Polly of Lady Gay Cottage Part 23

Polly was close to tears as she finished, and Harold was openly indignant that she should have allowed Bertha to keep the pin.

"Of course, there are two pins!" he declared vehemently. "This one never belonged to Tip Kingstone. If you don't get it away from her, Floyd Westwood, I will!" His flas.h.i.+ng eyes emphasized his hot words, and he would have carried out his threat if it had not been for his brother's authoritative advice to let things be as they had fallen until their father could be consulted.

This little episode came near upsetting the party, but Aunt Sally Calhoun was a diplomat of no mean degree, and under her tactful management things quickly regained their smooth course. Yet Polly went to sleep that night wis.h.i.+ng with all her heart that she had never brought her precious pansy pin to New York.

The next morning, just as she was putting on her hat and coat to go to the station, a maid appeared at her door with a card. She read, engraved in small script, "Bertha Curtis Kingstone," and she wondered with a joyful wonder why she had come to see her.

The girl that met her downstairs in the reception room seemed a very different Bertha from the one of the night before. She held out the pin.

"Mother says I have no right to this," she began abruptly, "and I beg your pardon for keeping it." The words were spoken in a low, monotonous voice, as if they were a lesson. "I am sorry I was so rude, and I trust you will excuse me."

Polly was at once generous.

"Oh, it may be yours!" she responded. "I'm afraid I ought not to take it back."

"Mercy!" the other broke out, "I guess you'll have to! I've had scoldings enough over the old pin! I wouldn't carry it home again for a bushel of 'em!"

"I am sorry you have been scolded," sympathized Polly.

"Oh, I don't care!" Bertha returned. "I'm used to it. But I hate to apologize--that's the worst of doing things. Good-bye!"

Polly ran to find Harold, to share with him her joy in the restored pin; but the lad was not to be seen. Nor did he appear to bid her good-bye, although she lingered to search for him until she came near missing her train. What could have happened? Fear haunted her all the way home.

CHAPTER XV

AN UNEXPECTED GUEST

One of Polly's first questions on her return was of Ilga Barron. If she had not been so over-occupied while in New York, the fact that not a word was written her of Ilga would have given her great concern. As it was she had had only time for brief surprise on receipt of letter or card; then it would slip from her mind. But now she eagerly awaited her mother's answer. It was slow in coming, and then was accompanied by an ominous shake of the head.

"Ilga's party day ended sadly. Her first few steps were such a joy that she forgot herself, and started on with a skip. Her foot caught--"

"Oh!" cried Polly in consternation, "did she fall?"

Mrs. Dudley nodded, hastening to say, "Your father thinks she will come out all right in time, but there will have to be a long waiting.

She realizes it is her own fault, for Miss Price warned her to be careful; but that doesn't make it any easier to bear."

"Poor Ilga!" mourned Polly. "While I was having such a splendid time she was feeling so bad! I'll go to see her right away, and tell her all about my visit. Perhaps that will help her to forget."

So Polly found her work waiting for her, and she took it up with her usual readiness; but it was hard to settle into the regular school routine after the exciting whirl of that gay fortnight. Cards had come from Floyd and Harold, but the absence of the latter when she left them was not even mentioned. This she could not understand, for she had expected an apology as the very least amends he could make. Taken altogether such rudeness seemed to Polly unpardonable, after Harold's protested affection. Still his message was as warm-hearted and loving as ever, and she wisely tried to put the matter aside as one of the things that could not be explained away.

When she had been at home a week, and New York was beginning to fade into the past, she returned from afternoon school to find n.o.body in sight as she entered the back door. Quietly she went through the house, and hearing voices in the library she halted to ascertain if there were company. A few words arrested her.

"It is a shame for you to have to do so much for so little," Mrs.

Dudley was saying.

The Doctor laughed softly. Polly could almost hear his eyes twinkle.

"You, too!" he retorted.

"Nonsense!" she protested; "all I'm doing is to try to keep the household expenses down as low as possible."

"And that is the main thing. You have done admirably. I hoped we could be out of pinch before long--and now this cut-down in salary!"

"Never mind! we shall get on all right," came in Mrs. Dudley's cheery tones.

"Of course," the Doctor agreed; "but it means too much scrimp for you.

It is what I did not antic.i.p.ate. If I had more time for outside practice"--he stopped, as if musing. "And if it weren't for the coal bill!"

"That coal bill is your bugbear," laughed his wife. "Don't worry, Robert! It isn't like you. Wins.h.i.+p isn't bothering you about it, is he?"

"Not a bit. It is only that I hate debt, and--"

Polly involuntarily tiptoed away, feeling strangely guilty at having overheard what was not intended for her ears. So her father's salary had been cut down! And it was small enough before! She had heard the coal bill spoken of awhile ago,--yes, when she was getting ready for New York,--but she had given it no thought. And her mother had bought her new things to wear! Distress swept her heart. She was an added expense--ought she to have gone to live with her uncle? He was rich.

He could pay his coal bills. He was never in pinch. Oh! did her father and mother wish she had gone? There was no peace for Polly. Dutifully she crept over to the hospital to see Ilga, but found her in a pettish mood, and she returned home more disturbed than before. She longed to offer her bank money again, but she knew it would be of no use.

Besides, she did not wish her father and mother to know she had been eavesdropping. She blushed with shame at the thought. Why had she not run away at once, or gone boldly into the room. Oh, how she wished she had!

Bedtime found her in the same frame of mind, although she tried to appear as if nothing had occurred. She had bidden her mother good-night, and her foot was on the stair, when the doorbell rang.

"I'll go," she called softly into the library, and then skipped to answer the summons.

As the door opened she gave a surprised little scream.

"Harold Westwood!"

The boy darted inside, clasping his cousin with a glad cry.

"I supposed you were at boarding-school," Polly told him.

"I was," the lad replied a bit shamefacedly. Then bravely, "I ran away to see you!"

"Why, Harold!"

"I don't care!" was the dogged response. "I had to!"

"I shouldn't think they'd have let you come in the night," said Polly, leading him into the library.

The introduction relieved the lad of the necessity of an answer; but Polly innocently plied her questions.

"Why didn't Julian come, too? Was it a half-holiday?"

For an instant Harold looked disconcerted. Then he replied boldly:--

"Jule doesn't know! I tell you, I ran away!"