“No, I am not in the least unhappy or discontented either, Esther; I don’t know how you can say such a thing,” Betty Ashton answered argumentatively. “You talk as though I did not like living here with you and Dick. You know perfectly well I might have gone south with mother for the winter if I had not a thousand times preferred staying with you.” Yet as she finished her speech, quite unconsciously Betty sighed.
She and Esther were standing in a pretty living room that held a grand piano, shelves of books, a desk and reading table; indeed, a room that served all purposes except that of sleeping and dining. For Dick and Esther had taken a small house on the outskirts of Boston and were beginning their married life together as simply as possible, until Dr. Ashton should make a name and fame for himself.
Esther was now dressed for going out in a dark brown suit and hat with mink furs and a muff. Happiness and the fulfilling of her dreams had given her a beauty and dignity which her girlhood had not held. She was larger and had a soft, healthy color. With the becoming costumes which Betty now helped her select her red hair had become a beauty rather than a disfigurement and the content in her eyes gave them more color and depth, while about her always beautiful mouth the lines were so cheerful and serene that strangers often paused to look at her the second time and then went their way with a new sense of encouragement.
Betty had no thought of going out, although it was a brilliant December day. She had on a blue cashmere house dress and her hair was loosely tucked up on her head in a confusion of half-tangled curls. She had evidently been dusting, for she still held a dusting cloth in her hand. Her manner was listless and uninterested, and she was pale and frowning a little. Her gayety and vitality, temporarily at least, were playing truant.
“Still I know perfectly well, Betty dear, that you came to be with Dick and me this winter not only because you wanted to come, but because you knew your board would help us along while Dick is getting his start. So it is perfectly natural that you should be lonely and miss your old friends in Woodford. Of course, Meg isn’t far away here at Radcliffe, but she is so busy with Harvard students as well as getting her degree that you don’t see much of each other. Suppose you come now and take a walk with me, or else you ride with Dick and I’ll go on the street car. I am only going to church for a rehearsal. You know I am to sing a solo on Sunday,” Esther continued in a persuasive tone.
“Yes, and of course Dick would so much prefer taking his sister to ride than taking his wife,” the other girl returned rather pettishly, abstractedly rubbing the surface of the mahogany table which already shone with much polishing.
Esther shook her head. “Well, even though you won’t confess it, something is the matter with you, Betty. You have not been a bit like yourself since you werein Woodford last fall. Something must have happened there. I don’t wish your confidence unless you desire to give it me. But even while we were in New York, you were cold and stiff and unlike yourself, especially to Anthony Graham, and I thought you used to be such good friends.”
There was no lack of color now in Betty Ashton’s face, although she still kept her back turned to her older sister.
“We are not special friends any longer,” she returned coldly, “though I have nothing in the world against Anthony. Of course, I consider that he is rather spoiled by his political success, being elected to the Legislature when he is so young, but then that is not my affair.” Betty now turned her face toward her sister. “I suppose I need something to do—that is really what is the matter with me, Esther dear. Lately I have been thinking that I am the only one of the old Sunrise Hill Camp Fire girls who amounts to nothing. And I wanted so much to be loyal to our old ideals. There is Meg at college, Sylvia and Nan both studying professions, Edith married and Eleanor about to be. Youhave Dick, your music and your house, Mollie is relieving her mother of the responsibility of their big establishment and even little Faith had a poem published in a magazine last week. It is hard to be the only failure. Then of course there is Polly!”
“Never a word from her in all this time?”
“Not a line since the note I received from her last October asking me not to be angry if I did not hear from her in a long time. No one has the faintest idea what has become of her—none of her friends, not even Mollie knows. I suppose she is all right though, because her mother is satisfied about her. Yet I can’t help wondering and feeling worried. What on earth could have induced Polly O’Neill to give up her splendid chance with Miss Adams, a chance she has been working and waiting for these two years?” Betty shrugged her shoulders. “It is stupid of me to be asking such questions. No one yet has ever found the answer to the riddle of Polly O’Neill. Perhaps that is why she is so fascinating. I always do and say exactly what peopleexpect, so no wonder I am uninteresting. But there, run along, Esther, I hear Dick whistling for you. Don’t make him late. Perhaps I’ll get over having ‘the dumps’ while you are away.”
Esther started toward the door. “If only I could think of something that would interest or amuse you! I can’t get hold of Polly to cheer you up, but I shall write Mrs. Wharton this very evening and ask her to let Mollie come and spend Christmas with us. I believe Dick has already asked Anthony Graham. You won’t mind, will you, Betty? We wanted to have as many old friends as possible in our new house.”
Once again Betty flushed uncomfortably, although she answered carelessly enough. “Certainly I don’t mind. Why should I? Now do run along. Perhaps I’ll make you and Dick a cake while you are gone. An old maid needs to have useful accomplishments.”
Esther laughed. “An old maid at twenty-one! Well, farewell, Spinster Princess. I know you are a better cook and housekeeper than I am.” In answer to her husband’s more impatient whistlingEsther fled out of the room, though still vaguely troubled. Betty was not in good spirits, yet what could be the matter with her? Of course, she missed the stimulus of Polly’s society; however, that in itself was not a sufficient explanation. What could have happened between Betty and Anthony? Actually, there had been a time when Dick had feared that they might care seriously for each other. Thank goodness, that was a mistake!
Left alone Betty slowly drew out a letter from inside her blue gown. It had previously been opened; but she read it for the second time. Then, lighting a tall candle on the mantel, she placed the letter in the flame, watching it burn until finally the charred scraps were thrown aside.
Betty had evidently changed her mind in regard to her promise to her sister. For instead of going into the kitchen a very little while later she came downstairs dressed for the street. Opening the front door, she went out into the winter sunshine and started walking as rapidly as possible in the direction of one of the poorer quarters of the city.
Outside the window of a small florist’s shop Betty paused for an instant. Then she stepped in and a little later came out carrying half a dozen red roses and a bunch of holly and fragrant cedar. Curiously enough, her expression in this short time had changed. Perhaps the flowers gave the added color to her face. She was repeating something over to herself and half smiling; but, as there were no people on the street except a few dirty children who were playing cheerfully in the gutter, no one observed her eccentric behavior.
She Came Out Carrying Red Roses, Holly and CedarShe Came Out Carrying Red Roses, Holly and Cedar
“As fuel is brought to the fireSo I purpose to bringMy strength,My ambition,My heart’s desire,My joyAnd my sorrowTo the fireOf humankind.For I will tend,As my fathers have tended,And my father’s fathers,Since time began,The fire that is calledThe love of man for man,The love of man for God.”
Betty’s delicate, eyebrows were drawn so close together that they appeared almost heart shaped. “I fear I have only been tending the love of a girl for herself these past few months, so perhaps it is just as well that I should try to reform,” she thought half whimsically and yet with reproach. “Anyhow, I shall telephone Meg Everett this very afternoon, though I am glad Esther does not know the reason Meg and I have been seeing so little of each other lately, and that the fault is mine, not hers.”
By this time the girl had arrived in front of a large, dull, brown-stone building in the middle of a dingy street, with a subdued hush about it. Above the broad entrance hung a sign, “Home For Crippled Children.” Here fora moment Betty Ashton’s courage seemed to waver, for she paused irresolutely, but a little later she entered the hall. A week before she had promised an acquaintance at the church where Esther was singing to come to the children’s hospital some day and amuse them by telling stories. Since she had not thought seriously of her promise, although intending to fulfill it when she had discovered stories worth the telling. This morning while worrying over her own affair it had occurred to her that the best thing she could do was to do something for some one else. Hence the visit to the hospital.
Yet here at the moment of her arrival Betty had not the faintest idea of what she could do or say to make herself acceptable as a visitor. She had a peculiar antipathy to being regarded as a conventional philanthropist, one of the individuals with the instinct to patronize persons less fortunate.
Long ago when through her wealth and sympathy Betty had been able to do helpful things for her acquaintances, always she had felt the same shrinking sense of embarrassment,disliking to be thanked for kindnesses. Yet actually in his last letter Anthony Graham had dared remind her of their first meeting, an occasion she wished forgotten between them both.
The matron of the children’s hospital had been sent for and a little later she was conducting Betty down a broad, bare hall and then ushering her into a big sunlit room, not half so cheerless as its visitor had anticipated.
There were two large French windows on the southern side and a table piled with books and magazines. Near one of these windows two girls were seated in rolling chairs reading. They must have been about fourteen years old and did not look particularly frail. Across from them were four other girls, perhaps a year or so younger, engaged in a game of parchesi. On the floor in the corner a pretty little girl was sewing on her doll clothes and another was hopping merrily about on her crutches, interfering with every one else. Only two of the cot beds in the room were occupied, and to these Betty’s eyes turned instinctively. In one she saw a happylittle German maiden with yellow hair and pale pink cheeks propped up on pillows, busily assorting half a dozen colors of crochet cotton. In the other a figure was lying flat with the eyes staring at the ceiling. And at the first glance there was merely an effect of some one indescribably thin with a quantity of short, curly dark hair spread out on the white pillow.
The matron introduced Betty, told her errand, and then went swiftly away, leaving her to do the rest for herself, and the rest appeared exceedingly difficult. The older girls who were reading closed their books politely and bowed. Yet it was self-evident that they would have preferred going on with their books to hearing anything their visitor might have to tell. Among the parchesi players there was a hurried consultation and then one of them looked up. “We will be through with our game in a few moments,” she explained with a note of interrogation in her voice.
“Oh, please don’t stop onmyaccount,” the newcomer said hastily.
On the big table Betty put down her roses and evergreens, not liking to present themwith any formality under the circumstances. She could see that the little girl who was sewing in the corner was smiling a welcome to her and that the little GermanMädchenin bed was pleased with her winter bouquet. For she had whispered, “Schön, wunderschön,” and stopped assorting her crochet work. Then the child on crutches came across the floor, and picking up one of the roses placed it on the pillow by the dark-eyed girl, who showed not the least sign of having noticed the attention.
“She will look at it in a moment if she thinks we are not watching her,” explained Betty’s one friendly confidant, motioning to a chair to suggest that their visitor might sit down if she wished.
It was an extremely awkward situation. Betty sat down. She had come to make a call at a place where her society was not desired and though they were only children, and she a grown woman, still she had no right to intrude upon their privacy. She found herself blushing furiously. Besides, what story had she to tell that would be of sufficient interest to hold their attention? Had she not thought of at leasta dozen, only to discard them all as unsuitable?
“I believe you were going to entertain us, I suppose with a fairy story,” began one of the girls, still keeping her finger between the covers ofLittle Women. It was hard luck to be torn away from that delightful love scene between Laurie and Jo to hear some silly tale of princes and princesses and probably a golden apple when one was fourteen years old. However, this morning’s visitor was so pretty it was a pleasure to look at her. Besides, she had on lovely clothes and was dreadfully embarrassed. Moreover, she was sitting quite still and helpless instead of poking about, asking tiresome questions as most visitors did. One could not avoid feeling a little sorry forherinstead of having to receive her pity.
Both wheeled chairs were now rolled over alongside Betty andLittle Womenwas closed and laid on the table. The next instant the parchesi game was finished and the four players glanced with greater interest at their guest. The girl who had been dancing about on her crutches hopped up on the table.
“I am ‘Cricket’ not on the hearth, but on the table at this moment,” she confided gayly; “at least, that is what the girls here call me and it is as good a name as any other. Now won’t you tell us your name?”
“Betty Ashton,” the visitor answered, still feeling ill at ease and angry and disgusted with herself for not knowing how to make the best of the situation. Yet she need no longer have worried. For there was some silent, almost indescribable influence at work in the little company until almost irresistibly most of its occupants felt themselves drawn toward the newcomer. Of course, Polly O’Neill would have described this influence as the Princess’ charm and that is as good an explanation as any other. But I think it was Betty Ashton’s ability to put herself in other people’s places, to think and feel and understand for them and with them. Now she knew that these eight girls, poor and ill though they might be, did not want either her pity or her patronage.
“Well, fire away with your tale, Miss Ashton,” suggested Cricket somewhat impatiently, “and don’t make it too goody-goody if you can helpit. Most of us are anxious to hear.” Cricket had pretty gray eyes and a great deal of fluffy brown hair, but otherwise the face was plain, except for its clever, good-natured expression. She gave a sudden side glance toward the figure on the bed only a dozen feet away and Betty’s glance followed hers.
She saw that the red rose had been taken off the pillow and that the eyes that had been staring at the ceiling were gazing toward her. However, their look was anything but friendly.
For some foolish, unexplainable reason the girl made Betty think of Polly. Yet this child’s eyes were black instead of blue, her hair short and curly instead of long and dark. And though Polly had often been impatient and dissatisfied, thank heaven she had never had that expression of sullen anger and of something else that Betty could not yet understand.
For Betty had of course to turn again toward her auditors and smile an entirely friendly and charming smile.
“May I take off my hat first? It may help me to think,” she said. Then whenCricket had helped her remove both her coat and hat she sat down again and sighed.
“Do you know I have come here under absolutely false pretences? I announced that I had a story to tell, but I simply can’t think of anything that would entertain you in the least and I should so hate to be a bore.”
Then in spite of her twenty-one years, Betty Ashton seemed as young as any girl in the room. Moreover, she was exquisitely pretty. Her auburn hair, now neatly coiled, shone gold from the light behind her. Her cheeks were almost too flushed and every now and then her dark lashes drooped, shading the frank friendliness of her gray eyes. She wore a walking skirt, beautifully tailored, and a soft white silk blouse with a knot of her same favorite blue velvet pinned at her throat with her torch-bearer’s pin.
Agnes Edgerton, the former reader ofLittle Women, made no effort to conceal her admiration. “Oh, don’t tell us a story,” she protested, “we read such a lot of books. Tell us something about yourself. Real peopleare so much more interesting.”
“But there isn’t anything very interesting about me, I am far too ordinary a person,” Betty returned. Then she glanced almost desperately about the big room. There was a mantel and a fireplace, but no fire, as the room was warmed with steam radiators. However, on the mantel stood three brass candlesticks holding three white candles and these may have been the source of Betty’s inspiration.
Outside the smoky chimney tops of old Boston houses and factories reared their heads against the winter sky, and yet Betty began her story telling with the question: “I wonder if you would like me to tell you of a summer twelve girls spent together at Sunrise Hill?” For in the glory of the early morning, with the Camp Fire cabin at its base, Sunrise Hill had suddenly flashed before her eyes like a welcome vision.
When an hour later Betty Ashton finished her story of the first years of the Camp Fire girls at Sunrise Hill on the table nearby three candles were burning and about them was a circle of eager faces.
Moreover, from the cedar which Betty had bought as a part of her winter bouquet a miniature tree had been built as the eternal Camp Fire emblem and there also were the emblems of the wood gatherer, fire maker and torch bearer constructed from odd sticks which Cricket had mysteriously produced in the interval of the story telling.
“That is the most delightful experience that I ever heard of girls having, a whole year out of doors with a chance to do nice things for yourself, a fairy story that was really true,” Cricket sighed finally. “Funny, but I never heard of a CampFire club and I have never been to the country.”
“You have never been to the country?” Betty repeated her words slowly, staring first at Cricket and then at the other girls. No one else seemed surprised by the remark.
In answer the younger girl flushed. “I told you I had not,” she repeated in a slightly sarcastic tone. “But please don’t look as if the world had come to an end. Lots of poor people don’t do much traveling and we have five children in the family besides me. Of course, I couldn’t go on school picnics and Sunday-school excursions like the others.” Here an annoyed, disappointed expression crept into Cricket’s eyes and she grew less cheerful.
“Please don’t spoil our nice morning together, Miss Ashton, by beginning to pity me. I hate people who are sorry for themselves. That is the reason we girls have liked you so much, you have been so different from the others.”
Quietly Betty began putting on her wraps. She had been watching Cricket’s face all the time she had been talking of Sunrise Hill, of the grove of pine trees andthe lake. Yet if the thought had leapt into her mind that she would like to show her new acquaintance something more beautiful than the chimney tops of Boston, it was now plain that she must wait until they were better friends.
“But you’ll come again soon and tell us more?” Cricket next asked, picking up their visitor’s muff and pressing it close to her face with something like a caress. Then more softly, “I did not mean to be rude.”
Betty nodded. “Of course I’ll come if you wish me. You see, I am a stranger in Boston and lonely. But I’ll never have anything half so interesting to tell you as the history of our club with such girls as Polly O’Neill, Esther and Meg and the rest for heroines. Nothing in my whole life has ever been such fun. Do you know I was wondering——”
Here a slight noise from the figure on the cot near them for an instant distracted Betty’s attention. Yet glancing in that direction, there seemed to have been no movement. Not for a single moment did she believe the little girl had been listeningto a word she was saying. For she had never caught another glance straying in her direction.
“You were wondering what?” Agnes Edgerton demanded a little impatiently and Betty thought she saw the same expression on all the faces about her.
“Wondering if you would like my sister, Esther, to come and sing our old Camp Fire songs to you some day?” This time there was no mistaking it. Her audience did look disappointed. “And wondering something else, only perhaps I had best wait, you may not think it would be fun, or perhaps it might be too much work—” Betty’s face was flushed, again she seemed very little older than the other girls about her.
“Yes, we would,” Agnes Edgerton answered gravely, having by this time quite forgotten the interruption ofLittle Womenin her new interest. “I know what you mean, because almost from the start I have been wondering the same thing. Do you think we girls could start a Camp Fire club here among ourselves, if you would show us how? Why, it would make everything so much easier and happier.There are some of the Camp Fire things we could not do, of course, but the greater part of them——”
Here, with a sudden exclamation of pleasure, Cricket bounced off her perch on the table and began dancing about in a fashion which showed how she had earned her name.
“Hurrah for the Shut-In Camp Fire Girls and the fairy princess who brought us the idea!” she exclaimed. Then, surveying Betty more critically, “You know you do look rather like a princess. Are you one in disguise?”
Betty laughed. She had not felt so cheerful in months. For with Agnes and Cricket on her side, the thought that had slowly been growing in her mind would surely bear fruit. But how strangely her old title sounded! How it did bring back the past Camp Fire days!
“No,” she returned, “I am not a princess or anything in the least like one. But we can all have new names in our Camp Fire club if we like, select any character or idea we choose and try to live up to it. Next time I come I will try and explainthings better and bring you our manual. Now I really must hurry.”
Betty Ashton was moving quickly toward the door, accompanied by Cricket, when a hand reached suddenly out from the side of a bed clutching at her skirt.
“I would rather have that Polly girl come the next time instead of you; I am sure I should like her much better,” the voice said with a decidedly foreign accent. Then Betty looked quickly into the pair of black eyes that had been so relentlessly fixed upon the ceiling.
“I don’t wonder you would rather have the Polly girl instead of me,” she returned smiling; “most people would, and perhaps you may see her some day if I can find her. Only I don’t know where she is just at present.”
So this strange child had been listening to her story-telling after all. Curious that her fancy had lighted upon Polly, but perhaps the name carried its own magic.
Out in the hall Betty whispered to her companion:
“Tell me that little girl’s name, won’t you, Cricket? I didn’t dare ask her.What a strange little thing she is, and yet she makes me think of an old friend. Already I believe she has taken a dislike to me.”
The other girl shrugged her shoulders. “Don’t be flattered, she dislikes everybody and won’t have anything to do with the rest of us if she can help it. Yet her name is Angelique, that is all we know. ‘The Angel’ we call her when we wish to make her particularly furious. She is French, and we believe an orphan, because no one comes to see her, though she has letters now and then, which she hides under her pillow,” Cricket concluded almost spitefully, since curiosity was one of her leading traits.
On her way back home, oddly enough, Betty found her attention divided between two subjects. The first was natural enough; she was greatly pleased with her morning’s experience. Perhaps, if she could interest her new acquaintances in forming a Camp Fire, her winter need not be an altogether unhappy and dissatisfied one.
There had been a definite reason for her leaving Woodford, which she hoped wasknown to no one but herself. It had been making her very unhappy, but now she intended rising above it if possible. Of course, work in which she felt an interest was the best possible cure; there was no use in preaching such a transparent philosophy as Esther had earlier in the day. But she had no inclination toward pursuing a definite career such as Sylvia, Nan and Polly had chosen. The money Judge Maynard had left her relieved her from this necessity. But the name of Polly immediately set her thinking along the second direction. What was it in the unfortunate child at the hospital that had brought Polly so forcibly before her mind? There was no definite resemblance between them, only a line here and there in the face or a slight movement. Could Polly even be conscious of the girl’s existence? For Betty felt that there were many unexplainable forms of mental telegraphy by which one might communicate a thought to a friend closely in sympathy with one’s own nature.
But by this time, as she was within a few feet of Esther’s and Dick’s home,Betty smiled to herself. She had merely become interested in this particular child because she seemed more unfortunate and less content than the others and she meant to do what she could to help her, no matter what her personal attitude might be. As for Polly’s influence in the matter, it of course amounted to nothing. Was she not always wondering what had become of her best-loved friend and hoping she might soon be taken into her confidence?
Ten days later, returning from another of her now regular visits to the hospital, Betty Ashton was surprised by hearing voices inside the living room just as she was passing the closed door. Possibly Esther had invited some of their new acquaintances in to tea and had forgotten to mention it. Now she could hear her own name being called.
Her hair had been blown in every direction by the east wind and she had been sitting on the floor at the hospital, building a camp fire in the old chimney place, with the grate removed, according to the most approved camping methods. Straightening her hat and rubbing her face for an instant with her handkerchief, Betty made a casual entrance into the room, trying to assume an agreeable society manner to make up for her other deficiencies.
It was five o’clock and growing dark,although as yet the lights were not on. Esther was sitting at a little round wicker table pouring tea and Meg, who had evidently lately arrived, was standing near waiting to receive her cup. But in the largest chair in the room with her back turned to the opening door was a figure that made Betty’s heart behave in the most extraordinary fashion. The hair was so black, the figure so graceful that for the moment it seemed it could only be one person—Polly! Betty’s welcome was no less spontaneous, however, whenMollieO’Neill, jumping up, ran quickly toward her.
“No, I am not Polly, Betty dear! I only wish I were, for then we should at least know what had become of her. But Esther has asked me to spend Christmas with you and I hope you are half as glad to see me as I am to be with you.”
Half an hour later, Esther having disappeared to see about dinner as Meg was also to remain for the night, the three old friends dropped down on sofa cushions before the fire, Camp Fire fashion, and with the tea pot between them began talking all at the same time.
“Do, do tell me everything about Woodford,” Betty demanded. “I never shall love any place half so well as my native town and I have not heard a word except through letters, for ages.”
Ceasing her own questioning of Meg in regard to the pleasures of college life, Mollie at once turned her serious blue eyes upon her other friend. “Haven’t heard of Woodford, Betty!” she exclaimed, “what on earth do you mean? Then whatdo youand Anthony Graham talk about when he comes to Boston? I know he has been here twice lately, because he told me so himself and said you were well.”
Suddenly in Esther’s pretty sitting room all conversation abruptly ended and only the ticking of the clock could be heard. Fortunately the room was still in shadow, for unexpectedly Meg’s cheeks had turned scarlet, as she glanced toward the window with a perfectly unnecessary expression of unconcern. But Betty did not change color nor did her gray eyes falter for an instant from those of her friend. Yet before she received her answer Mollie wasconscious that she must in some fashion have said the wrong thing.
Yet what could have been the fault with her question? It was a perfectly natural one, as Betty and Anthony had always been extremely intimate in the old days, ever since Anthony had lived for a year at Mrs. Ashton’s house. Mollie appreciated the change in the atmosphere, the coldness and restraint that had not been there before. Naturally she would have preferred to change the subject before receiving a reply, but she had not the quickness and adaptability of many girls, perhaps because she was too simple and sincere herself.
“Anthony Graham does not come to see me—us, Mollie,” Betty corrected herself, “when he makes his visits to Boston these days. You see he is now Meg’s friend more than mine. But you must remember, Mollie dear, that Meg has always had more admirers than the rest of us and now she is a full-fledged college girl, of course she is irresistible.”
Betty Ashton spoke without the least suggestion of anger or envy and yet Megturned reproachfully toward her. Her usually gay and friendly expression had certainly changed, she seemed embarrassed and annoyed.
“You know that isn’t true, Princess, and never has been,” Meg returned, rumpling her pretty yellow hair as she always did in any kind of perplexity or distress. “I never have even dreamed of being so charming as you are. You know that John has always said——”
Alas, if only Polly O’Neill had been present Mollie might in some fashion have been persuaded not to speak at this unlucky instant! But Polly had always cruelly called her an “enfant terrible.” Now Mollie was too puzzled to appreciate the situation and so determined to get at the bottom of it.
“But does Anthony come to see you and not Betty?” Mollie demanded inexorably of the embarrassed girl.
Meg nodded. “Yes, but it is only because Betty——”
“Please don’t try to offer any explanation, Meg, I would rather you would not. It is most unnecessary,” Betty now interrupted gently,in a tone that few persons in her life had ever opposed. Then, reaching over, she began pouring out fresh cups of tea for her friends. “You need not worry, Mollie, Anthony and I are perfectly good friends. We have not quarreled, only he has not so much time these days now he is getting to be such a distinguished person. But do tell me whether you have the faintest idea of what Polly O’Neill is doing, or where she is, or a single solitary thing about her?”
Always Mollie’s attention could be distracted by any mention of her sister’s name and it may be that Betty was counting upon this. For Meg had gotten up and strolled over toward the window, leaving the two other girls comparatively alone.
Bluer and more serious than ever grew Mollie’s big, innocent eyes.
“Polly is well, or at least says she is. That much mother confides in me,” Mollie replied soberly. “But where Polly is or what she is doing I have no more idea than you have, not so much perhaps. You were always better at understanding her than Ihave ever been. But then even Miss Adams has never heard a line from Polly since she told her good-by in New York several months ago. By the way, Betty, Miss Adams and Mr. Hunt are going to be playing here in Boston during the holidays. Won’t you and Esther ask them to your Christmas dinner party?”
Betty at this moment got up from the floor. “Yes, I have seen the notices of their coming and I am glad. We can have an almost home Christmas, can’t we?” Then she walked over toward the window where Meg had continued standing, gazing with no special interest out into the street. The high wind was still blowing and with it occasional flurries of wet snow.
“Do let us draw down the blinds, Meg, it is getting late and is not very cheerful outside.” With apparent unconsciousness Betty slipped an arm about her friend’s waist and for another instant they both stared out into the almost deserted street.
Across on the farther sidewalk some one was standing, as though waiting for a companion. Meg had seen the person before but with no special attention.She was too deeply engaged with her own thoughts. Betty was differently influenced, for the figure had an oddly pathetic and lonely attitude. She could not see the face and the moment she began closing the living-room curtain the figure walked away.
Meg chose this same instant for giving her friend a sudden ardent embrace and Betty’s attention would in any case have been distracted.
With the lights under the rose-colored shades now glowing, and Mollie asking no more embarrassing questions, the atmosphere of the living room soon grew cheerful again. For Mollie had a great deal of Woodford news to tell. Eleanor Meade was getting a beautiful trousseau for her marriage with Frank Wharton in the spring and she and Mollie had been sewing together almost every day. Eleanor had given up her old ambition to become a celebrated artist and was using her taste for color and design in the preparation of her clothes. Frank was in business with his father and would have a good deal of money, and although Eleanor’s family waspoor she did not intend to have less in her trousseau than other girls. Her own skill and work should make up for it.
Billy Webster was succeeding better each month with the management of his farm since his father’s death. Now and then Mollie went to call on Mrs. Webster and not long ago she and Billy had walked out to Sunrise cabin. The little house was in excellent condition, although no one had lived in it for several years.
“It is wonderfully kind,” Mollie explained, “but Billy has his own men look after our cabin and make any repairs that are necessary. He even keeps the grass cut and the weeds cleared from about the place, so any one of us could go out there to live with only a few hours preparation,” she ended with her usual happy smile.
For Mollie O’Neill was not self-conscious and did not guess for a moment that while she talked both Betty and Meg were engaged with the same thought. Was there still nothing more between Mollie and Billy than simple friendliness? Once they had believed that there might be something, but now the time was passing andthey were both free, Mollie at home helping her mother with the house, Billy the head of his own farm, and yet nothing had happened. Well, possibly nothing ever would and they might always simply remain friends, until one or the other married some one else.
Suddenly Mollie started and her color faded.
“I am awfully sorry, Betty, I know how silly and nervous you and Polly used always to think me, but look, please!” She spoke under her breath and pointed toward the closed blind.
There, sharply defined, was the shadow of a head apparently straining to see inside the room. It had the effect of a gray silhouette.
The two other girls also changed color, for the effect was uncanny. Then Betty laughed somewhat nervously.
“It must be Dick, of course, trying to frighten us, but how silly and unlike him!” She then walked as quickly and quietly toward the window as possible and without a sign or word of warning drew up the curtain. Some one must have instantlyjumped backward, for by the time Mollie and Meg had also reached the window they could only catch the outline of a disappearing figure. It was not possible in the darkness to decide whether it was a girl or a young boy.
“Well, it wasn’t Dick anyhow,” said Betty finally; “probably some child. However it might be just as well to go and tell Dick and Esther. They would not enjoy a sneak thief carrying off their pretty wedding presents. And besides it is time for us to get ready for dinner and I haven’t yet had time to tell you about my new Camp Fire.”
A few mornings afterwards a letter was handed to Betty Ashton at the breakfast table, bearing a type-written address. Carelessly opening it under the impression that it must be a printed circular she found three lines, also type-written, on a sheet of paper and with no signature. It read:
“Show whatever kindness is possible to the little French girl, Angelique, at the hospital. Pardon her peculiarities and oblige a friend.”
Without a comment Betty immediately passed the letter to Mollie O’Neill, who then gave it to Esther. Esther turned it over to Dr. Ashton, who frowned and straightway ceased eating his breakfast.
“I don’t like anonymous letters, Betty, even if they seem to be perfectly harmless and have the best intentions. Besides, who knows of your going to the hospital exceptour few intimate friends? I wonder if this queer child you have spoken of could be responsible for this letter herself. One never knows!”
Rather irritably Betty shook her head. “What an absurd supposition, Dick. In the first place the child dislikes me so that she will scarcely speak to me while I am at the hospital. She seems to like Mollie a great deal better. Moreover, she is the only one of the group of girls I made friends with who still refuses to come into our Camp Fire. If she wished my friendship she might at least begin by being civil.”
Always as in former days Esther was quick to interpose between any chance of a heated argument between Dick and his sister. Understanding this they both usually laughed at her efforts. For as long as they lived Dick would scold Betty when he believed her in the wrong, while she would protest and then follow his advice or discard it as seemed wisest.
“But, Betty dear, don’t you consider that there is a possibility that this Angelique may have spoken to some relative or friendof your visits to the hospital, who has written you this letter in consequence. You see, they may think of you as very wealthy,” Esther now suggested.
But before Betty could reply, Mollie O’Neill, who during the moment’s discussion had been thinking the question over quietly, turned her eyes on her friend.
“Have you any idea who has written you, Betty?” she queried.
For no explainable reason Betty flushed. Then with entire honesty she answered, “Of course not.” Surely the idea that had come into her mind was too absurd to give serious consideration.
“By the way, I wonder what I could be expected to do for Angelique?” Betty inquired the next instant, showing that her letter had not failed to make an impression, no matter if it were anonymous. “She has the best kind of care at the hospital; only she seems desperately unhappy over something and won’t tell any one what it is. I know, of course, that she is ill, but the matron tells me she is not suffering and the other girls seem quite different. They areas brave and gay as if there were nothing the matter. Cricket is the best sport I ever knew.”
Dr. Ashton got up from the table, leaning over to kiss Esther good-by.
“Well, don’t do anything rash, Lady Bountiful,” he protested to Betty. “Who knows but you may decide to adopt the little French girl before the day is over just because of a mysterious letter. I must confess I am extremely glad Judge Maynard’s will only permits you to spend your income or you would keep things lively for all of us. I’ve an idea that it must have been Anthony Graham who put Judge Maynard up to making that kind of will. He must have remembered how you insisted on thrusting your money upon him at your first meeting and wished to save you from other impostors.”
Dick was laughing and it was perfectly self-evident that he was only saying what he had to tease his sister. For surely the Princess’ generosities had been a joke among her family and friends ever since she was a little girl. And she was still in the habit of rescuing every forlorn personshe saw, often with somewhat disastrous results to herself.
Betty jumped up quickly from her place at the table, her face suddenly grown white and her lips trembling.
“I won’t have you say things like that to me, Dick,” she returned angrily. “Anthony Graham had nothing in the world to do with the money Judge Maynard gave me, he has told you a hundred times he had not. But just the same I won’t have you call him an impostor. Just because you don’t approve of me is no reason why you should——” But finding her voice no longer steady Betty started hastily for the door, only to feel her brother’s arms about her holding her so close she could not move while he stared closely at her downcast face.
“What is the matter, Betty?” he asked quite seriously now. “It isn’t in the least like you to get into a temper over nothing. You know perfectly well that while all of us may reproach you for being so generous we would not have you different for anything in the world. As for my thinking Anthony Graham an impostor, the thing istoo absurd for any comment. You know he is my friend and one of the cleverest fellows in New Hampshire. Some day he will be a Senator at Washington, but I don’t think he’ll mind even then remembering who gave him his start. When he comes here at Christmas I mean to ask him and to tell him you thought it necessary to defend him against me.”
But by this time Betty had managed to pull herself away from Dick’s clasp. “If you speak my name to him I shall never forgive you as long as I live,” she announced and this time managed to escape from the room.
Utterly mystified Dick Ashton gazed at his wife.
“What on earth!” he began helplessly. And Esther nodded at Mollie.
“Won’t you find Betty?” she asked.
Mollie had already risen, but she did not go at once in search of her friend, for although Mollie O’Neill may not have had as much imagination as certain other girls she had a sympathy that perhaps served even better.
Out into the hall Esther followed herhusband, and after helping him into his overcoat she stood for an instant with her hand resting on his shoulder. In spite of the change in her circumstances and in spite of her own talent and Dick’s adoration there was never a day when Esther was not in her heart of hearts both humble and deeply puzzled by her husband’s ardent affection. Of course neither he nor Betty ever allowed her to disparage herself these days, but that had not changed the essential elements in Esther’s lovely nature.
“Dick, don’t try to understand,” she now said. “I don’t think we have exactly the right. Anthony and Betty were friends once, you know, and you were desperately afraid they might be something more. Well, I don’t think there is anything between them any longer; whether they have quarreled or not is exactly what I don’t know. Only if Betty should want to do any special thing for this little French girl, please don’t oppose her. It would be an interest for her and you know we don’t want her to spend her money on us. She will, you know, if she has any idea that there is anything either of us wish that we cannotafford to get. Already she says that she is determined to be an old maid so that her money can go to——”
Esther blushed but could not have finished her speech as her husband’s kiss at this instant made it impossible.
Dick turned to go, but came back almost immediately.
“See here, Esther, I would not think of interfering with any sensible thing the Princess may wish to do with her money. I only can’t let her be reckless. But about Anthony Graham. If you think he has treated Betty badly or hurt her feelings, or goodness knows what, well I won’t stand it for a single little instant. He will have to hear what I think of him——”
Positively Esther could feel herself turning pale with horror at her husband’s remark, but fortunately she had the good sense to laugh.
“Richard Ashton,” she said, “I am not often firm with you, but if you ever dare—Oh goodness, was there ever anything on earth quite so stupid as a man can be! No matter what may or may not have happened between Betty and Anthonythere is nothing that you or I can do or say. You know we interfered as hard as we possibly could with Betty’s German lover. We must leave the poor child to manage some of her own affairs alone. Anthony seems to be devoting himself to Meg these days. But he will be in Boston at Christmas, so perhaps if it is only a quarrel that has come between them they may make it up. But how do you suppose I am ever going to be able to get through with all my Christmas church music and give a dinner party with Miss Adams and Mr. Hunt present and perhaps have Betty’s Camp Fire girls here for an afternoon? The child has some scheme or other of taking them for a drive so that they may be able to see the Christmas decorations and then bringing them home for a party.”
“If it is going to tire you, Esther, we will cut it all out,” was Dr. Ashton’s final protest as he disappeared to begin his morning’s work. Dick had been taken into partnership with an older physician and his office was several blocks away.
At his departure Esther breathed a sighof relief. At least by dwelling on her own difficulties she had taken his mind away from Betty’s odd mood. She did not understand her sister herself, but certainly she must be left alone.
Late that afternoon when Betty and Mollie had been doing some Christmas shopping in Boston and were sitting side by side on the car, Betty whispered unexpectedly:
“See here, Mollie, do you think by any chance it is possible that Polly O’Neill could have written me that letter about the little French girl? Yes, I realize the question sounds as though I had lost my mind, as Polly may be in South America for all I know. Besides, the child never heard of Polly until I mentioned her in talking of our old club. But somehow, for a reason I can’t even try to explain, I keep thinking of Polly these days as if there was something she wanted me to do and yet did not exactly know how to ask it of me. It used often to be like that, you know, Mollie, when we were younger. Polly and I could guess what was in the other’s mind. We often madea kind of game of it, just for fun. Anyhow you will have to try and see what is making that poor child so miserable, as she seems to like you better than she does me. Perhaps it is because you are so like Polly.”
Quietly Mollie nodded. Of course Betty was absurd in her supposition; yet, as always, she was perfectly willing to help in any practical way that either her erratic sister or Betty suggested.
On Christmas eve Mollie and Betty each received notes written and signed by Polly herself, postmarked New York City, accompanying small gifts. Neither letter made any direct reference to what Polly herself was doing nor showed that she had any knowledge of what was interesting her sister or friend. Her information in regard to Mollie’s presence in Boston, she explained, had been received from her mother.
Well, of course, it was good news to hear that at least Polly was alive and not altogether forgetful of her old affections, yet there was no other satisfaction in the communications from her. Indeed the two letters were much alike and on reading her own each girl felt much the same emotion. They were loving enough and almost gay, yet the love did not seem accompanied by any special faith to makeit worth while, nor did the gayety sound altogether sincere.
Betty’s merely said:
“My Christmas thought is with you now and always, dear Princess. Trust me and love me if you can. You may not approve of what I am doing, but some day I shall try to explain it to you. I can’t ask you to write me unless you will send the letter to Mother and she will forward it. Do nothing rash, dear Princess, Betty, friend, while I am not near to look after you. Your always devoted Polly.”
With a little laugh that was not altogether a cheerful one, Betty also turned this letter over to Mollie. The two girls were in Betty’s bedroom with no one else present.
“Like Polly, wasn’t it, to tell me not to do anything rash when she was not around to run things?” Betty said with a shrug of her shoulders and a little arching of her delicate brows.
Mollie looked at her admiringly. Betty had not seemed altogether as she used tobe in the first few days after her arrival, but recently, with the coming of the holidays and the arrival of their old friends, she certainly was as pretty as ever. Now she had on an ancient blue silk dressing gown which was an especial favorite and her red-brown hair was loose over her shoulders. The two friends were resting after a strenuous day. In a few hours Esther was to give her first real dinner party and they had all been working together toward the great event.
“But why should Polly warn you against rashness under any circumstances?” Mollie returned, after having glanced over the note. “You are not given to doing foolish things as she is. I suppose because Polly is so dreadfully rash herself she believes the same of other people.”
There was no answer at first except that the Princess settled herself more deeply in her big Morris chair. Mollie was lying on the bed near by. Then she laughed again.
“Oh, you need not be so sure of my good sense, Mavourneen, as Polly used to call you. I may not be rash in the sameway that old Pollykins is, perhaps because I have not the same courage, yet I may not be so far away from it as you think. Only I wish Polly found my society as necessary to her happiness as hers is to mine. I simply dread the thought of a Christmas without her, and yet she is probably having a perfectly blissful time somewhere with never a thought of us.”
Hearing a sudden knock at their door at this instant Mollie tumbled off the bed to answer it. Yet not before she had time to reply, “I am not so sure Polly is as happy as you think.” Then the little maid standing outside in the hall thrust into her arms four boxes of flowers.
Nearly breathless with excitement Mollie immediately dropped them all into her friend’s lap.
“See what a belle you are, Betty Ashton!” she exclaimed. “Here you are almost a stranger in Boston and yet being showered with attentions.”
Gravely Betty read aloud the address on the first box.
“Miss Mollie O’Neill, care of Dr. Richard Ashton,” she announced, extending thepackage to the other girl with a mock solemnity and then laughing to see Mollie’s sudden blush and change of expression. A moment later the second box, also inscribed with Mollie’s name, was presented her. But the final two were addressed to Betty, so that the division was equal.
It was Mollie, however, who first untied the silver cord that bound the larger of her two boxes, and Betty was quite sure that the roses inside were no pinker or prettier than her friend’s cheeks.
“They are from Billy,” Mollie said without any hesitation or pretense of anything but pleasure. “He says that he has sent a great many so that I may wear them tonight and tomorrow and then again tomorrow night to the dance, as I care for pink roses more than any flower. It was good of Meg to ask Billy to come over for her College holiday dance. I should have been dreadfully embarrassed with one of Meg’s strange Harvard friends for my escort. And Billy says he would have been abominably lonely in Woodford with all of us away.”
Mollie’s second gift was a bunch of redand white carnations, bearing Anthony Graham’s card. “How kind of Anthony to remember me,” she protested, “when he was never a special friend of mine. But of course he sent me the flowers because I happened to be yours and Esther’s guest and he is coming here to dinner tonight with Meg. But do please be less slow and let me see what you have received.”
For almost reluctantly Betty Ashton seemed to be opening her gifts. Nevertheless she could not conceal a quick cry of admiration at what she saw first. The box was an oblong purple one tied with gold ribbon. But here at Christmastide, in the midst of Boston’s cold and dampness, lay a single great bunch of purple violets and another of lilies of the valley. Hurriedly Betty picked up the card that lay concealed beneath them. Just as Mollie’s had, it bore Anthony Graham’s name, and formal good wishes, but something else as well which to any one else would have appeared an absurdity. For it was a not very skilful drawing of a small ladder with a boy at the foot of it.
“Gracious, it must be true that John ismaking a fortune in his broker shop in Wall Street, as Meg assures me!” Betty exclaimed gayly the next moment, thrusting her smaller box of flowers away, to peep into the largest of the four offerings. “I did not realize John had yet arrived in Boston, Meg was not sure he would be able to be with her for the holidays. It is kind of him, I am sure, to remember me, isn’t it Mollie? And there is not much danger of my being unable to wear John’s flowers with any frock I have, he has sent such a variety. I believe I’ll use the mignonette tonight, it is so fragrant and unconventional.”
Betty spoke almost sentimentally and this state of mind was so unusual to her that for a moment Mollie only stared in silence. However, as her friend disappeared into the bathroom to begin her toilet for the evening Mollie remarked placidly, “The violets would look ever so much prettier with your blue dress.”
Esther’s round mahogany table seated exactly twelve guests. On her right was Richard Hunt, the actor, with Anthony Graham on her left, next him was Meg,then Billy Webster and Mollie O’Neill. To the right of Dr. Ashton, Margaret Adams had the place of honor, then came a Harvard law student who was a special admirer of Meg’s, then a new friend of Esther’s and then John Everett and Betty Ashton. As the entire arrangement of the company had been made through Betty’s suggestion, doubtless she must have chosen the companions at dinner that she most desired. Polly’s friend, Richard Hunt, sat on her other side with Meg and Anthony nearly opposite.
There had been no lack of cordiality on Betty’s part toward any one of their visitors. On Anthony’s arrival with Meg Everett she had thanked him for his gift in her most charming manner, but had made no reference to the card which he had enclosed nor to the fact that she preferred wearing other flowers than his. Meg was looking unusually pretty tonight and very frankly Betty told her so. Her soft blond hair was parted on the side with a big loose coil at the back and a black velvet ribbon encircled her head. Professor Everett was not wealthy and Meg’s college educationwas costing him a good deal, therefore she had ordinarily only a moderate sum of money for buying her clothes and no special talent for making the best of them. However, this evening her dress had been a Christmas gift from her brother John and, as it was of soft white silk and lace, particularly becoming to Meg’s pretty blondness. Her blue eyes were shining with a kind of veiled light and her color came and went swiftly. She seemed just as ingenuous and impulsive as she had ever been, until it was difficult to know what must be the truth about her. Several times during the evening Esther told herself sternly that of course Meg had a perfect right to accept Anthony Graham’s attentions if she liked, for there had never been any definite understanding between him and her sister, and indeed that she had disapproved of him in the past. Yet now Anthony Graham, in spite of his origin, might have been considered a good match for almost any girl. He was a distinguished looking fellow, with his brilliant foreign coloring, his dark hair and high forehead. Esther recalled having once felt keenly sorry forhim because the other girls and young men in their group of friends had not considered him their social or intellectual equal. Now he was entirely self-possessed and sure of himself. Yet he did seem almost too grave for their happy Betty; possibly it was just as well he had transferred his interest to Meg. No one could ever succeed in making Meg Everett serious for any great length of time. She was still the same happy-go-lucky girl of their old Camp Fire days whom “a higher education” was not altering in the least. Yet the “higher education” may have given her subjects of conversation worthy of discussing with Anthony, for certainly they spent a great part of the time talking in low tones to each other.
Betty appeared in the gayest possible spirits and had never looked prettier. Richard Hunt seemed delighted with her, and John Everett had apparently returned to the state of admiration which he had always felt when they had been boy and girl together in Woodford. Indeed Betty did feel unusually animated and excited; she could hardly have known why exceptthat she had spent a rather dull winter and that she was extremely excited at seeing her old friends again. And then she and Mr. Hunt had so much to say to each other on a subject that never failed to be interesting—Polly!
Neither he nor Miss Adams had the faintest idea of what had become of that erratic young person, although Margaret Adams had also received a Christmas letter from her. But where she was or what she was doing, no one had the faintest idea. It was evident that Mr. Hunt highly disapproved of Polly’s proceedings, and although until the instant before Betty had felt exactly as he did, now she rallied at once to her friend’s defense.
“Mr. Hunt, you must not think for an instant that Polly was ungrateful either to Miss Adams or to you for your many kindnesses, only she had to do things in her own Polly fashion, one that other people could not exactly understand. But if one had ever been fond of Polly,” Betty insisted, “you were apt to keep on caring for her for some reason or other which you could not exactly explain. Not that Pollywas as pretty or perhaps as sweet as Mollie.”
Several times during the evening Betty had noticed that every now and then her companion had glanced with interest toward Mollie O’Neill. However, when he now agreed with her last statement; she was not sure whether his agreement emphasized the fact of Mollie’s superior prettiness, or that Polly was an unforgettable character.
Without a doubt Esther’s and Dick’s first formal dinner party was a pronounced success. The food was excellent, the two maids, one of whom was hired for the occasion, served without a flaw. There was only one trifling occurrence that might have created a slight disturbance, and this situation fortunately Betty Ashton saw in time to save.
She happened to be sitting at the side of the table that faced the windows. Earlier in the evening one of these windows had been opened in order to cool the room and the curtain left partly up. The wind was not particularly high and no one seemed to be inconvenienced. But most unexpectedly toward the close of the dinner a gale musthave sprung up. Because there was a sudden, sharp noise at the window and without warning the blind rolled itself to the topmost ledge with startling abruptness, as if some one had pulled sharply at the cord and then let go.
Then another noise immediately followed, not so startling but far more puzzling. The first racket had caused every member of the little company to start instinctively. Then at the same instant, before Richard Ashton, who chanced to be pouring a glass of water for Margaret Adams, could get up from his place, Betty turned to Richard Hunt. John Everett happened to be talking to his other neighbor at the moment.
“Mr. Hunt,” Betty asked quickly, “won’t you please close that window for us? It is too cold to have it open and besides one does not altogether like the idea that outside persons might be able to look into the room.”
Perhaps Richard Hunt was just a moment longer at the window in the performance of so simple a task than one might have expected, but no one observed it.
As he took his place again and Betty thanked him she looked at him with a slight frown.
“Did you see a ghost, Mr. Hunt?” she queried. “It is not a comfortable night even for a ghost to be prowling about. It is too lonely an occupation for Christmas eve.”
Richard Hunt smiled at his companion in return. “Oh, I am always seeing ghosts, Miss Ashton,” he answered; “I suppose it is because I have an actor’s vivid imagination.”