“Humph!” Miss Patricia grunted in a tone of doubt.
Mrs. Graham laughed, slipping her arm affectionately through that of Miss Patricia.
“We really were coming indoors. But look here, Aunt Patricia, if Polly and the Camp Fire girls object to being treated as if they were young and in need of advice and sometimes of discipline, while I am with you, suppose you devote yourself to me. It would be delightful to be treated as if I were a girl again, instead of the mother of a grown-up son and daughter.”
“You have a lovable nature, Betty Graham, which I think your daughter, Bettina, has in a measure inherited. Polly O’Neill Burton, I regret being forced to speak of it, is a spoiled and ungrateful woman.”
Mrs. Burton, who had been walking a few feet apart from her companions, now flushed and laughed. Catching up, she slipped her hand through Miss Patricia’s free arm, resting her head for an instant against the angular shoulder.
“I may be the one, but you know I am not the other, Miss Patricia Lord! Besides, I am as ashamed of you as I am of myself for being in such a bad temper.
“Look at our cabin how beautiful it is! Let us ask Tahawus, the great cloud, to keep us under his shelter for the night. I hope the Camp Fire girls are safe in bed. Sometimes, Betty, I could wish that none of them need ever grow older.”
“A wish in which they would scarcely concur, Polly. One wants the life adventure whatever it may be. Besides, our Camp Fire builds for the future as well as for the present.”
Having reached the veranda, Bettina Graham, hearing the voices outside, came to open the front door; wearing a heavy blue flannel wrapper over her blue pajamas, her bare feet were thrust into blue slippers and around her small head her hair was closely bound in yellow braids.
“I have been waiting to say good-night. Of course I realized that any truants would be you and Tante, mother.”
“Bettina,” her mother replied irrelevantly, “you should have been called Diana; your own name has never suited you in the least and it was absurd that you should have been named for me when you are so unlike me. Since I have been watching you here in these woods——”
Bettina and Mrs. Burton laughed and even Aunt Patricia smiled grimly.
“Is it my present costume which recalls the famous huntress, mother, or is it that the woods are making you romantic? Please remember that I do not enjoy being reminded that I am wholly unlike my beautiful mother. I too have wished for auburn hair—wine colored our young poet called it to-night, did he not?—and eyes like——?”
“Go to bed, Bettina. There is nothing of the goddess about you in manner or behavior at this moment.”
Mrs. Graham’s tone was half amused and half annoyed.
“Nevertheless, you will receive the poems in the morning. Gill and I really rescued the poet and deserve the attention,” Bettina answered, as she ran away to bed, tall and slim, with a peculiar grace of movement which ever had been characteristic of her.
In the return of the Camp Fire girls to their own country there was one of the girls who was unreservedly glad. Not one word of regret, not an instant of repining for foreign lands, or scenes or friends, and this girl was Sally Ashton, notwithstanding the fact that Sally actually had been through more entertaining experiences than the other girls. However, these experiences had made but slight spiritual impression upon her, for Sally was a matter-of-fact and not an emotional person. She had nursed Lieutenant Fleury under curious circumstances in the story called “The Camp Fire Girls on the Field of Honor”, but neither then nor afterwards had the young French lieutenant’s gratitude and affection for her wakened more than a friendly response. The same result followed her acquaintance with the young Englishman in “The Camp Fire Girls in Merrie England.” Calmly Sally had announced in both instances that her own affection was indissolubly bound up with her own country and that her one desire was to return to the United States and to spend the rest of her life there.
At present living with the Camp Fire girls in their cabin in the Adirondacks, Sally had become her placid and contented self. The war was over and she need not reflect upon the past, since it was of no avail to make herself unhappy with old memories.
Moreover, although not particularly fond of the mountains, Sally preferred living in the country to the town and was now particularly pleased with their household arrangements.
The camp in which they were planning to spend the winter was a more expensive mode of living than the Camp Fire girls appreciated and was possible only because of Miss Patricia Lord. Upon Captain and Mrs. Burton’s small estate, the last few years in Europe had made serious inroads. Indeed, one of the reasons for Mrs. Burton’s desire to return to her stage career was in order to increase their fortune. Her husband, Captain Richard Burton, was a number of years her senior and although an actor at the time of their marriage had no desire to continue his former profession. In the past years of Red Cross work he had lost interest and was out of touch with his old life and at present was continuing his Red Cross work, holding a position at a small salary in Washington.
None of these details of other lives disturbed Sally Ashton. She was merely aware that their new camp was beautiful and comfortable and that she had the right to look forward to a long and peaceful winter. She and her sister, Alice, had spent a few months with their mother and father near Boston in the interval of their return from England and their arrival in the Adirondacks and were expecting their mother and father as guests at Christmas. Indeed, there were plans for a Christmas house party which would tax the capacity of the big cabin.
Ordinarily the Camp Fire work was divided so that the girls were allowed to devote their energies to the tasks they preferred, and as Sally was more domestic in her tastes than any member of the Sunrise Camp Fire group, she was frequently allowed first choice.
At present she had elected to have charge of the big living-room of the cabin and at this moment was engaged in putting it in order.
She looked extremely young and pretty in her big blue apron which she wore over a brown serge frock, the girls having concluded to lay aside their khaki costumes, except on ceremonial occasions, because of the cold. Her brown hair, parted a little at one side, was brushed smoothly down across her forehead and into a large soft coil at the back of her head. Over it she wore a net, but little tendrils of curling brown hair showed on her temples and throat. Sally’s skin, ordinarily of a clear, warm pallor, was at present at its loveliest because she was especially happy and well. To Sally happiness meant peace and contentment rather than intensity of emotion or the constant movement of events.
She leaned down now to thrust some white birch sticks under the great log that smouldered at the back of the mammoth fireplace. Behind the cabin the winter fire logs were piled so high as to suggest an old time pioneer fortification prepared against an attack by the Indians.
Then when Sally arose she glanced about the big room.
The floors were covered with thick, brightly colored rugs for warmth and cheerfulness. Until the advent of the Sunrise Camp Fire girls, the room had been conspicuously a man’s room. As a matter of fact, Tahawus cabin had been erected to serve as a clubhouse for a group of wealthy men who wished to enjoy the winter sports. But losing interest, Miss Patricia Lord had been able to rent it for the year.
In the center of the room stood a long, heavy oak table sufficiently large for any number of books, magazines and newspapers. The chairs were upholstered in brown leather, while upon the stained walls were several fine paintings of scenes in the Adirondacks. The sofa was long enough for two of the Camp Fire girls to find repose at the same time. Above the mantel was a magnificent elk’s head.
As a man’s club room, the room may have been appropriate, but for their purpose the Camp Fire girls and their guardian found it unsympathetic. The changes they had made were not important, and yet its entire character had altered.
On the mantel were the Camp Fire candlesticks holding the three Camp Fire candles and Indian baskets and jars filled with autumn leaves, bright red berries and branches of bayberry.
To-day on the center table was a big bowl of golden roses sent to Mrs. Burton by an admirer of her work who but recently had learned of her return to the United States. There was a basket of brightly colored wool, the property of Mrs. Graham, who rashly had promised to knit each member of the Camp Fire a new sweater before the winter was over.
On a smaller table was Sally’s own basket of silk. Notwithstanding the amusement of the other girls, she had begun to piece together an old-fashioned octagonal quilt, following a pattern of half a century before.
Indeed, there were many feminine evidences about the room, some of them too subtle to be recognized immediately.
Satisfied with her scrutiny, Sally seated herself in a large chair before the fire.
Breakfast had been over for an hour or more and the big cabin was almost empty. Miss Patricia Lord was outdoors giving orders to the man who came in the mornings and afternoons to look after the furnace and do whatever work it was impossible for the girls to accomplish. Mrs. Burton was in her own room writing letters or resting. Mrs. Graham, Bettina and Marguerite Arnot had driven over to Saranac, several miles away, to do some important shopping. The other girls were studying in one of the smaller cabins. It was one of the rules for the winter that each member of the Sunrise Camp Fire club should devote three hours a day to some kind of fairly serious study save on holidays.
Sally personally felt that she should follow their righteous example and yet at the present moment could scarcely make up her mind to be so virtuous.
Slipping a box from her pocket, she placed a chocolate between her small white teeth. The box had come through the mail the other day with a note from Dan Webster, her old childhood friend. In Paris he had suggested that she should come home before her other friends. He now expressed himself as pleased at her return. The letter struck Sally as not so enthusiastic as she had the right to expect. Dan Webster always had been her especial friend since they were children. However, he was busy, having recently taken full charge of his father’s farm in New Hampshire, so Sally presumed he was too absorbed to give much thought to her.
Hearing a sound outside in the hall, she got up and went to the open door. The hall was nearly half the size of the living-room with a second large fireplace. Mary Gilchrist had just come in from the outdoors.
“Why, Gill, I thought you were out for an early morning walk! I heard Bettina say we were not to expect you at breakfast as you had made yourself a cup of coffee and some toast and would not return until we had finished. How white you look! Are you worrying over what almost happened yesterday? Gill, it bores me so to have people worry over the tragedies or the misfortunes that do not occur. Alice says that is because I have a practical and unemotional nature. Perhaps that is true, I do not know; it only seems to me a waste of time and energy. Elce was not hurt yesterday, not seriously. She slept perfectly and says her arm is not painful. Yet you look as if you were seriously ill.”
Mary Gilchrist, who was sometimes called Gill and sometimes Mary by the other Camp Fire girls, smiled at Sally’s matter-of-fact manner.
“You are a comfortable person, Sally, and usually I agree with what you have just said and try to follow your illustrious example. Only at present I feel as if I ought to do some kind of penance for my fault. I came to have a quiet talk with Mrs. Burton, and to ask her if she feels I have forfeited my right to be a member of her Camp Fire group.”
Smiling, Sally shook her head.
“Oh, you need not trouble over any criticism from Tante! Only on the most unexpected occasions is she ever stern and I am sure she will appreciate that you were sufficiently frightened not to be so reckless a second time. By the way, I must tell you something amusing in order to cheer you.
“Early this morning as I was coming to breakfast I heard some one at the front door. Opening it I discovered the youth you and Bettina rescued yesterday. He was wearing a bright scarlet tam-o-shanter and a velvet coat and had a crimson scarf about his neck, and really looked rather handsome. I met him at dinner yesterday evening, but he was not in the least concerned in speaking to me and made no pretence of recognizing me. At once he demanded Mrs. Graham. When Aunt Betty came out into the hall he thrust a leather case into her hands and asked her to read his collection of unpublished poems.
“Aunt Betty was of course very sweet and gracious about it, but I heard her moaning over the fact afterwards that actually there are fifty poems. Bettina counted. She and Tante were laughing over the fact after breakfast, since Aunt Betty insists she detests poetry and has scarcely read a line of it in years. However, the poet appeared to think she would be delighted with the opportunity!”
Mary Gilchrist frowned.
“Oh, I wish the poet and his poetry might vanish together. In fact, if I knew where Mrs. Graham had placed the masterpieces I should like to light a blaze with them. It is absurd of me, Sally, but I took a dislike to the youth and afterwards my own behavior made me dislike him the more, as though he were partly responsible. But do go for a walk, Sally, you love the indoors as much as I do the open country. It is a wonderful morning and will do you lots of good.”
Half an hour later, slightly against her will, as she preferred the open fire and her sewing, Sally Ashton and the little Lancashire girl started for a walk together. Mrs. Burton had sent word that Chitty was in need of amusement and Sally had volunteered her services.
Now like children they danced through the pine woods behind the camp, sometimes walking sedately, at others running a few steps, frightening the squirrels and chipmunks, who came out and seated themselves on the upper branches of the trees to chatter and scold.
“You do not appear in the least uncomfortable from your injury yesterday,” Sally remarked, after protesting that they walk more quietly. “Nevertheless, suppose we sit down and rest for a few moments. I am not a gypsy, although I remember you once said that you would like to be one.”
The younger girl, who was a daughter of an English miner, sat down on a bed of pine needles facing Sally, who preferred the trunk of a riven tree.
“Yes, I used to talk of wishing to be a gypsy, but that was before I went to Ireland with my father and we attempted to live like gypsies. Then we used to go about through the villages, where I had to sing in the streets for pennies in the wind and rain and cold. Sometimes we slept indoors but more often in stables and lofts, until I was often too weary to sing. Then my father grew tired of the wandering life and wished to return to the army. Now I think what I wished was to live in a forest like this and always to be happy and free.”
Sally’s brown eyes were slightly puzzled. The little girl’s nature was an enigma to her, as it was to most persons. Freedom seemed Chitty’s one dream, and yet she could scarcely have known what the great word signified even for her own small, individual life.
“Suppose you sing for me if you feel well enough, Chitty. I have not heard you for a long time, you only sing when you are out of doors unless some one urges you. I am sleepy, so you can feel as if you were almost entirely alone.”
Sally lifted up her head to watch a gleam of golden sunlight slant through the exquisite cool darkness of the pine branches and to see the long, delicate fingers of the pines tremble in the light winds.
Then suddenly her eyes dropped toward her lap.
If she were not musical, if she were not emotional, if she cared little for the outdoors and more for the sheltered places and life’s serenities, yet the little Lancashire girl’s gift set even her pulses stirring.
Scarcely a proper definition to call the variety of sounds which Chitty poured forth with the ease and unconsciousness of a mocking-bird, singing. There were trills, gay and high and poignant, then a low note like a sob, then light ripples like wind blowing over the water, then bold, straightforward whistles, or the plaintive notes of a wood dove.
Never had the effect been more magical to Sally’s ears.
Then suddenly, without being aware of any particular reason, she turned her eyes and glanced in another direction.
Seated not many yards away and directly facing her was one of the strangest figures she had ever seen. The man was so nearly the color of the bark of the tree that he might have been carved out of wood. His hair and skin were a coppery brown, he had a short beard of the same shade and eyes that were only slightly more brown. He did not look very old, although his clothes were old and shabby. He wore a leather coat and knee breeches and was without a hat. Listening with absolute intensity to Chitty’s music, he seemed scarcely aware of their existence.
When she ceased, he got up and Sally saw that he apparently wished to speak to them, and yet could not make up his mind to alarm them.
As a matter of fact, Sally was not in the least frightened.
“I have not spoken to any human being in more than a month,” the stranger said in dull, even tones as if he were deaf.
“Why?” Sally Ashton inquired in her usual matter-of-fact fashion. “There are many people who come to the Adirondack forests and there are towns and villages and cities not many miles away. You must choose not to speak to anyone. Are you a hermit?”
The man answered slowly:
“I call myself a hunter and a woodsman. My cabin is a good many miles from any road and in the summer when the mountains are filled with tourists I remain near my own place. But now that the winter is approaching and the woods beginning to be deserted save by those of us who live here I roam about in search of food and change of scene.”
“Have you always lived here?” Sally demanded with her accustomed bluntness. “Otherwise you must be in hiding because of some trouble or secret you wish to conceal.”
For a moment the man stared in silence, either angry or amazed.
“I have not lived here always,” he replied evasively, “but there are men in these woods who have been here since boyhood. One day you may meet a backwoodsman who is a great preacher here in God’s tabernacle of the outdoors. You have not told me why I find you in the forest when the autumn days are passing?”
Sally shrugged her shoulders.
“Oh, I am afraid you will not find this portion of your woods deserted for many months. With a number of other girls and some older friends we intend spending the winter in these hills. But good-day.”
Stretching forth her hand, Sally took hold of the younger girl’s, intending to walk back to their own cabin. If their new acquaintance did not alarm her, there was something in his manner which rendered her uncomfortable.
For a Moment the Man Stared In Silence
For a Moment the Man Stared In Silence
He was not glancing toward her at the present instant, but toward the little English girl.
“Who taught you to sing in that fashion?” he inquired. “But there, that was a stupid question! No one could have taught a child like you. You have a great gift and for a little while were able to make me forget what I have not forgotten in many years. Some day I may again be your uninvited audience. Good-by.”
Then the two girls stood watching the figure disappear into a denser portion of the woods, and Sally said with a little frown:
“Odd! At first I was under the impression that our new acquaintance was a backwoodsman, I mean a man without an education except a knowledge of the outdoors, but now I am uncertain. In fact, I am sure he was once a different character of person and came to the forest to escape some sorrow or wrong doing. However, as I hate mysteries I trust we shall not meet him again; probably we never shall.”
Since the encounter had really been of no importance and there were many other things on her mind, an hour later Sally had forgotten the occurrence. In truth, at the time it did not appear to her or to Chitty as of sufficient interest to mention to any member of the Camp Fire.
During the afternoon for several hours Sally remained in the study in the smaller cabin working at her French and writing a letter in French to a member of the first Camp Fire club established in the city of Paris. Then, at a quarter before four, she disappeared to her own room, where she made a quick toilet and came down to the big living-room in the main cabin.
From four to five o’clock was the pleasantest hour of the day. The habit of afternoon tea so firmly established during the summer in “Merrie England” was now continued under different conditions in the heart of the North woods.
Nearly all the members of the Sunrise Camp Fire who were together for the winter season, Sally found seated in a wide circle before the open fire.
Standing beside the tea wagon, which she had just rolled into the room, was her own sister, Alice Ashton, who had remained in France with Miss Patricia Lord and Vera Lagerloff to continue the reconstruction work after the other Camp Fire girls had crossed to England with their Camp Fire guardian.
Alice Ashton was a tall, serious girl with reddish hair and blue eyes, entirely unlike Sally in appearance and disposition.
Kneeling before the fire at this moment and toasting thin slices of bread to a beautiful brownness was Vera Lagerloff, who was an American girl notwithstanding her foreign name. This was due to the fact that her parents were Russians. Vera was born in the United States and was an American enthusiast.
Not far away seated in a low chair, a pile of lavender silk in her lap, was Marguerite Arnot, her dark head bent over her work. Older than the other Camp Fire girls by a year or more, Marguerite Arnot was actually a French girl who had been received as a member of the Sunrise Camp Fire under exceptional conditions. Brought into their household in “Glorious France” as Miss Patricia Lord’s protégée, later she had become one of their number. Her presence in the United States was due to the fact that she had yielded to Mrs. Burton’s and to Bettina Graham’s persuasion and had decided to make her home in America and to go on with her work. Of gentle breeding and education, Marguerite Arnot and her mother were dressmakers in Paris, until her mother’s death during the war had left the girl ill and alone. Not long after she had the good fortune to make the acquaintance of Miss Patricia Lord.
At present Miss Patricia Lord was seated behind the rest of the group, reading a lengthy report she recently had received from France, concerning a home for war orphans that she was building in the neighborhood of one of the great French battlegrounds. Every now and then, however, her glance wandered from the paper in her hand to the figure of a younger woman, half seated and half reclining in a great chair near the tea table.
Mrs. Burton, the Camp Fire guardian, whose figure was more slender than a young girl’s, was wearing a heavy, red-corded silk tea gown; the firelight playing on her dusky hair, on her white face with the long delicate chin and high cheek bones.
Seated on a stool beside her, with her head resting in the palms of her hands, was the youngest member of the household, the small daughter of an English miner. Chitty’s hair was even blacker than Mrs. Burton’s, her skin darker and more sallow, and her eyes large, black and wistful. A peculiarity of the little girl was that she rarely ever talked unless a question were addressed to her directly, expressing herself chiefly through her music.
At a table with her back to the others, Mary Gilchrist, who recently had requested the Camp Fire girls to use her father’s name for her, Gill, rather than Mary, apparently was deeply engaged with a history of the North woods which she seemed to be reading. Ordinarily one of the gayest and most animated of the group of Camp Fire girls, since her reckless action the day before she had been uncommonly silent and subdued.
Bettina Graham and her mother had not yet entered the room and tea had not been served.
“Is that you, Sally dear? I have scarcely seen you all day. Tell me what you are thinking of while you stand there studying our Camp Fire circle.”
The other girls, attracted by Mrs. Burton’s speech, looked over toward Sally, who often was unexpectedly amusing.
Coming further into the room, Sally stood close beside the Camp Fire guardian’s chair.
“Do you want really to hear what I was thinking, Tante? I was considering the fact that our Sunrise Camp Fire at present was smaller in number than I ever have known it to be and that I am sorry. Yvonne Fleury has returned to live with her brother at the Château Yvonne, Gerry is married and she and Felix in California, and now Peggy is no longer with us. Naturally, as she is planning to marry after Christmas, she wishes to be with her mother and father. Well, thank goodness we shall have her for a visit at Christmas time!”
Sally’s reply was so unexpected that there was a short silence in the big room, broken only by the crackling of the wood fire.
The loss of Peggy Webster as a member of the Sunrise Camp Fire group was perhaps more keenly felt than that of any other girl.
The daughter of Mrs. Burton’s twin sister, Mollie O’Neill, who afterwards became Mrs. Daniel Webster, Peggy had been particularly devoted to her aunt and, as Mrs. Burton had no children of her own, was more like her own daughter. Moreover, Peggy and Bettina Graham, Sally and Alice Ashton had been intimate friends since they were tiny children, long before they had any acquaintance with the later members of their Camp Fire group. Peggy possessed a singularly vital personality and was generous, ardent and sweet.
“Sally, if you love me do not speak of Peggy’s absence or of her approaching marriage. She is too absurdly young! And yet I presume I must have given my consent as Peggy declared she would not marry without it, although she and Ralph Merritt already feel they have waited a long time. Sally, I feel as you do that our Camp Fire circle is becoming too small. Perhaps we shall grow too centered in one another and not so helpful as we wish to be. What would you suggest as a remedy?”
There was no immediate reply, the other girls as well as Sally Ashton pondering the question.
“Why, I presume we ought to invite other girls to join our Sunrise club,” Sally answered a moment later. And although her reply was neither original nor startling, it was received with unsympathetic silence.
“You have the most unfortunate fashion, Sally, of saying things other people would prefernotto hear,” Alice Ashton remarked with sisterly severeness. Then, before any one else had an opportunity to speak, the living-room door opened and Mrs. Graham and Bettina entered.
“Glad you have arrived at last, Betty, we have been waiting tea for you and Bettina. I was just about to send one of the girls to find out what had become of you. Vera has made a wonderful lot of toast and we don’t wish it to grow cold.”
“Sorry to have delayed you,” Mrs. Graham replied, “but the most extraordinary thing has occurred. I am glad to find all of you gathered together here at the same time. This morning the young fellow, Allen Drain, who had dinner with us, brought me a collection of his unpublished poems which he wished to have me read. They were in a black leather portfolio about a foot square. When I drove to Saranac this morning I left the portfolio on a small table in Bettina’s and my bedroom. Since my return Bettina and I have searched for more than an hour and can find no sign of it. Did you, Polly, or any of the girls take possession of it? I cannot believe Aunt Patricia would be interested. Some one of course must have moved it. I don’t mean to be cross, but I think I should have been told. Bettina and I have had an uncomfortable hour of searching. Yet, whoever loved the poems better than I shall be forgiven as soon as they are restored to me.”
There was no immediate reply, Mrs. Burton, Aunt Patricia and the girls glancing at one another, each expecting the other to plead guilty.
“Well, confess, please, won’t some one? I am sure the poet would be flattered if he learned what has occurred,” Mrs. Burton added. “I am sorry, Betty. You should have come at once and asked, rather than tired yourself by searching.”
“Never a sign of the poet’s manuscript have I beheld!” Alice Ashton returned.
“I am guiltless, Mrs. Graham, but why did you not let me know so that I might have helped you look?” Marguerite Arnot answered.
One by one each separate member of the little circle announced an utter lack of information with regard to the lost portfolio, save Mary Gilchrist, who had gone on with her reading after Bettina and her mother’s entrance into the living-room.
“Mary, I wonder if by any chance you noticed the manuscript of the poems in Mrs. Graham’s room when I asked you to find a magazine for me this morning?” Mrs. Burton inquired.
Mary Gilchrist glanced up from the pages of her book, flushing slightly.
“No, I don’t recall seeing the manuscript, but really I cannot appreciate why Mrs. Graham should be so concerned. I have an idea the poems were of no value; probably some one thought they were waste paper and they were thrown into the fire.”
“But, Gill, I don’t believe you understand the situation,” Bettina Graham remonstrated. “Whether or not the poems were of value they must represent years of work and thought to Mr. Drain. I have no doubt they mean more to him than we can well imagine. Besides, the poems were entrusted to mother’s keeping and it would be simply too dreadful if they could not be found!”
Shrugging her shoulders slightly, Mary Gilchrist resumed her reading, while Mrs. Graham sat down beside the Camp Fire guardian.
“Don’t trouble, Betty dear, I am distressed that you have been uneasy, but let’s have tea and then begin a more thorough search of the entire house. The manuscript of course is only tucked away somewhere out of sight and will soon be found. Poor young poet, nothing so tragic could have happened as that his verse should be lost!”
“You don’t suppose, Polly, that by any unlucky chance, if the portfolio is not discovered the boy has no copies of his verses? I scarcely dare face him unless the original manuscript which he gave to me this morning with such pride and pleasure, is restored. I cannot even face the idea that the effort of the boy’s lifetime may be destroyed.”
“Nonsense, mother, drink your tea and afterwards we will return to the search! Nothing else has disappeared save the manuscript, which would scarcely attract an ordinary thief.”
“Perhaps the poet himself returned mysteriously and bore off his own handiwork, unable to be so long without it,” Mary Gilchrist suggested. No one made a reply.
Several days later Mary Gilchrist was again in the living-room in the early afternoon, but on this occasion she was alone.
At the piano in the corner of the room she was practising a number of new Camp Fire songs. During their shut-in winter in the mountains, music promised to be one of the principal relaxations, and, although not so good a pianist as Bettina Graham, Gill felt it her duty to regain a little of her lost skill, due to the failure to work at her music during the years spent abroad.
At present she was attempting a more ambitious effort, trying to capture and repeat the odd, musical notes that poured forth so spontaneously from the youngest of the Camp Fire girls. Meeting with scant success, she was so intent upon her effort that she was not aroused until the living room door opened and an unexpected guest entered.
As he did not glance in her direction, at the same instant Mary Gilchrist slipped from the piano stool and at once concealed herself behind a tall fire screen that had been placed near the wall. Her action was involuntary, since she scarcely had time for thought; nevertheless, once in her place of hiding, deliberately Gill made up her mind to remain where she was until she might escape without detection.
The visitor who had come into the living-room was Allan Drain.
They had not seen each other since their original meeting and Gill wished for no other. Not liking her present position, yet it appeared impossible to make her escape without being discovered and so obliged to speak with him alone.
Between a tiny opening in the screen she could behold a tall figure moving up and down before the fire, and afterwards quietly gazing into its depths. He looked older than she recalled and yet Gill felt that she disliked his appearance. The thin figure seemed theatrical and self-conscious and in a way effeminate, but then the type of youth she admired had great physical strength and courage, and Gill was convinced that the present unconscious actor was possessed of neither.
She was aroused from her reflections by a second opening of the door and the appearance of Mrs. Graham in the same room.
Dressed in a simple, dark blue serge, nevertheless she gave an effect of social elegance and grace. A remarkably pretty girl as Betty Ashton, as Mrs. Anthony Graham, the wife of a distinguished United States senator, her beauty and poise had increased with added years and opportunities.
Her abundant auburn hair had the lovely sheen which comes from careful attention, there were a few lines about her eyes, but except for these her skin was firm and clear with a bright rose color in her cheeks, her nose short and straight, her lips full and deeply curved.
Not able to catch her expression as she moved swiftly across the room and held out her hand to their guest, Gill was able to hear her first words and to wish that she had faced the situation in the beginning rather than place herself in her present position. No one in their household would be more vexed than Mrs. Graham to discover her in hiding.
Brought up by her father on their large wheat farm in the middle west, Mary Gilchrist had lived an outdoor life, and without a mother had been taught few of the social amenities. During the years abroad, her strength and endurance, her skill as a motorist, her somewhat boyish abilities had proved so useful that it had not occurred to Mary Gilchrist until her return to the United States that she was without the social knowledge and education that girls of her age and position should possess. Before her visit home, during the few weeks in New York City, she had been conscious of her own awkwardness, particularly appreciating the difference between her own manners and Bettina Graham’s. For this reason, as well as others, she was pleased over the Camp Fire’s choice of the Adirondack forest for their winter home. In a wide, free, outdoor atmosphere she would be once more at ease and undisturbed by her want of social knowledge.
Then, unexpectedly, Bettina’s mother, Mrs. Graham, had chosen to spend the winter with them and from the first moment of their introduction Gill had been able to understand why Bettina Graham had acquired a poise and graciousness no one of the other Sunrise Camp Fire girls possessed.
Moreover, what Bettina had in slight measure her mother possessed in fuller degree. Indeed, not alone to Mary Gilchrist’s untrained judgment, but among persons with the widest social acquaintance, Betty Graham was famous for her charm of manner and her gift for attracting men and women.
“I wrote to ask you to come to see me to-day for a special reason, Mr. Drain. But because I am sorrier than I can say I am going to explain to you at once and have the ordeal past. I shall not ask you to forgive me, only to appreciate my regret. Suppose we both sit down.”
Instinctively disliking Allan Drain, yet Mary Gilchrist realized that he also had a gracious and cultivated manner when he chose to employ it, as he did with Mrs. Graham. From her vantage point, Gill watched him draw a chair closer to the fire and wait until Mrs. Graham was seated, before seating himself near her.
“I cannot imagine why you should be asking my pardon for a mistake or a fault, but of course you know that I freely forgive you. The apology should come from me. I appreciated later that I ought not to have thrust my poor verses upon you to bore you and absorb your time when I knew you so slightly. The truth is I am lonely this winter and my scribbling means more to me than it warrants. My family are not in sympathy with my versifying or any of my views of life. There are no women among us, there is only my father, two older brothers and myself. They have worked very hard and are not prosperous and feel I ought to be grateful to my uncle for offering me the education they were not able to have.”
“Then it is all the more difficult for me to tell you, Mr. Drain, that the manuscripts of your poems which you entrusted to me have by some extraordinary chance vanished. I did not wish to tell you of this and so for days I have made inquiries and every member of our household has searched for the verses. Now I cannot conceive of what actually has become of them, and yet I am afraid I am beginning to lose hope of their being discovered. It is all the more mysterious because we have no maids, no one who could have thrown the papers away from sheer carelessness and then be unwilling to confess. Nevertheless, I do feel so guilty and responsible, for if I had locked the manuscript away instead of placing it on a small table in my bed-room along with some books and papers, this probably would not have occurred.”
Mrs. Graham leaned over and laid her hand lightly upon her companion’s.
“Do reproach me, please do not look so white and wretched. I know the loss of your verses means many days of your time. But if you will give me the privilege, in order to show you have in a measure forgiven me, I shall send for some one to come to you and do the typewriting for you a second time, or if you will permit Bettina to copy the poems, I am sure she will do her best.”
“But, Mrs. Graham, I have no other copies of my poems, except three or four which I have had the good luck to have published in second-class magazines. Two days before I brought my manuscript to you I got them all into shape and burned up and threw away the odd bits of paper upon which they had been written. The afternoon I met your daughter and her friends in the woods I had gone for a walk to celebrate the fact that my task was accomplished. As I was thinking more of my verses than the landmarks, I lost my way. But please, please don’t be so unhappy on my account. The fault was mine, not yours. I should not have troubled you. You’ll allow me to say good-by and come to see you another day. No use pretending, Mrs. Graham, that I am not a good deal cut up and that I don’t feel that fate has been pretty hard. You are sure that you have looked everywhere and that the manuscript has not merely been misplaced.”
“I’m afraid not. But really I don’t feel that I can accept the idea that your verses are lost forever. Surely you must recall some of them, or will find stray copies here and there!” There were tears in Mrs. Graham’s voice as well as in her eyes.
“Don’t stay any longer than you wish, if it only makes things harder for you. One would rather, I know, face disappointment alone. And don’t try to fight your resentment, I shall feel better the angrier you are with me.”
Allan Drain and Mrs. Graham arose at the same time, and Mary Gilchrist, scarcely realizing what she was doing, half followed their example, so that she was enabled to see the two figures over the top of her screen.
Mrs. Graham’s back was turned to her, but she could catch a glimpse of her companion’s face. He was painfully white, yet his lips were firmly closed and his expression showed less of the self pity than she anticipated.
“You are very brave, braver than I could possibly be in your place,” Mrs. Graham murmured. “If there was only something I could do, some possible way to make up to you I should not feel so unhappy. Yet for the loss of creative work there is no recompense.”