart. In her pathetic, shut-in world she had no way of knowing anything of the history of the woman whom she so plainly admired.
Yet inside Polly O'Neill's sitting room at this moment there were four or five tokens of affection that must have come from her. They were too extraordinary for any one else to have sent them and had been laid at her shrine in too unusual a way. For most of them had been literally flung on her veranda. A few of them, when she happened to be sitting outdoors as she was doing at the present moment, and the others when no one had seen or known of their appearance.
One of the gifts was a beautiful blue feather that must have fallen from some unusual bird flying over the western lands, another a stone that shone like the finest crystal, in the sun, and a third a horseshoe some small broncho must have shed in trotting across the plains.
However, never once had Polly been able to thank her new friend for her gifts. For always at the slightest movement on her part Bobbin had turned and run away more fleetly than any one else could. For since Miss O'Neill's report that she had found the girl living with such rough people Bobbin had been recaptured and brought back to the village to school. Notwithstanding, she had once more escaped and now either no one knew just where she had gone or else no one had taken the trouble to capture her a second time.
It occurred to Polly at this moment that she would like to try and influence the girl, or at any rate show her gratitude. Besides, anything would be better than spending the rest of the day bewailing her own loneliness. Moreover, it would do her good for a moment to compare her own loneliness with Bobbin's!
Without a movement or a sign to the girl to betray that she had even caught sight of her, Polly at once slipped into her bedroom and put on her coat and hat. And she was down in her yard and had stretched out her hand to touch hervisitor before the girl became aware of her.
Yet the very next instant Bobbin started and began running as swiftly as she had at their first meeting. And this time, even more impetuously and with less reason, Miss O'Neill pursued her.
It was ridiculous of Polly and utterly undignified and unbecoming. No other person in the world in her position would have done such a thing. Yet she had no more thought of its oddity and the attention that she might create than if she had been a Camp Fire girl in the New Hampshire woods nearly fifteen years before.
Of course the woman could not run half so fast as Bobbin in these days, but it was only because she was not well, Polly said to herself angrily. She had been the swiftest runner of all the girls for short distances in their old Sunrise Hill Club. Of course Sylvia had used to get the better of her in long distance tests. Still, even now she was managing to keep Bobbin in sight, although she had a horrid stitch in her side and was already out of breath.
Fortunately, however, for Miss PollyO'Neill's reputation she was not at the present time within the fashionable precincts of Colorado Springs, else she might possibly have been thought to have gone suddenly mad. Her hotel was some distance out in the country and there were but few houses in its neighborhood. Moreover, Bobbin was running away from the town and not toward it.
The road was a level, hard one, but all at once Polly felt a queer pain that took her breath completely away and then a sudden darkness.
She did not fall, however, because some one who was walking in the direction of her hotel reached her just in time.
Then to her amazement Polly heard an exclamation that had in some unexplainable way a familiar note in it. The next moment when straightening up and opening her eyes she seemed to be reposing in the arms of a tall man with dark eyes and gray hair, whom she had once known extremely well, but had not seen in the past five years.
A Meeting and an Explanation
"I—I was running," explained Miss O'Neill as soon as she had sufficient breath to speak.
Which was such an absurdly unnecessary statement of an apparent fact that her rescuer smiled against his will.
He was not pleased at this meeting with Miss Polly O'Neill. It was true that he had been walking out to her hotel to make inquiries concerning her health, but he had no thought or desire to see her. Indeed, deep down in his heart he believed that few women had ever treated a man much worse than she had treated him and he had never even tried to forgive her. For several years they had been engaged to be married, only postponing the wedding because of Polly's youth and because she wanted to go on with her acting for a few years longer without interruption. Then when Richard Hunthad insisted that he was not young and could not wait forever, with characteristic coolness Polly had broken her engagement. She had written him of her change of mind and heart and he had accepted her letter as final. Never once since had they met face to face until this minute.
Yet now Richard Hunt found himself holding the same young woman in his arms, rather against his will, of course, but not knowing what else to do with her since she scarcely looked strong enough to stand alone.
"I think I would like to sit down for a moment," Polly volunteered finally and managed to cross over to the opposite side of the road, where she established herself very comfortably on a carefully cultivated mound of grass.
Her rescuer stood over her. "May I do anything for you, Miss O'Neill?" he inquired formally. "I think it might be well for me to find your maid."
He was about to move off when Polly with her usual lack of dignity fairly clutched the back of his overcoat.
"Oh, please don't go, Mr. Hunt—Richard,"she ended after a slight hesitation. "Really, I don't understand why you have treated me so unkindly all these years. I don't see the least reason why we should not have continued to be friends. Still, you were going to my hotel to call on me. There isn't any other possible reason why you were marching out this particular road, which does not lead anywhere else." And at this Miss O'Neill smiled with open and annoying satisfaction.
"I hadn't the faintest idea of asking to see you," Richard Hunt announced firmly, although a little surprised by Polly's friendly manner. If they had been parted for a matter of five weeks instead of five years, and if the cause of their separation had been only some slight disagreement rather than something affecting their whole lives, she could not have appeared more nonchalant and at the same time more cordial. But then there never had been any way of accounting for Polly O'Neill's actions and probably never would be. However, Richard Hunt had no desire again to subject himself to her moods. He wished very much to walk on, and yet he could notmake up his mind to remove her hand forcibly from his coat. Moreover, she looked too pale and exhausted to be left alone. Yet this had always been a well-known method by which Polly had succeeded in gaining her own point, he remembered.
"Then what were you going to my hotel for? Didn't you even know I was staying there?" she demanded, finding breath enough to ask questions, in spite of her exhaustion of a few moments before.
If only he had been a less truthful man! For a moment Richard Hunt contemplated making up some entirely fanciful story, then he put the temptation aside.
Notwithstanding, his manner and answer were far more crushing to Miss Polly O'Neill than if he had told her a lie which she would probably have seen through at once.
Always he had commanded more respect from her than any man she had ever known in her life, which was secretly mingled with a little wholesome awe. Polly had always put it down to the fact that he was so much older than she was. But she had had other acquaintances among older men.
"You misunderstood me, Miss O'Neill, when I said that I was coming to your hotel without any intention of seeing you. That was true, but I was coming with the idea of inquiring how you were. You see, I also have been staying in this part of the country, and not long ago I read in one of the papers that you were here and seriously ill. Afterwards I learned that you were alone. Your family and friends have always been so kind to me that it appeared to me my duty to find out your true condition. I of course guessed that you had not told them the truth."
Richard Hunt gazed severely down at the crumpled young woman at his feet, ending his speech as cruelly as possible.
"Well, I like that!" Polly returned weakly, falling into slang with entire unconsciousness. "Here I have been suffering perfect agonies of loneliness and crying my eyes out every day because I so wanted mother and Mollie and Betty to come to me. And I only did not let them know I was ill, to keep them from worrying. Yet you make it sound just as if I were keeping my tiresome old breakdown a secret fromthe pure love of fibbing inherent in my wicked nature. I do think you are—mean!"
Was there ever such another grown-up woman as Polly O'Neill? Actually there were tears in her eyes as she ended her speech, relinquishing her hold on her companion in order to fish about in her pocket for a handkerchief, which she failed to find.
With entire gravity Mr. Hunt presented his, and Polly, wiping her eyes and perspiring forehead, coolly retained the handkerchief.
"Don't you think you are strong enough now to permit me to take you back to your hotel, if I may not look for your maid?" the man suggested, wondering if his companion had any idea of how absurd their position was, nor of how much he desired to get away from her.
However, she only sighed comfortably. "Oh, thank you very much, but don't trouble. I am perfectly all right now. I was only out of breath because I was running after a little girl who is as fleet as a deer. But I don't want to go back to my hotel unless you were coming to see me. I was much too lonely there. I'll just walk along with you and after a while, if I am tiredagain, perhaps we may find a bench and you'll sit down with me. Of course I know you are too dignified to sit on the grass like I am doing."
Without the least assistance Polly rose up and stood beside her companion, smiling at him somewhat wistfully.
What else could any man do except agree to her wishes? Besides, she had him cornered either way. For now if he continued his journey toward her hotel she would assuredly accompany him, and she had also volunteered to walk the other way.
Moreover, it would seem too surly and disgruntled to refuse so simple a courtesy to an old acquaintance.
So Polly and her former friend walked slowly along in the brilliant Colorado sunshine in air so clear that it seemed almost dazzling. Beyond they could see the tops of snow-covered mountains tinted azure by the sky. It would have been humanly impossible to have felt unfriendly toward any human being in such circumstances and on such a day.
Every now and then Polly would glance surreptitiously toward her companion's face.Gracious, he did look older! His hair was almost entirely gray and his expression certainly less kind. Polly wondered if he had really minded their broken engagement. Surely he had never cared seriously for so unreliable a person! She must have seemed only a foolish school girl to him, incapable of knowing her own mind. For of course if he had not felt in this way he would have made some effort to persuade her to change her decision. How often she used to lie awake wondering why he did not write or come to her? Well, he was probably grateful enough for his escape by this time.
Then without in the least knowing what she was going to say nor why she said it, Polly inquired suddenly:
"Richard, do you think Margaret Adams is happy in her marriage? I have so often wondered. Of course she writes me she is."
Several years before, Miss Adams had married one of the richest men in New York City and since then had retired permanently from the stage. Indeed, many persons considered that Polly had succeeded to her fame and position.
Richard Hunt shook his head. "Really, I don't know any more than you do, Miss Polly," he returned. "But she has a fine son and certainly looks to me to be happy."
Polly smiled. At least she had succeeded in persuading her companion to call her "Miss Polly." That was a step in the right direction, for in spite of her own boldness in using his first name as she had done years before, up to this moment she had been addressed as Miss O'Neill.
But there were so many things to say that she quite forgot in what way she should say them and talked on every minute of the time.
She had been so lonely, so depressed until now, that life had seemed to have lost almost all its former interest.
When she was plainly too tired to go further Richard Hunt sat down with her on a wayside bench for ten minutes. Then he resolutely rose and said good-bye.
"I am ever so glad to find that you are so much better," he concluded finally. "I see there is no cause for anxiety." Yet even as he spoke the man wondered how any human being could manage to be asdelicate looking as Polly O'Neill and yet do all the things she was able to accomplish? Just now, of course, she did look rather worse than usual for her run; and then the walk afterwards had used up her strength. Besides, she had been trying so hard to persuade her old friend again to cherish a little liking for her and at this moment was convinced of her failure.
She shook her head. "Thank you," she answered quietly. "It has done me good to have seen some one of whom I am fond. It hasn't been altogether cheerful being out here ill and alone. It was kind of you to have cared enough to inquire about me. I suppose you will soon be going back to work. Good luck and farewell."
Polly reached out her slender hand, which was white and small with blue veins upon it. In her haste on leaving her apartment she had, of course, forgotten gloves.
However, instead of shaking her hand quietly, as both of them expected, Richard Hunt raised her fingers to his lips.
"I am not going away from Colorado immediately.May I come and see you soon again?" he inquired. A few minutes before he had not the slightest intention of ever deliberately trying to see Polly O'Neill alone as long as they lived. But she did look so forlorn and as lonely as a forsaken little girl. No one could ever have guessed that this was the celebrated Miss O'Neill whose acting had charmed many thousands of people during the last eight or ten years.
Polly bit her lips. "Then you will come? I was afraid to ask you," she replied. "I want so much to tell you about a queer little girl whom I have come across out in these wilds. Her name is Bobbin and she seems to be deaf and dumb. I feel that I ought to do something for her and don't know exactly what to do. Perhaps I'll adopt her, although I'm afraid the family and Betty Graham won't approve. But anyhow, Sylvia, the well-known Doctor Sylvia Wharton, who is a children's specialist, may be able to do something for her."
Naturally this idea of adopting Bobbin had not dawned upon Polly until the instant of announcing it. But the more she thought of taking the girl to Sylvia's carethe more the idea appealed to her. Besides, Bobbin perhaps might awaken Mr. Hunt's interest if he could see the child and hear her tragic story. The little girl might be made attractive with her queer eyes and sunburned hair, if she were cleaner and more civilized.
"You will come some day and help me decide what to do, won't you?" Polly urged. "One's chief difficulty is not alone that Bobbin won't be adopted, she won't even let herself be discovered. She is such a queer, wild little thing."
Then she watched her companion until he was entirely out of sight and afterwards got up and strolled slowly home.