The entire number of guests who had been together at Esther’s and Dick Ashton’s Christmas-eve dinner, agreed to be at church the following morning in order to hear Esther sing.
In spite of the fact that Boston is one of the most musical of American cities and Esther the most modest of persons, even in so short a time her beautiful voice had given her an enviable reputation. The papers in giving notice of the morning service had mentioned the fact that the solo would be given by Mrs. Richard Ashton. But church music must have been Esther’s real vocation, for no matter how large the congregation nor how difficult her song she never felt any of her old nervousness and embarrassment. For one thing she was partly hidden behind the choir screen, so she need not fear that critical eyes were upon her; she could be alone with her music and something that was stronger and higher than herself.
On Christmas morning Betty entered their pew with her brother Dick, Mollie O’Neill and Billy Webster. She was wearing a dark green broadcloth with a small black velvet toque on her red-brown hair and a new set of black fox furs that her brother and sister had given her that morning for a Christmas present. She was pale and a little tired from yesterday’s festivities, so that a single red rose which had come to her from some unknown source that morning, was the only really bright color about her except for the lights in her hair. Mollie was flushed and smiling with the interest in the new place and people and the companionship of tried friends.
Betty thought that Margaret Adams also seemed weary when she came in with Mr. Hunt a few moments later. She was glad that the great lady happened to be placed next her so that she might feel the thrill of her nearness. For genius is thrilling, no matter how simple and unpretentious the man or woman who possesses it. Margaret Adams wore a wonderful long Russian sable coat and a small velvet hat and, just as naturally as if she had been another girl, slipped her hand into Betty’s and held it during the service.
So that in spite of her best efforts Betty could not keep her attention from wandering now and then. She knew that Margaret Adams was almost equally as devoted to Polly O’Neill as she herself and wondered what she thought of their friend’s conduct. She wished that they might have the opportunity to talk the matter over before Miss Adams finished her stay in Boston. Then, though realizing her own bad manners, Betty could not help being a little curious over the friendship between Miss Adams and Mr. Hunt. They seemed to have known each other such a long, long time and to have acted together so many times. Of course Margaret Adams was several years older, but that scarcely mattered with so unusual a person.
Moreover, there were other influences at work to keep Betty Ashton’s mind from being as firmly fixed upon the subject of the morning’s sermon as it should have been. For was she not conscious of the presence of Meg and John Everett and Anthony Graham in the pew just back of her? And though it did seem vain and self-conscious of her, she had the sensation that at least two pairs of eyes were frequently concentrated upon the back of her head or upon her profile should she chance to turn her face half way around.
When the offertory was finally announced and Esther began the first lines of her solo, not only was her sister Betty’s attention caught and held, but that of almost every other human being in the church. It was not a beautiful Christmas day, outside there were scurrying gray clouds and a kind of bleak coldness. But the church was warmly and beautifully lighted, the altar white with lilies and crimson with roses, speaking of passion and peace. And Esther’s voice had in it something of almost celestial sweetness. She was no longer a girl but a woman, for Dick’s love and a promise of a fulfilment equally beautiful had added to her natural gift a deeper emotional power. And she sang one of the simplest and at the same time one of the most beautiful of Christmas hymns.
Betty was perfectly willing to allow all the unhappiness and disappointments of the past few months to relieve themselves in the tears that came unchecked. Then she saw Margaret Adams bite her lips and close her eyes as if she too were shutting out the world of ordinary vision to live only in beautiful sound and a higher communion.
“Hark! the herald angels sing
Glory to the new-born King;
Peace on earth, and mercy mild,
God and sinners reconciled!
Joyful, all ye nations, rise,
Join the triumph of the skies;
With the angelic host proclaim,
Christ is born in Bethlehem.
Hark! the herald angels sing
Glory to the new-born King.
“Christ, by highest heaven adored;
Christ, the everlasting Lord;
Late in time behold Him come,
Offspring of a virgin’s womb.
Veil’d in flesh the Godhead see,
Hail, th’ Incarnate Deity!
Pleased as man with man to dwell,
Jesus, our Emmanuel!
Hark! the herald angels sing
Glory to the new-born King.
“Hail, the heaven-born Prince of Peace!
Hail, the Sun of righteousness!
Light and life to all He brings,
Risen with healing in His wings.
Mild He lays His glory by,
Born that man no more may die;
Born to raise the sons of earth,
Born to give them second birth.
Hark! the herald angels sing
Glory to the new-born King.”
At the close of the service, turning to leave the church, Betty Ashton felt a hand laid on her arm, and glancing up in surprise found Anthony Graham’s eyes gazing steadfastly into hers.
“We are friends, are we not, Betty? You would not let any misunderstanding or any change in your life alter that?” he asked hurriedly.
For just an instant the girl hesitated, then answered simply and gracefully:
“I don’t think any one could be unfaithful to an old friendship on Christmas morning after hearing Esther sing. It was not in the least necessary, Anthony, for you to ask me such a question. You know I shall always wish you the best possible things.”
Then, without allowing the young man to reply or to accompany her down the aisle, she hurried away to her other friends, and, slipping her arm firmly inside Mollie O’Neill’s, she never let go her clasp until they were safely out of church.
“It is no use, Meg, nothing matters,” Anthony Graham said a quarter of an hour later, when he and Margaret Everett were on their way home together, John having deserted them to join the other party. “The fact is, Betty does not care in the least one way or the other what I say or do.”
“Then I wish you would let me tell her the truth,” Meg urged. “You see, Anthony, the Princess and I have always been such intimate friends and I have always admired her more than any of the other girls. I don’t wish her to misunderstand us. She may not be so brilliant as Polly, nor so clever as Sylvia or your sister Nan, but somehow Betty is—well, I suppose she is what a real Princess ought to be. That is what Polly always declared. It is not just because she is pretty and generous, but she is so high-minded. Nothing would make her even appear to take advantage of a friend.” And Meg sighed, her usually happy face clouding.
In silence, then, the girl and young man walked on for a few moments when Anthony replied: “You must do as you like, of course, Meg. I have no right to ask you anything else. But this understanding between us means everything in the world to me and it was your own offer in the beginning.”
Meg nodded. “Yes, I know; but truly I don’t think as much of my idea as I did at first. Still I am willing to keep quiet for a while longer if you wish it.”
At this moment there was no further opportunity for intimate conversation, for Meg’s Harvard friend, Ralph Brown, made his appearance with a five-pound box of candy, elaborately tied with red ribbon, under his arm, and an expression on his face that suggested politely but firmly that Anthony Graham retire for the present, leaving the field to him.
Of their friends in Boston only Margaret Adams and Richard Hunt had been invited by Esther and Dr. Ashton to have an informal Christmas dinner with them. For the dinner party the evening before had been such a domestic strain upon the little household that they wished to spend the following day quietly. But it was impossible to think of Margaret Adams dining alone in a great hotel, and she would certainly accept no invitation from her wealthier and more fashionable acquaintances in Boston. Moreover, Betty hoped that in the afternoon there might be a chance to talk of Polly. At the beginning no one had dreamed of including Richard Hunt in the invitation, as he was a comparative stranger; but Dick, having taken a sudden fancy to him, had calmly suggested his returning for Christmas day without due consultation with his family.
Five minutes after starting for home with Dick and Esther, Mollie, Betty and Miss Adams, Mr. Hunt, with a murmured excuse which no one understood, asked to be excused from going further. He would join the party later if possible, but should he chance to be delayed dinner must on no account be kept waiting for him.
His conduct did seem rather extraordinary, and although Dick and Esther betrayed no surprise, it was plain enough that Margaret Adams felt annoyed. She had introduced Mr. Hunt to her friends and so naturally felt responsible for his conduct.
Though the man was aware of his apparent eccentricity and though his manners were usually nearly perfect, he now deliberately turned away from the little company. And in spite of his half-hearted suggestion of re-joining them he had little idea at present of when he would return. Deliberately he retraced his steps to the church which he had quitted only a few moments before.
Already the place was nearly deserted. On the sidewalk the clergyman was saying farewell to a few final members of his congregation, while inside the sexton was closing the doors of the two side aisles, although the large door in the center still remained open. Hurriedly Mr. Hunt entered. And there, just as he had hoped to find her, was the figure of a girl sitting in a rather dejected attitude in one of the last pews. She had on a dark dress and a heavy long coat and about her head a thick veil was tied.
Before he could reach her she had risen and was starting away.
“Wait here for a moment, Miss O’Neill; we can find no other spot so quiet in which to have a talk,” the man said sternly.
Then as Polly flashed an indignant glance at him, attempting to pass as though she had neither seen nor recognized him, he added:
“I know I have no right to intrude upon you, but unless you are willing to give me some explanation of why you are here and what you are doing, I shall tell the friends who are nearer to you than I am of my having seen you not only this morning, but last night as well.”
“Oh, please don’t!” Polly’s voice was trembling. “Really, truly, I am not doing anything wrong in staying here in Boston and not letting people hear. My mother knows where I am and what I am doing and of course I am not alone. Yes, it was utterly silly and reckless of me to have peeped in at Esther’s dining-room window last night, but I was so dreadfully lonely and wanted to see everybody so much. How could I have dreamed that that wretched curtain would go banging away up in the air as it did? But anyhow, Mr. Hunt, I shall always be everlastingly grateful to you for not telling on me last night. I did not suppose you saw me and certainly never imagined you could have recognized me when I crouched down in the shadow.”
Unexpectedly Polly O’Neill laughed. “What a perfect idiot I should have looked if you had dragged me in before the dinner party like a spy or a thief or a beggar! I can just imagine Esther’s and Mollie’s expressions.”
“Yes, but all this is not quite to the point, Miss Polly,” Richard Hunt continued, speaking however in a more friendly tone. “Am I to tell Margaret Adams and Betty Ashton that I have discovered you, or will you take me into your secret and let me decide what is best to be done afterwards?”
“But you have not the right to do either the one thing nor the other,” the girl argued, lifting her veil for an instant in order to see if there was any sign of relenting in the face of her older friend.
There was not the slightest. And Polly recognized that for once in her life she was beaten.
“Don’t say anything today then, please,” she urged, looking into her pocketbook and finding there a card with a name and address written upon it. “But come to see me tomorrow if you like. And don’t think that I am ungrateful or—or horrid,” she ended abruptly, rushing away so swiftly that it would have been impossible for any one to have followed her without creating attention.
Rather grimly Richard Hunt gazed at the card he held in his hand. It bore a name that was not Polly O’Neill’s and the address of a quiet street in Boston. What on the face of the earth could she be doing? It was impossible to guess, and yet it was certainly nothing very unwise if her mother knew and approved of it.
Whether or not he had the right to find out, Richard Hunt had positively decided to take advantage of his recognition of Polly O’Neill and insist upon her confidence. He could not have explained even to himself why he was so determined on this course of action. However, it was true, as her friend Betty Ashton had insisted the night before, whether or not you happened to feel a liking for Polly, you were not apt to forget her.
In the past few months it was curious how often he had found himself wondering what had become of the girl. He recalled her having run away several years before to make her first stage appearance and then their meeting in Margaret Adams’ drawing room in London later on. Well, perhaps curiosity was not alone a feminine trait of character, for Richard Hunt felt convinced he would be more at peace with himself and the world when he had learned Polly’s story from her own lips.
The next afternoon a dark-haired woman a little past thirty came into the boarding house sitting room to see Richard Hunt before Polly made her appearance.
“I am Mrs. Martins, Miss O’Neill’s chaperon,” she explained. “Or if I am not exactly her chaperon at least we are together and I am trying to see that no harm befalls her. No, she is not calling herself by her own name, but she will prefer to give you her own reason for that. I have met her mother several times, so that of course I understand the situation.” Mrs. Martins was a woman of refinement and of some education and her pronunciation of her own name showed her to be of French origin.
Already the situation was slightly less mystifying. Yet there was still a great deal for Polly to make clear if she chose to do so. However, it was curious that she was taking so long a time to join them.
Mrs. Martins continued to talk about nothing in particular, so it was evident that she intended making no betrayals. Now and then she even glanced toward the door in some embarrassment, as though puzzled and annoyed by her companion’s delay. And while Richard Hunt was answering her politely if vaguely, actually he was on the point of deciding that Polly did not intend coming down stairs at all. Well perhaps it would serve him right, for what authority did he have for forcing the girl’s confession? And she was certainly quite capable of punishing him by placing him in an absurd situation.
Nevertheless nothing was farther from Polly O’Neill’s intention at the present moment. She was merely standing before her mirror in her tiny upstairs bedroom trying to summon sufficient courage to meet her guest and tell her story.
Once or twice she had started for the door only to return and stare at herself with intense disapproval. She had rubbed her cheeks with a crash towel until at least they were crimson enough, although the color was not very satisfying, and she had arranged her hair three times, only to decide at the last that she had best have left it alone at first.
Now she made a little grimace at her own image, smiling at almost the same instant.
“My beloved Princess or Mollie, I do wish you could lend me your good looks for the next half hour,” she murmured half aloud. “It is so much easier to be eloquent and convincing in this world when one happens to be pretty. But I, well certainly I would serve as a perfect illustration of ‘a rag and a bone and a hank of hair’ at this moment if at no other.”
Polly glanced down at her costume with more satisfaction than she had found in surveying her face. It was not in the least shabby, but a very charming dress which her mother had sent as a part of her Christmas box. The dress was of dark red crepe de Chine with a velvet girdle and collar of the same shade. And although under ordinary circumstances it might have been becoming, today Polly was not wrong in believing that she was not looking even her poor best. She was tired and nervous. Of course it did not matter so very much what Mr. Hunt might think of the story she had to tell him, but later on there would be many other persons whom she would have to persuade to accept her point of view. And somehow she felt that if she failed to convince her first listener she must fail with the others.
Then unexpectedly, before hearing the sound of her approach, Richard Hunt discovered a cold hand being extended to shake his, and in a voice even more chilling Polly O’Neill was apologizing for having kept him waiting. Yet on the way down the steps had she not positively made up her mind to be so cordial and agreeable that her visitor should forget her other deficiencies?
With a feeling of amazement mixed with despair Polly seated herself in the darkest corner of a small sofa next Mrs. Martins, deciding that it was quite useless, that she should attempt no explanation. Mr. Hunt and her companion could talk together about the weather if they chose, for she could not think of a single word to say. Afterwards her visitor could go away and give any account of her he wished, although naturally this might frustrate all her hopes and ambitions and make her dearest friends angry with her for life. Yet if one were always to suffer from stage fright at all the critical moments of one’s career what else could be expected?
At this moment Mrs. Martins excused herself and left the room. Polly saw her go with a characteristic shrug of her shoulders and an odd glance at her visitor. The moment had come. Mr. Hunt would discover that she had not even the grace to keep her promise, and heaven alone knew what he would soon think of her.
Yet after saying good-by to her companion he continued talking in the kindest possible fashion, telling her news of Esther and Dick Ashton, saying how much he admired Betty and Mollie.
Indeed in less than five minutes Polly had actually managed to forget the reason for her visitor’s call and was asking him questions about her old friends, faster than they could be answered.
“Was their play, A Woman’s Wit, still as great a success as it had been at the start? Was Margaret Adams well or had the winter’s work used her up? Did Betty Ashton seem to have any special admirer in Boston?”
Actually in a brief quarter of an hour Polly’s eyes were shining and her lips smiling. Curled up comfortably on her sofa she suddenly appreciated that she was having the most agreeable time she had enjoyed in months. Then again her expression changed and her brief radiance vanished. Yet this time her companion understood.
“Miss Polly,” he said quickly, “please don’t feel that after what happened yesterday I still mean to force you to make a confidant of me. The truth is I did want very much to hear that all was well with you and that you were not making any kind of mistake. I am not going to be a coward, so I confess that I came here today expecting to force your secret from you simply because I had an advantage over you. But, of course, now that we have been talking together I can see that you are all right, even if you do look rather tired and none too cheerful. So I want to apologize and then I shall go away and not worry you again. Also you may feel entirely assured that I shall not mention having seen you to any one.”
The man had risen from his chair, but before he could move a step forward, Polly had clasped her hands together and was gazing at him imploringly.
“Oh, please, Mr. Hunt, don’t go,” she begged. “All of a sudden I have begun to feel that if I don’t tell some one my secret and ask you to approve of me or at least to try to forgive me for what I am doing I shall perish.” Actually Polly would now have pushed her visitor back into his chair if he had not sat down again so promptly as to make it unnecessary.
“You are sure you wish to confide in me, Miss Polly? Of course you understand that I will tell no one. But if your mother knows and approves of you, why surely no other person is necessary,” he argued.
In reply the girl laughed. “Mother is an angel and for that reason perhaps she does not always approve or understand me exactly. In this case she is just permitting me to have my own way because she promised to let me try and do what I could to become a successful actress and she never goes back on her word. Of course my method seems queer to her and probably will to you. But after all it is the way I see things and one can’t look out of any one’s eyes but one’s own. Surely you believe that, Mr. Hunt?”
Of course any one who really understood Polly O’Neill, Betty Ashton for instance, would have understood at once that she was now beginning to explain her own wilfulness. Yet her question did sound convincing, for assuredly one can have no other vision than one’s own.
Richard Hunt nodded sympathetically, although Polly was looking so absurdly young and so desperately in earnest that he would have preferred to smile.
She was leaning forward with her chin resting on her hand and gazing intently at him. What she saw was a man who seemed almost middle-aged to her. And yet to the girl he seemed almost ideally handsome. His features were strong and well-cut, the nose aquiline, the mouth large and firm. And he was wearing the kindest possible expression. For half an instant Polly’s thoughts flew away from herself. Surely if any one in the world could be worthy of Margaret Adams it was Richard Hunt. Then she settled down to the telling of her own story.
“You know of course, Mr. Hunt, without my having to say anything more about it, that ever since I was a little girl I have dreamed and hoped and prayed of some day becoming a great actress. Mother says that there was some one in my family once, one of my Irish aunts, I believe, who ran away from home in order to go on the stage and was never recognized again. I have thought sometimes that perhaps I inherited her ambition. One never knows about things like that, life is so queer. Anyhow when a dozen girls in Woodford formed a Camp Fire and we lived together in the woods for over a year working and playing, mother and Betty and my sister expected me to get over my foolish ideas and learn something through our club that might make me adopt a more sensible career. I don’t mean to be rude to you, Mr. Hunt,” Polly was profoundly serious, there was now no hint of amusement in her dark blue eyes or in her mobile face, “you understand I am only telling you what my family and friends thought about people who were actors—not what I think. I don’t see why acting isn’t just as great and useful as the other arts if one is conscientious and has real talent. But the trouble with me has been all along that I haven’t any real talent. I suppose if I had been a genius from the first no one would have cared to oppose me. Well the Camp Fire did not influence me against what I wanted to do; it only made me feel more in earnest than I had ever been before. For we girls learned such a lot about courage and perseverance and being happy even if things were not going just the way one liked, that it has all been a great help to me recently, more than at any time in my life.”
Richard Hunt nodded gravely. “I see,” he said quietly, although in point of fact he did not yet understand in the least what Polly was trying to explain, nor why she should review so much of her past life before coming to her point. He was curiously interested, although ordinarily he might have been bored by such a disjointed story.
Polly was too intense at the moment to have bored anyone. There she sat in her red dress against the darker background of the sofa with her figure almost in shadow and the light falling only upon her odd, eager face.
“I ran away from Miss Adams and from you, not because I was such a coward that I meant to give up the thing I was trying for, but because I knew that I must have a harder time if I was ever to amount to anything. You see people were trying to make things so easy for me and in a way they were making them more difficult. Margaret gave me that place in her company when I did not deserve it; you tried to show me how to act when I could not learn; my friends were complimenting me when all the time they must have known I was a failure. I couldn’t bear it, Mr. Hunt; really I could not. I am lots of horrid things, but I am not a fraud. Then Margaret told me what a difficult time she had at the beginning of her career and how no one had helped her. Of course she meant to make me feel that I might be more successful because of my friends’ aid, but I did not see things just that way. Oh, I do hope you had to work dreadfully hard at the beginning of your profession and had lots of failures,” Polly concluded so unexpectedly and so solemnly that this time Richard Hunt could not refrain from laughing.
“Oh no, it wasn’t all plain sailing for me either, Miss Polly, and it isn’t now for that matter, if it is of any help to you to know it,” he added, realizing that his companion was absolutely unconscious of having said anything amusing.
“Before I gave up trying to act Belinda I got a small position in a cheap stock company.” Polly had at last reached the point of her story. “The company has been traveling through New England all winter and is still on the road. We only happened to be in Boston during the holidays. I have been playing almost any kind of part, sometimes I am a maid, sometimes a lady-in-waiting to the queen; once or twice, when the star has been ill, I have had to take the character of the heroine. Of course all this must sound very silly and commonplace to you, Mr. Hunt, but honestly I am learning a few things: not to be so self-conscious for one thing and to work very, very hard.”
“Too hard, Miss Polly, I am afraid,” Richard Hunt replied, looking closely at his companion and feeling oddly moved by her confession. Perhaps the girl’s effort would amount to nothing and perhaps she was unwise in having made it, nevertheless one could not but feel sorry that her friends had suspected her of ingratitude and lack of affection and that she was engaged in some kind of foolish escapade. Richard Hunt felt extremely guilty himself at the moment.
“Oh no, I am not working too hard or at least not too hard for my health,” Polly argued. “You see both my mother and Sylvia are looking after me. Sylvia made me promise her once, when I did not understand what she meant, that I would let her know what I was doing all this winter. So I have kept my promise and every once and a while good old Sylvia travels to where I happen to be staying and looks me over and gives me pills and things.” Polly smiled. “You don’t know who Sylvia is and it is rather absurd of me to talk to you so intimately about my family. Sylvia is my step-sister, but she used to be merely my friend when we were girls. She is younger than I am but a thousand times cleverer and is studying to be a physician. She has not much respect for my judgment but she is rather fond of me.”
“And your chaperon?” Perhaps Mr. Hunt realized that he was asking a good many questions when he and Polly O’Neill were still comparative strangers; yet he was too much concerned for her welfare at present to care.
Polly did not seem to be either surprised or offended by his questioning, but pleased to have some one in whom she might confide.
“Oh, just at first mother sent one of her old friends about everywhere with me. But when she got tired we found this Mrs. Martins who was having a hard time in New York and needed something to do. She is really awfully nice and is teaching me French in our spare moments. She used to be a dressmaker, I believe, but could not get enough work to do.” Suddenly Polly straightened up and put out her hand this time in an exceedingly friendly fashion.
“Goodness, Mr. Hunt, what a dreadfully long time I have been keeping you here and how good you have been to listen to me so patiently!” she exclaimed. “You will keep my secret for me, won’t you? This winter I don’t want my friends to know what I am trying to do or to come to see me act. I have not improved enough so far.”
Still holding Polly’s hand in a friendly clasp, her visitor rose.
“But you will let me come, won’t you?” he urged. “You see I am in your secret now and so I am different from other people. Besides I am very grateful to you for your faith in me and I don’t like to remember now that I first tried bullying you into confiding in me.”
Polly’s answering sigh was one of relief. “I don’t seem to mind even that, although I was angry and frightened at first,” she returned. “I don’t usually enjoy doing what people make me do. But if you think you really would like to come to see me play, perhaps I should be rather glad. Only you must promise not to let me know when you are there, nor what you think of my acting afterwards.”
“I wonder, Angel, if you had ever heard of my friend, Polly O’Neill, before I mentioned her name to you?” Betty Ashton asked after a few moments of silence between the two girls, when evidently Betty had been puzzling over this same question.
Angel shook her head. “Never,” she returned quietly.
Five months had passed since their first meeting and now the scene about them was a very different one from the four bare walls of a hospital, and the little French girl was almost as completely changed.
It was early spring in the New Hampshire hills and the child and young woman were seated outside a cabin of logs with their eyes resting sometimes on a small lake before them, again on a dark group of pine trees, but more often on a sun-tipped hill ahead where the meadows seemed to lie down in green homage at her feet.
Everywhere there were signs of the earth’s eternal re-birth and re-building. The grain showed only a tiny hint of its autumn harvest of gold, but the grass, the flowers, the new leaves on the bushes and trees were at their gayest and loveliest. Notwithstanding there was a breeze cool enough to make warm clothes a necessity, and Betty wore a long dark blue cloth cloak, while her companion, who was lying at full length in a steamer chair, was covered with a heavy rug. Yet the girl’s delicate white hands were busily engaged in weaving long strands of bright-colored straws together.
“Why did you think I had ever heard of your friend, Princess?” she queried after a short pause.
Keeping her finger in a volume of Tennyson’s poems which she had been supposed to be reading, the older girl gazed thoughtfully and yet almost unseeingly into the dark eyes of her companion. “I don’t know exactly,” she replied thoughtfully, “only for some strange reason since our earliest acquaintance you have always made me think of Polly. You don’t look like her, of course, though there is just a suggestion in your expression now and then. Perhaps because you were so interested in her when I began telling of our Sunrise Hill Camp Fire girls. I don’t believe you would ever have been able to endure me you know, Angel dear, if you had not liked hearing me talk of Polly; then think of what good times we should both have missed!”
Across the little French girl’s face a warm flush spread.
“It is like you to say ‘we’ should have missed,” she replied softly. “But I never hated you, you were always mistaken in believing that. From the morning you first came to the hospital and ever afterwards I thought you the prettiest person I had ever seen in my life and one of the sweetest. It was only that in those early days I was too miserable to speak to any one. Always I was afraid I should break down if I tried to talk, so when the other girls attempted being nice to me I pretended I was sullen and hateful when in reality I was a coward. It was just the same when you started the ‘Shut-In Camp Fire’ among the girls. I would not join, I would not take the slightest interest in the beginning for much the same reason. But you were always so patient and agreeable to me and so was Miss Mollie. Then there was always Cricket!” Smiling, she paused for a moment listening.
Inside Sunrise cabin both girls could hear the noise of several persons moving about as though deeply engaged in some important business.
“I suppose I ought to go in and help,” Betty remarked in a slightly conscience-smitten tone, “but Mollie does so enjoy fussing about getting things ready. And in spite of all my efforts and stern Camp Fire training I shall never be so good a cook as she is. Besides, both Mollie and Cricket informed me politely, after I finished cleaning our rooms and had set the luncheon table, that I was somewhat in the way. I suppose I had best go in, though. Is there anything I can do for you first, Angel? Cricket is beating that cake batter so hard it sounds like a drum.”
Betty had half risen from her chair when the expression in her companion’s face made her sit down again. “What is it?” she asked.
For a moment the other girl’s fingers ceased their busy weaving. “You have never asked me anything about myself, Princess, in spite of all the wonderful things you have done for me,” she began. “I don’t want to bore you, but I should like——”
With a low laugh Betty suddenly hunched her chair forward until it was close up against the larger one.
“And I, I am perfectly dying to hear, you must know, you dear little goose, to talk about boring me! Don’t you know I am one of the most curious members of my curious sex? I have not asked you questions because I did not feel I had the right unless you wished to tell. But possibly I asked that question about Polly O’Neill just to give you a chance. Really I don’t know.”
In spite of this small confession, not for worlds would Betty Ashton have allowed the sensitive little French girl to have learned another reason for her questioning. It was odd and certainly unreasonable, yet in all her recent kindness and care of Angelique she had continued to feel that in some mysterious fashion her friend, Polly O’Neill, was encouraging and aiding her. There was some one at work, assuredly, though she had no shadow of right in believing it to be Polly. For though she had confided in no one, the first anonymous letter in regard to the ill girl had not been the last one. In truth there must have been half a dozen in all, postmarked at different places and all of them unsigned and yet showing a remarkably intimate knowledge of the growing friendship between the two girls.
The first step had been natural and simple enough. For with her usual enthusiasm after her visit to the hospital Betty had immediately set about forming a Camp Fire. She had sent for all the literature she could find on the subject, the club manual and songs. Then she and Mollie, during her visit, and sometimes Meg, had taught the new club members as much as possible of what they had themselves learned during the old days at Sunrise Hill.
For the first few meetings of the club in the great, sunny hospital room there was one solitary girl who would not show the least interest in the new and delightful proceedings. Indeed she kept on with her stupid gazing up toward the ceiling as if she were both deaf and blind.
However, one day when she believed no one looking and while the other girls were talking of their future aims and ambitions and of the ways in which their new club might help them, unexpectedly Betty Ashton had caught sight of Angelique, with her dark eyes fixed almost despairingly upon her.
The other girls were all busy, some of them sewing on their new ceremonial Camp Fire costumes of khaki, others making bead bands or working at basket weaving. In the meanwhile they were talking of Camp Fire honors to be won in the future and of the new names which they might hope to attain.
Therefore, almost unnoticed by any one else, Betty was able to cross over to the side of the French girl’s bed.
“I was wondering if I could not also do some of that pretty work with my hands,” the girl began at once, speaking as composedly as if she had been talking to Betty every day since their first meeting, although this was only the second time that she had ever voluntarily addressed a word to her.
Without commenting or appearing surprised, Betty brought over to her bedside a quantity of bright straw and straightaway commenced showing the girl the first principles of the art of basket-weaving which she had learned in the Sunrise Camp Fire. Very little instruction was necessary; for, before the first lesson was over, the pupil had learned almost as much as her teacher. Indeed the French girl’s skill with her hands was an amazement to everybody. With her third effort and without assistance, Angel manufactured so charming a basket that Betty bore it home in triumph to show to her brother and sister. Then quite by accident the basket was left in Esther’s sitting room, where a visitor, seeing it and hearing the story of its weaving, asked permission to purchase it.
After some discussion, and fearful of how the girl might receive the offer, Betty finally summoned courage to tell Angelique. Thus unexpectedly Betty came upon one of the secrets of her new friend’s nature. Angel had an inordinate, a passionate desire for making money. She was older than any one had imagined her, between fourteen and fifteen. Now her hands were no longer clenched on her coverlid nor did her eyes turn resolutely to gaze at nothingness. Propped up on her pillows, her white fingers were ever busy at dozens of tasks. Betty had found a place in Boston where her baskets were sold almost as fast as she could make them. Then Angelique knew quite amazing things about sewing, so that Esther sent her several tiny white frocks to be delicately embroidered, and always the other girls at the hospital were asking her aid and advice.
Quite astonishing the doctors considered the girl’s rapid improvement. Perhaps no one had told them the secret, for she now had an interest in life and a chance not to be always useless. Was it curious that she no longer disliked Betty Ashton and that she soon became the leading spirit in the new Camp Fire?
Afterwards the Wohelo candles were placed on a small table near Angel’s bed while the girls formed their group about her.
Then one day in early April the Princess had whispered something in Angel’s ear. It was only a hope or at best a plan, yet, after all, Betty Ashton was a kind of fairy godmother to whom all impossible things were possible.
For Sunrise cabin was undoubtedly open once again with four girls as its occupants—Betty Ashton and Mollie O’Neill, Cricket and “The Angel.”
“I am afraid you won’t find my story as interesting as you would like it to be,” Angel said after a moment. “And perhaps it may prejudice you against me. I don’t believe Americans think of these things as French people do. But my father was a ballet master and ever since I was the tiniest little girl I had been taught to dance and dance, almost to do nothing else. You see I was to be a première danseuse some day,” Angel continued quite simply and calmly, scarcely noticing that Betty’s face had paled through sympathy and that she was biting her lips and resolutely turning away her eyes from the fragile figure stretched out in the long steamer chair.
“I was born in Paris, but when I was only a few years old my father came to New York and was one of the assistant ballet masters at your great opera house. Ten years later, I think it must have been, I was trying a very difficult dance and in some way I had a fall. I did not know it was very bad, we paid no attention to it, then this came.” The little French girl shrugged her shoulders. “My father died soon after and mother tried taking care of us both. She did sewing at the theaters and anything else she could. She wasn’t very successful. One day a chance came for me to have special treatment in Boston. I was sent there and mother got some other work to do. I have only seen her once in months and months. But you can understand now why I am so anxious to make money. I was afraid perhaps you would not. I don’t want to be a burden on mother always and now I think perhaps I need not be.”
Angel spoke with entire cheerfulness and decision. It did not seem even to have occurred to her that she had been telling her friend an amazingly tragic little history. Nor did Betty Ashton wish her to realize how deeply affected she was by it. So, jumping up with rather an affectation of hurry and surprise, she kissed her companion lightly on the cheek.
“Thank you a thousand times for confiding in me, dear, and please don’t be hopeless about never getting well. See how much you have improved! But there comes the first of our guests to lunch, a whole half hour too soon. But as long as Billy Webster promised to bring us the mail from Woodford I suppose I must forgive him. Anyhow I must try to keep him from worrying Mollie. She would be dreadfully bored to have him see her before she is dressed.” Betty walked away for a few steps and then came back again.
“You will never understand perhaps, Angel, how much my learning to know you this winter has done for me. I was dreadfully unhappy over something myself, and perhaps I am still, but coming to visit you in Boston and then our being together down here has cheered me immensely. I know you are a great deal younger than I am, but if Polly O’Neill never writes me again or wishes to have anything more to do with me, perhaps some day you may be willing to be my very, very intimate friend. You see I have not had even a single line from Polly in months and months and I can’t even guess what on earth has become of her.”
Though Billy Webster had brought with him from the village half a dozen letters and as many papers, no one of the dwellers in Sunrise cabin was able to read anything for three or four hours after his arrival.
For Betty and Mollie were having an informal luncheon. But indeed, ever since taking up their abode at the cabin several weeks before, they had never passed a single day without guests. For it was too much like old times for their Woodford friends to find the door of the little house once more hospitably open, with a log fire burning in the big fire place in the living room and the movement and laughter of girls inside the old cabin and out.
At present there were only the four of them living there together with the Ashton’s old Irish cook, Ann, as their guardian, chaperon and first aid in domestic difficulties. Later on, there would be other members of the Sunrise Hill club, who were already looking forward to spending their holidays at the cabin.
As a matter of course, Billy Webster was at present their most frequent visitor, although his calls were ordinarily short. Almost every morning he used to ride up to the cabin on horseback to see if things had gone well with his friends during the night, or to ask if there were any errands in the village which he could do or have done for them. For you may remember that the land on which the cabin stood had been bought from Billy’s father and was not far from their farm. Billy now seemed to be the only one of their former boy friends who was able to come often to the old cabin.
John Everett was at work in the broker’s office in New York City, Frank Wharton had only just returned from his honeymoon journey with Eleanor Meade, and Anthony Graham was attending a session of the New Hampshire Legislature and probably spending his week ends in visits to Meg Everett. There were other men friends, assuredly, who appeared at the cabin now and then, but they had fewer associations with the past.
Betty was looking forward to John Everett’s coming a little later; but she had begged him to wait until they were more comfortably settled and the two younger girls had grown accustomed to their new surroundings.
Today Rose Barton and Faith had driven out to the cabin for luncheon and Mrs. Crippen, Betty’s step-mother with the new small step-brother, who was an adorable red-haired baby with the pinkest of cheeks and the bluest eyes in the world. Then, soon after lunch, Mr. and Mrs. Frank Wharton appeared in their up-to-date motor car, which had been Frank’s wedding gift from his father.
So it was a simple enough matter to understand why neither Betty nor Mollie had the opportunity even to glance inside the envelopes of their letters, though Mollie recognized that she had received one from her mother and Betty saw that Mrs. Wharton had also written to her. There was nothing unusual in this, for Betty and Mrs. Wharton had always remained intimate and devoted friends, just as they had been since Betty was a tiny girl and Mrs. Wharton, as Mrs. O’Neill, lived across the street from the big Ashton house.
Certainly for the time being the two hostesses had their attention fully distracted by their social responsibilities. For Mollie had direct charge of the luncheon party, while to Betty had fallen the duty of seeing that their friends learned to understand one another and to have a gay time.
It was a pleasure for her to observe what an interest Faith Barton had immediately seemed to feel in her little French girl. For one could only think of Angelique as a child, she was so tiny and fragile with all her delicate body hidden from view save her quaint, vivid face and slender arms.
Faith herself had been a curious child, and though now so nearly grown, was not in the least like an every-day person. She was extremely pretty, suggesting a fair young saint in an old Italian picture; and still she loved dreams better than realities and books more than people. Ordinarily she was very shy; yet here in Angelique, Faith believed that she had probably found the friend of her heart. The French girl seemed romance personified, and delicately and gently she set out to woo her. But Angel was not easy to win, she was still cold and frightened with all persons except her fairy princess. Nevertheless, Betty sincerely hoped that the two girls might eventually learn to care truly for each other.
They were so different in appearance that it was an artistic pleasure to see them together. Faith was so soft and fair; Angel so dark and with such possibilities of restrained vivacity and passion. Then the older girl knew so little of real life, while the younger one had already touched its sorrows too deeply.
After all, it was really Faith’s sudden attachment that kept the guests at the cabin longer than they had intended to remain.
At four o’clock, fearing the excitement too much for her protégé, Betty had persuaded the girl to retire to bed. Faith had at once insisted on having tea alone in the room with Angel so that they might have a chance for a really intimate conversation. It was Faith, however, who did all the talking, nor did she even have the satisfaction of knowing that her new acquaintance had enjoyed her. Certainly the French girl was going to be difficult; yet perhaps to a romantic nature mystery is the greatest attraction.
Actually it was almost six o’clock when the last visitor had finally departed from Sunrise cabin and Mollie and Betty had a few quiet moments together. It had been a beautiful day and now when the sun was sinking behind the hill, spreading its radiance over the world, the two friends stepped outside the cabin door for a short breathing spell.
Betty had completely forgotten her unopened letters; she was thinking of something entirely different, and her gray eyes were not free from a certain wistfulness as she looked around the familiar landscape. All day long, although she had done her best at concealment, she had felt vaguely restless and unhappy. There had been no definite reason, except, perhaps, the pathetic story confided to her earlier in the day.
Suddenly Mollie O’Neill turned toward her friend, at the same instant drawing two letters from her pocket.
“I declare, Betty dear, I have not had a single moment of leisure all day, not even time to read mother’s letter. Have you? I do hope she had nothing of special importance to say. I thought she might possibly come and see us for a while this afternoon.”
Seeing Mollie open Mrs. Wharton’s note and beginning to read it, Betty immediately followed her example. But the moment after both girls turned their eyes from studying the sheets of paper before them to stare curiously at each other.
“How very extraordinary and how very unlike mother!” exclaimed Mollie O’Neill in a puzzled fashion.
“Surely she must know that it is quite out of the question for us to do what she asks,” Betty went on, as if continuing her friend’s sentence. “She understands that we have just come to the cabin and that we have promised to take the best kind of care of Angel and Cricket with Dr. Barton’s assistance. Of course, Mollie, you may have to do what your mother says, but do please make her understand that it is impossible for me. I wish she was not so insistent, though, it makes it dreadfully difficult to refuse. Does your letter say that you must leave for New York City as early as possible tomorrow and join your mother at the Astor Hotel?”
Mollie nodded, still frowning. “If mother wished us to go to New York with her on business, or pleasure, or for whatever reason, I cannot see why she did not wait and let us all go together tomorrow. I simply can’t see why she should rush off this morning as her letter says and leave us to follow the next day. But I suppose if you can get some one to stay on here at the cabin with you, dear, that I must do as mother asks. You see, she writes that it is a matter of great importance that has called her away and that she is relying on my being with her.”
Reading her own letter for the second time, Betty folded it thoughtfully and replaced it inside the envelope. “Of course you must go, Mollie, without a shadow of a doubt,” she answered positively. “Rose and Faith will come out here and stay for a few days and Dr. Barton will be with them at night. I shall be rather glad to have them know Angel better; it might help her in a good many ways. The thing that troubles me is whether I ought to go with you. You see your mother also writes that she is relying on having me with her as well. Though she does not give me her reason, still she is very positive. She says that my coming to New York at the present time will mean a great deal to me personally, and moreover she particularly desires me to be with you.” Betty slowly shook her head. “I don’t see exactly how I can refuse; do you, Mollie? I don’t believe your mother has ever been really angry with me in my life and I should so hate her to be now. Besides I think it would be rather fun to go, and of course Rose would look after things for a few days.”
“Then it is decided?” and Mollie breathed a sigh of mingled relief and pleasure. “Well, I must go in at once and telephone Billy and ask him to look up time-tables and things. Mother has sent me a check big enough to pay our expenses if you do not happen to have the money at the cabin with you.”
All the hours following that evening and in the early morning were too busy with preparations and explanations to allow of much conjecture; yet in the back of their minds both girls were trying to work out the same problem.
What conceivable thing could have happened to make Mrs. Wharton summon them to New York in this odd fashion? Could it have anything to do with Polly? But if Polly had been taken suddenly ill, would Mrs. Wharton not have given them some slight warning, some preparation for the shock that might lie ahead of them? Yet it was idle to make vain guesses or to worry without cause. In a short while Mrs. Wharton would, of course, explain the whole situation.
As passengers on the earliest afternoon train that left Woodford for New York City next day, Mollie and Betty had already forgotten their first opposition to this journey to New York. All at once it appeared like a very delightful and natural excursion. If Mrs. Wharton had occasion to spend several days in New York what more agreeable than spending the time with her? There would be the shops and theaters to visit and a glimpse at the new spring fashions. Moreover, Betty did not altogether object to the idea of possibly seeing John Everett. They were old friends and his open admiration and attention meant a great deal to her.
Mrs. Wharton did not seem to consider that an explanation was imperative immediately upon the arrival of the two girls in New York. At the Forty-second street station she met them in a taxi, and certainly in traveling to their hotel through the usual exciting crush of motors, carriages and people there was no opportunity for serious questioning.
They were to go to a musical as soon as dinner was over and there was just sufficient time to dress. So Betty went almost at once to her own room adjoining Mrs. Wharton’s, while Mollie occupied the room with her mother.
Once while Mrs. Wharton was adjusting the drapery on a new frock which she had purchased for her daughter only that afternoon, Mollie turned toward her mother with her blue eyes suddenly serious. Up to that instant she had been too much absorbed in her frock to think of anything else.
“Why in the world, mother, did you send for us to join you in New York so unexpectedly? If you were thinking of coming, why did you not motor out and tell us? Or you might at least have telephoned,” she said.
Mrs. Wharton’s face was not visible, as she was engaged for the moment in the study of the new gown. “I made up my mind quite hurriedly, dear. There was nothing I could explain over the telephone. Besides, I have heard you and Betty say a dozen times that nothing gave you as much pleasure as a trip taken without any special discussion or preparation. Don’t you think we will have a charming time, just the three of us, dining at the different hotels, going to the theaters? I believe one calls it ‘doing New York.’ But hurry, now, and finish fixing your hair. I must go and see if I can be of any assistance to the Princess.” And Mrs. Wharton hurried off without even attempting to answer her daughter’s question.
Almost the same result followed a more deliberate attempt at cross-examination which took place at breakfast the following morning. This time both Mollie and Betty started forth as determined questioners. Why had they been summoned so suddenly to New York? What was the very important reason for their presence? It was all very charming, of course, and frankly both girls were delighted with the opportunity that had been given them. Still they both thought it only natural and fair that they should be offered some solution to the puzzle of their mysterious and hasty letters.
Mrs. Wharton only laughed and shrugged her shoulders ever so slightly, in a manner always suggestive of Polly. She did not see why she had to be taken to task so seriously because of an agreeable invitation. Had she said that there was some urgent reason for her request? Well, was it not sufficient that she wished the society of the two girls?
Then deliberately picking up the morning paper Mrs. Wharton refused to listen to any further remarks addressed to her. A few moments afterwards, observing that her companions had wandered from their original topic and were criticizing the appearance of a young woman a few tables away, a smile suddenly crumpled the corners of her mouth.
“Mollie, Betty, there are the most wonderful advertisements in the papers this morning of amazing bargains. Mollie, you and I both need new opera cloaks dreadfully and Mr. Wharton has said we might both have them. Of course we will shop all morning, but what shall we do tonight? Go to the theater, I suppose. When country people are in town an evening not spent at the theater is almost a wasted one.”
Mollie laughed. “This from mother!” she exclaimed. “Think what you used to tell poor Polly about the wickedness of things theatrical! But of course I should rather go than do anything else.”
Mrs. Wharton glanced toward Betty, who appeared to be blushing slightly without apparent cause.
“I am afraid I can’t go with you, if you don’t mind,” she explained. “You see I promised John Everett that I would see him tonight. He wrote asking me to give him my first evening, but I thought it better to make it the second.”
“Well, bring John along with us, Betty dear,” Mrs. Wharton returned. “I should like very much to have him and besides I don’t believe I should like you to go out with him alone in New York or to see him here at the hotel unless I am with you. People are more conventional here, dear, than in a small place.”
Betty nodded. “Of course, we shall be delighted to be with you. What play shall we see?”
Thoughtfully Mrs. Wharton picked up for the second time the temporarily discarded paper and commenced studying the list of theatrical attractions.
“There is a little Irish play that has been running here in New York for about a month that is a great success,” she said. “I think I should very much like to see it if you girls don’t mind. It is called Moira. I hope we shall be able to get good seats.”
The little party of three did not get back to the hotel until after tea time that afternoon and were then compelled to lie down, as they were completely worn out from shopping. But fatigue made no difference in the interest of the toilets which the girls made for the evening. John Everett had been invited to dinner as well, and most unexpectedly Mr. Wharton had telegraphed that he was running down from Woodford for twenty-four hours and was bringing Billy Webster along with him. They would probably manage to arrive at about eight o’clock and would dress as quickly as possible. Dinner was not to be delayed on their account. They expected to dine on the train.
Of course Betty had promptly yielded to temptation and bought herself a new evening frock before the shopping expedition had been under way two hours. Mrs. Wharton had bought Mollie a charming one only the day before and was now buying her an opera coat to make the toilet complete. It was extravagant; Betty fully appreciated her own weakness. Was she not at great expense keeping Sunrise cabin open and looking after her two new friends? However, she had not been to New York for months and would probably not be there again in a longer time and the frock was a rare bargain and should not be overlooked. But every woman and girl thoroughly understands the arguments that must be gone through conscientiously before yielding to the sure temptation of clothes.
Assuredly Betty felt no pangs of conscience when she looked at herself in the mirror a few moments before dinner time and just as she was about to join her friends. The dress was simple and not expensive, white crepe de Chine with a tunic of chiffon, adorned with a wide corn-colored girdle and little chiffon roses of the same shade, bordering the neck and elbow sleeves. Betty wore a bunch of violets at her waist. Mollie was in pure white, which was particularly becoming to her because of her dark hair and fair skin.
But although the two girls had never looked prettier and although Mrs. Wharton was now past forty, a number of persons, seeing the little party, might have thought her the best-looking of the three. For even in her early girlhood, when she had been the recognized belle of Woodford, never had she seemed more radiant, more full of vitality and happiness. She wore a curious blue and silver silk dress with a diamond ornament in her beautiful gray hair.
All during dinner both Mollie and Betty discovered themselves gazing at Mrs. Wharton admiringly and with some wonder. For not only was she looking handsomer than usual, but seemed to be in the gayest spirits. Neither John Everett nor the girls had the opportunity for much conversation, as Mrs. Wharton absorbed the greater part of it.
However, after Billy and Mr. Wharton had joined them, the four young people drove together to the theater, Mr. and Mrs. Wharton following in a second cab.
The theater party was by this time such a large one, that, although there had been no mention made of it beforehand, no one was surprised at being shown a box instead of orchestra seats. However, the fact that the box was already occupied by two other figures was a tremendous surprise to Mollie and Betty.
One of them was a tall young man with black hair, a singularly well-cut though rather pale face, and handsome hazel eyes. The other was a girl, rather under medium height, with light hair and a figure as expressive of strength and quiet determination as her face.
“Why, Sylvia Wharton, what on earth has brought you to New York at such a time?” Mollie O’Neill demanded, throwing her arm affectionately around her step-sister’s waist and drawing her into the rear of the box. “I didn’t think any power on earth could persuade you to leave those dreadful studies of yours so near examination time!”
“Oh, I am one of mother’s surprises for you in New York!” Sylvia replied as calmly as though she had always known the whole story of the two girls’ unexpected journey. Calmness was ever a trait of Sylvia’s character.
Mollie was so excited by this unlooked-for meeting with her younger sister that she would give no one else a chance to speak to her. The girls and their two escorts had arrived before Mr. and Mrs. Wharton, and it was therefore Mollie’s place to have welcomed their second guest or at least to have spoken to him.
Under the circumstances Betty Ashton found herself compelled to offer her hand to Anthony Graham before any one else seemed aware of his presence. She was surprised to see him, she explained, yet very glad he happened to be in town for the evening. Betty was polite, certainly; still, no one could have exactly accused her of cordiality. Therefore Anthony was not sorry that the arrival of his host and hostess at this instant spared her from further effort.
The evening was apparently to continue one of surprises. For no sooner had Mrs. Wharton’s party seated themselves in their box than Mollie touched Betty and Sylvia lightly with her fan.
“See, dears,” she whispered, “look straight across the theater at the box opposite us. There is Margaret Adams and that good-looking Mr. Hunt, who used to be a friend of Polly’s.” Mollie turned to her mother. “Did you know Miss Adams was in New York? I thought she and Mr. Hunt were still acting.”
Mrs. Wharton shook her head. “No, dear, their tour ended a week or more ago. Miss Adams is here in New York resting. She will not play again until next fall, I believe. Yes, I have seen her once since I came to town. But don’t talk, I wish to study my program.”
With this suggestion both Mollie and Betty glanced for an instant at the list of characters in the center of their books of the play. Peggy Moore was the star of the performance. She was a young actress who must have earned her reputation quite recently, for no one had heard of her until a short while before.
The bell rang for the raising of the curtain and at the same time Margaret Adams blew a kiss to the girls from behind her fan.