POLLY MAKES A LAST ENTRY IN HER JOURNAL
Early morning, May 31st.
There are only a few hours left before A. D. and I shall be married but I won’t try to write a word about how wonderfully happy I am, for there is so much to put down! Something most extraordinary happened. The Prince has been bothering me since we reached New York, by calling at the door and sending in the most imperative messages. But I refused flatly to see him, though Aunt maintained that he would explain everything to all of us in a perfectly satisfactory manner. Poor Aunt, she’s a dear, silly, old thing. I believe she’s actually been in love with him all the time herself.
But yesterday, the thirtieth, Boris got the better of me. The butler announced that Sister Beatrice, a nun whom I had known in Rome, wished to see me. So naturally I told him to admit her, and in walked a black-robed figure. Imagine my surprise and anger when under the veil I saw the blue eyes of the Prince. He looked so like a naughty boy that before I knew it, I laughed.
All of a sudden he became intensely serious and said that he had really come to take me away, that he worshiped me, that he knew deep down I loved him, too, that we must take the steamer that evening—the Carpathia—he had reservations engaged—and that we could be married on the boat, and he had everything arranged.
I showed him at once that he had made a mistake and ordered him to go. An ugly vindictive look came over his face and then I realized how desperate he was. He asked me if I thought he was such a fool as to leave me in possession of certain information about himself; moreover he declared he had to have money, that he was at the end of his rope. I replied that I was sorry but could not help him again, that I might have given him over to the officials on the train. Then he said sneeringly I had better go with him, if I put a value on—life, for instance, that he, a Russian, would stop at nothing. I rang the bell and when the butler appeared, Boris saw that he had failed, and said, “You will regret this hour,” and went out. Aunt met him in the hall and after some whispered conversation, he departed. Later she left the house. Nor did she come back the entire evening. My exasperating relative! She had not planned to be at our dinner party, so I wasn’t alarmed, though anything but jolly. Boris’s uncanny threat was echoing in my ear amid all the joyousness and excitement and flowers, ringing of bells and arrival of telegrams of congratulation. When everybody had gone except A. D. and it was very late—we were sitting together in the parlor near the front door,—I heard footsteps, and thinking it must be Aunt returning, I peered out. There was a dark figure that darted hastily up the front steps, apparently left a package and ran swiftly down the street and out of sight. A premonition told me something was wrong and that we were in danger. A. D. dashed out to investigate.
“What’s this?” he said, picking up a box in the vestibule. Inside was a ticking noise like an alarm clock.
“Maybe something the Prince sent,” I gasped. “He threatened to do something desperate.”
“Run!” A. D. shouted and began to strip off the wrappings. Quick as a flash he rushed into the house, out into the pantry, and dropped the package into a pail of water. “A bomb—I’ve fixed it,” he told me, “and it’s as harmless now as a plain box of gunpowder. But it was a close call, the thing was set for one o’clock.” Just as we looked at each other, the hall clock chimed once. A. D. caught me in his arms. I laughed hysterically, and he asked, “Is it to be shown with the other wedding gifts?”