“Then you really did care, Dan, when you feared I was lost and that something tragic may have happened?”
“I always intended to find you, Sally.”
Yet Dan Webster looked troubled.
He was standing staring down at the girl who was sitting wrapped in a white woolen cape before the log fire at Tahawus cabin.
Somehow Sally Ashton appeared several years younger than before her adventure. She was paler, the lines of her face thinner and there was a little downward droop to the corners of her full lips.
“And yet in a way I did not find you after all! I was merely tramping through the woods calling your name when by accident I saw a figure moving toward me, the man whose little cabin you had stumbled into. Fate was kinder to you than you dream, Sally. Mr. Holden was on his way to your friends.”
Sally slipped further down into the large semi-invalid chair, ordinarily occupied by Mrs. Burton.
“Yes, and I implored him not to leave me alone, Dan. I know it was selfish of me and yet I wanted to wait till morning before sending any word. I don’t remember that I was so frightened when I was wandering around alone. I have not as much imagination as the other girls, besides at first I knew I must not allow myself to be terrified and afterwards, well, afterwards I suppose I really was too cold, Dan, to think or care for anything in the world save getting warm again. Yet I did think of mother and father and you. I don’t believe I thought of Alice.”
Sally’s face wore an odd, childish expression.
“Alice is so critical of me and of course getting lost and nearly freezing was partly my own fault and partly yours, Dan. But what I intended to tell you was that as soon as I recovered a little and had something warm to drink, hot coffee, or tea, and had rested, Mr. Holden—was that his name?—insisted that he must leave me and tramp to Tahawus cabin. It was miles away and I knew no one could get back before midnight. So suddenly it seemed to me I could not stay alone. Before it had been so silent and now I could hear strange sounds, the barking of little foxes, the calls of animals. I feared no one would return and I would be forever lost in the tiny hut.”
Sally shivered.
“Nevertheless Mr. Holden would go. He told me I would be entirely safe and could doubtless sleep until his return. Strange that I should have seen him before! It was one afternoon when Chitty and I were in the woods not far away and he sat listening to Chitty’s singing. I was puzzled by him then and am still puzzled. Did you ask him, Dan, why he lived like a hermit? I will some day, and I think he may tell me. Anyhow I am very grateful to him. And I was just falling asleep, Dan, when you came and found me. Then together you dragged me back on a sled. Do you know I have scarcely been wide awake since mother and father lifted me and brought me into the cabin. And yet I am still tired.”
Back among a pile of cushions Sally dropped her head as if she were not altogether displeased by her present condition.
Nevertheless, her companion watched her anxiously.
Dan Webster was a tall, splendid looking fellow, six feet in height, with blue eyes, coal-black hair and extraordinary physical vigor. He had been two years with the American army in France, but at present was only twenty-two.
“It is perfectly natural that you should be tired, Sally. I am only worried for fear we are doing too much talking. Your mother told me to keep you amused and away from all the excitement. One question I must ask. What did you mean by saying a few moments ago that I was in part responsible for your attempt to return to the cabin alone and being lost in consequence? Had I dreamed what you intended, I should never have allowed it. It really was nonsensical of you, Sally, to attempt to come home alone; you know you have less skill in outdoor things than the other Camp Fire girls and less courage.”
Sally frowned.
“Then all the more reason why you should not have left me alone, first to walk up the hill without even speaking to me and afterwards to stand and freeze while you continued to amuse yourself with Mary Gilchrist. Of course Gill is athletic and has lots of courage and is all the things I am not, but you have always pretended to be my friend, Dan, and I have not seen you since we parted in France. You told me then that I ought to return home because I had less ability to help with reconstruction work than the other Camp Fire girls. It is always the things I lack that you notice, isn’t it? But you are right, I am tired and would prefer not to talk any more. To think that to-morrow is not only Christmas but Peggy’s wedding day! Little did any of us dream that a white Christmas at Half Moon Lake would see the first wedding among our group of Sunrise Hill Camp Fire girls! If you don’t mind, will you leave me alone for a little while now, Dan? No, I don’t wish to sleep; there are several things I want to think about. I’ll see you to-night at supper.”
“I won’t go, Sally, until you explain what you meant.”
Lowering her eyelids as if intending to rest, Sally glanced at the tall figure towering above her, through half open eyes which afforded her a plain view of her companion, but concealed her expression from him.
There was something in Dan’s manner which pleased Sally.
He looked so strong and masterful and yet at the same time so hurt and puzzled. It always had been a comfort and an amusement that she understood him better than he would ever understand her.
“Why, I meant nothing except what I said, Dan.”
“But to talk of pretense in my friendship for you, Sally, is so nonsensical. I have cared for you ever since you were a little girl more than I have cared for any one save my own family. Of late, well, I might as well be honest, after I saw you in France I knew I cared more. I did not want to speak of this to you, Sally, not for a time. I feel as if somehow you were too young. I know of course that in France Lieutenant Fleury,[4]the young officer you nursed, liked you pretty well and then there was some Englishman, but they were foreigners and I suppose afraid to take a chance. I can’t say I blame them, although I did want you back in your own country for selfish reasons as well as for your own good.”
The girl’s brown eyes with their curiously golden depth were wide open at this moment.
“I really never could like any one except an American, Dan. I did not dream until I was in Europe how much I cared for my own country.”
Dan did not appear as pleased by this speech as might have been expected.
“There are more than a hundred million Americans, Sally, and I presume about ten million young men. Is it your idea that you care for them all alike because they are Americans?”
“Not alike,” Sally returned. “But about Mary Gilchrist?”
Dan flushed and looked as if he wished to make an angry retort. Then the sight of Sally sitting warm and safe and sweet before the open fire and the memory of the hours he had tramped the frozen earth hoping and yet dreading to discover her, softened him.
“About Mary Gilchrist you know there is nothing to say, Sally, know it fully as well as I. The other afternoon she needed some one to help with the toboggan. I was accustomed to the sport and fond of it and knew how to run things when the other fellows did not. To have remained with you, which I would prefer to have done, was to have affected everybody’s pleasure. If that is the reason why you started home alone, I think you were pretty hard on us all.”
To make a confession of a mistake was more difficult for Sally than for a more impetuous temperament, yet she answered with an air of unexpected penitence.
“Iamsorry, Dan. I was angry and piqued and jealous perhaps. So I suppose I deserved what happened to me, yet it was not fair to make mother and father and Tante and the others and you, Dan, uneasy.”
“Uneasy, well that is scarcely the proper word, Sally. I have never been more wretched in my life. I knew if I did not find you and if all was not well with you I should never have another happy moment.”
Dan spoke simply but with such complete sincerity that Sally made a little movement and saw his hand reach out as if he wished to touch her soft hair. Then the door opened and Mrs. Burton, the Camp Fire guardian, with her sister, Mrs. Webster, came into the living-room.
They were twin sisters, at one time Polly and Mollie O’Neill, and among the original group of Camp Fire girls.
They had resembled each other in the past, but the years and difference in temperament and experience at present made the likeness less apparent. Mrs. Webster had grown plump, there were lines of gray in her dark hair, her checks were bright and freshly colored. She had a look of gentle and dignified maturity. Save for the death of her son, Billy Webster,[5]her life had been one of happiness and fulfilment, devoted to her husband and her two children, Dan Webster and Peggy, and to her gifted sister, Polly O’Neill Burton, in the brief periods when they were able to be together. In fact, she looked ten years the elder; the other woman’s slender figure, her dark hair and brilliant eyes, her vividness held no suggestion of age.
“Sally, dear, your mother is asking for you and wants you to lie down for a little while. The truth is I believe she is afraid to have you out of her sight after your behavior the other evening. Dan, will you escort Sally? She seems to require some one to look after her at present, although she was once the Camp Fire heroine. Mollie and I wish to decide upon the arrangements of this room to-morrow. Peggy has left all details to the other Camp Fire girls and Bettina has asked our advice. I suppose the ceremony ought to be performed there between the two big windows with the white world of beauty outside as the background. But really, Mollie, how you can be willing to permit our only and beloved Peggy to be married in this abrupt fashion is beyond my comprehension.
“She came to us here at Tahawus cabin that we might have a brief visit together free from the thought of her marriage to Ralph Merritt in the spring and lo, Ralph, descends upon us and demands Peggy in thirty-six hours! It is too impossible; you and William should not have agreed.”
Mrs. Webster placed her arm about her sister.
“But, Polly, Peggy told you she would not dream of marrying Ralph in this abrupt fashion unless you consented and believed it the thing she should do. Not only are you her adored aunt, but you have been her Camp Fire guardian all these years and I am accustomed to the idea that she loves you, if not better, at least as well as she loves me. Now if you are to make yourself ill over this when you were getting stronger, why Ralph can go to China alone and Peggy wait until he is able to return for her. I shall tell her you have changed your mind and consented only because you did not wish her to be unhappy.”
“Well, suppose I did consent for that reason, Mollie, all the more reason why I mustnotchange my mind. We can have this room filled with Christmas evergreens and Ralph tells me he has ordered roses and lilies to be sent up from town. Our Peggy shall be ‘a white bride of winter’ and I promise to pretend that I do not hate all weddings save my own, and above all others the marriage of my Sunrise Camp Fire girls!”
The living-room at Tahawus cabin suggested an outdoor cathedral. Evergreens arched overhead; the walls were lined with green branches of holly, cedar and pine; while above the mantel and hanging from the chandelier were bunches of mistletoe, the white berries, like captured snowflakes.
Between the front windows swung a bell composed of mistletoe leaves with the clapper of the white berries. Underneath was an improvised platform with a background of green and stalks of lilies and roses.
Yet the wedding ceremony was to be of the simplest character with no outside guests.
On Peggy’s part this involved no especial sacrifice, since nearly every one she cared for deeply was at present in Tahawus cabin, her father having arrived with Ralph Merritt.
Ralph’s parents were the cause of the hurried wedding. Spending the winter in China, it had been their intention to return home in the early spring in order to be present at the marriage of their son and Peggy Webster. However, a cable announcing his mother’s serious illness, had urged Ralph to sail for China as soon as possible. And he had the good fortune at the last moment to persuade Peggy not to force him to make the long journey alone.
There was no opportunity for the purchase of wedding clothes, but Peggy was to spend several days in New York, where she could outfit herself for the journey.
The wedding was to take place at high noon, with a clergyman from Saranac officiating.
At exactly the moment of high noon, with the clock in the hall chiming twelve strokes, Peggy walked into the living-room on the arm of her father. Her brother, Dan, was best man and he and Ralph stood awaiting her.
Afterwards the Sunrise Camp Fire girls formed a semicircle about the bride, wearing simple toilettes of white serge which had been intended for the Christmas dinner party.
Peggy’s wedding dress was a white crepe de chine without trimming of any kind save an exquisite collar of Duchess lace, which Miss Patricia had unexpectedly produced as a wedding gift. Without a wedding veil Peggy looked as her family and friends were accustomed to seeing her at any time; her color never wavered, her dark eyes remained steadfast and untroubled, in fact she seemed less agitated than any one of the other Camp Fire girls.
Not far away from the little group the Camp Fire guardian stood between her husband and Miss Patricia. Having solemnly promised Peggy not to break down, her lips were firmly closed, her face white with two bright spots of color in her cheeks, yet her blue eyes less brilliant than usual.
Mrs. Webster cried softly during the ceremony, nevertheless, her lips continued to smile while her eyes were dim; her own marriage had proved so satisfying and, devoted to Ralph Merritt, she had the faith to believe that Peggy’s would be equally so.
Mary Gilchrist, whose position was at one of the ends of the semi-circle, toward the close of the ceremony glanced toward the group of people who were slightly more in the background—Mr. and Mrs. Ashton, and Philip Stead with Elspeth and David Murray behind them and David Hale a few feet away.
Beside the great fireplace Mrs. Burton was standing near Allan Drain, who always seemed to prefer her society to any other.
She had on a soft gray chiffon dress over silk. In an irrelevant fashion it occurred to Gill that Mrs. Burton was rather too close to the open fire.
The next instant the impression vanished as her interest in Peggy recurred. Yet the subconscious thought must have remained, for scarcely aware of her action a second time she turned her head to behold a little, light flame flare suddenly amid the folds of the soft material and spread with amazing rapidity.
She was a number of yards away and a movement on her part would interrupt the ceremony, now at its most solemn moment. Besides, Mrs. Burton, or some one near, must know what was occurring before she could dream of reaching her. Transfixed, she remained staring perhaps not thirty seconds. Then she saw Mrs. Burton utter a little cry that was almost soundless, so promptly was it suppressed. Not wishing to destroy the beauty of the ceremony or to attract attention, unwisely she turned to escape from the room and with her first movement the blaze so increased that she appeared to be standing in a circle of flame.
However, Allan Drain immediately threw his arms about her and was holding her still, while at the same time he was beating out the flames. The following instant David Hale, aware at last of the situation, snatched a heavy shawl from a chair, enfolded Allan Drain and Mrs. Burton inside it.
It was all so quickly and quietly accomplished that Peggy and the other Camp Fire girls had no knowledge of what had taken place until the service was ended.
The others had seen it, and yet for Peggy’s sake, as the danger was past, had made no outcry.
“But, Betty, I do not understand how you could have been so careless,” Mrs. Burton protested almost irritable from fright, when Peggy and Ralph had turned and were surrounded by their mother and father, the Camp Fire girls, Dan and Mr. and Mrs. Ashton.
Only Bettina and Mary Gilchrist moved over to the smaller group encircling Mrs. Graham and almost concealing her.
“I am not hurt, Bettina dear, don’t be alarmed. And, Polly, it was careless of me, I am sorry to have frightened you. No, I am perfectly all right, only I am afraid Allan Drain is hurt. I am so sorry, Allan, I seem to be your evil genius. Bettina, suppose you come with us and please don’t let any one else trouble; I would so regret disturbing Peggy’s and Ralph’s wedding. We will come back in a few moments.”
So the little group disappeared, accompanied by David Hale and Mary Gilchrist, who followed after them to offer assistance.
A quarter of an hour later they all returned to the living-room save Allan Drain. Mrs. Burton, having changed her dress, showed no trace of her recent peril and begged that there be no discussion of it.
Peggy and Ralph were to remain for Christmas dinner at two o’clock and afterwards to leave for New York.
The dinner was the usual Christmas feast, but because Miss Patricia was hostess, she had ordered from the great city beautiful favors and bonbons as well, the principal favor a tiny log cabin with a small camp fire glowing outside upon a little surface of crystal to represent the frozen earth.
Before four Peggy and Ralph departed, driven to Saranac by David Murray and soon after a slight atmosphere of depression descended upon Tahawus cabin.
The older members of the house party departed to their own rooms, including Bettina Graham who felt Peggy’s marriage more keenly than the other Camp Fire girls, besides being worried over the possible nervous shock to her mother from the catastrophe of a few hours before.
The Camp Fire guardian was about to drop down on her couch to rest, and Captain Burton sat reading by the fire, when a knock at the door of her bed-room, which Mrs. Burton opened, admitted Miss Patricia Lord.
“I came in for a moment to find out how you have borne the day’s excitement,” she began in a tone of unexpected gentleness. “You look rather better than I anticipated.”
Mrs. Burton put her arm about the angular figure and drew her down on the couch beside her.
“What does it feel like to be a Christmas fairy godmother, Aunt Patricia—unlike being a fairy godmother during the remainder of the year. But you look tired yourself, dear, or if not tired something is the matter. What is it?”
Miss Patricia’s expression was unusual, a little shamefaced and appealing, altogether unlike her ordinary air of command.
“I want you to do me a favor, Polly. I came in to ask you and Richard when I hoped to discover you alone. I have wished to find you some little Christmas offering, but could not be sure of what you might desire, besides being shut off up here. So I thought perhaps you might get what you wish and so keep me from making a mistake.”
Flushing, and not glancing toward Mrs. Burton, Miss Patricia thrust into her hand a small slip of paper, and when her eyes fell upon it she discovered it to be a check for a thousand dollars.
“This is merely a small Christmas gift, Polly, which I trust you will not speak of,” Miss Patricia announced in her more familiar tone of severity before the younger woman had an opportunity to respond.
“Richard,” Mrs. Burton said finally, her voice a little uncertain, “Aunt Patricia has just given us a check for a thousand dollars, which of course we cannot accept, chiefly because she is the most generous person in the world, and if she is permitted to go on in this fashion some day will have no money at all. Dear, you know I am everlastingly grateful and that Richard and I already owe you more than we would be willing to accept from any one else, but really we cannot take this as well. There is your home in France for war orphans which must absorb a portion of your capital and then the expense of this cabin and all you have done for me and the girls this winter. You know how deeply I appreciate the added gift, dear, but you must try and see that it is out of the question for Richard and me to be under further obligation.”
“Obligation!” Miss Patricia repeated. “Were you my own daughter, Polly—and a dozen times I have told you that I am as much attached to you as if you were—would you treat my gift in this fashion?”
“Why, yes, dear, I think so. Please do not be hurt, I have told you Richard and I could not accept gifts of money from you.”
Leaning over, Miss Patricia took the check from the younger woman’s hand, tossing it into the fire.
“I presume you agree with Polly, Richard, since you have made no remark,” she added. Then, notwithstanding their protests and effort at persuasion, she arose and stalked out of the room.
“You have wounded Aunt Patricia very deeply, I am afraid, Polly,” Captain Burton said the next moment. “However, I suppose you were right and that it was unavoidable.”
Mrs. Burton had flung herself down on her couch.
“Of course I was right, Richard, and you need not have placed the entire responsibility of the refusal upon me. Do you suppose I enjoy wounding Aunt Patricia any more than you do? Was there ever any one so dear and so difficult? She will not forgive me in many a day! The truth is, Richard, Aunt Patricia has conceived the idea that you are worried over some money difficulty and would like to give us a good deal more money if we should need it. Can she by any chance be right?”
Rising, Captain Burton walked over to the fireplace and stood looking into the fire.
“Yes, Polly, Aunt Patricia is never altogether mistaken. One can trust always to her wisdom and kindness. We have some investments which of late have not been turning out so well as I hoped. Yet at present there is no occasion to be troubled; after a little they will adjust themselves. I beg of you not to worry or in any way to allow the idea to interfere with your recovery.”
“You are telling me the truth, Richard? I object to being treated like a child or an invalid when I am neither. I am ever so much better and there is no reason now why I should not be allowed to return to work. In a year I feel convinced I could again be fairly successful.”
“Please do not refer to the subject, Polly. Before I should agree to such rashness I would appeal to Aunt Patricia. However, there is no necessity.”
“But you promise to let me know if there should be a necessity.”
At first Captain Burton made no reply and then said smiling:
“Polly, there are times when I agree with Aunt Patricia, that you are a trying person. I presume I shall be forced to tell you, but there will be no occasion.”
During this discussion the living-room of Tahawus cabin was gradually being deserted.
Dan Webster, David Hale, Philip Stead with Alice Ashton, Marguerite Arnot and Vera Lagerloff had departed for an hour’s walk, the other girls having declined for various reasons. Alone before the fire with an open book, Allan Drain was trying to amuse himself and to forget the pain whose existence he steadfastly had been denying. There was nothing serious the matter, save that his hands had been burned, and, in spite of the cooling bandages in which they were wrapped, continued to ache.
With difficulty he could turn the pages of his book, so that he immediately heard the rustle of a soft silk gown and glanced up to find Mrs. Graham beside him. She had taken off her more formal dress and was wearing a light blue tea gown.
“I came in to ask if there was anything I could do for you, Allan? I am afraid you are pretty uncomfortable in spite of your denial of the fact. I have been wishing there was some way in which I could make up to you for the loss of your verses, but instead I am more than ever under obligation. I don’t intend to allow myself to think of what might have happened this morning except for your presence of mind and courage. What are you reading?”
“A volume of new plays, some one seems to have sent Mrs. Burton. I did nothing for you this morning; it was David Hale who really rescued us both, Mrs. Graham. Yet there is something you can do for me. I wonder if I am asking too much? Could you, would you ask Mrs. Burton to glance over a one-act play I lately have been struggling to write? A single word, or suggestion from her would be the greatest help and inspiration to me, more than you can dream. It is not that I think my little play is worth anything, yet if she only considers the idea worth while, why, some day I may be able to do something with it.”
“Why, of course Polly shall read your play and give you her criticism, although I warn you, she may not be flattering. Doubtless she would have read it had you asked her yourself. She certainly will now that I shall allow her no peace of mind until the fact is accomplished. You are going to stay with us a few days until you have recovered, but Bettina will walk over to your cabin with you to-morrow and bring back your manuscript. We shall see this manuscript does not come to grief. Good-by, go back to your reading, I’ll not interrupt you any further.”
But Allan Drain did not return to his reading; instead he allowed the leaves of his book to close while he sat gazing into the fire. He had been afraid he would not have sufficient courage for the request he had just made, but now having gone through the ordeal he wondered whether or not he regretted his own act. Doubtless the little play was no good and Mrs. Burton would be tired and bored by being forced to devote a half hour to it. Moreover, she was too sincere an artist not to give him her true opinion, and afterwards he would never have the steadfastness to go on with his writing, knowing her estimate of his work. This winter was going to be difficult enough, so why not better have kept this dream at least until the spring, when he need not be so much indoors?
On this occasion Allan Drain did not hear the door open, nor glance up until Mary Gilchrist stood beside him.
“I met Mrs. Burton in the hall and she suggested that I come in and offer to read to you if you will allow me. She said you were having some trouble in trying to turn over the pages of your book. I do not read very well, but it would give me a great deal of pleasure if you will let me make the attempt. Then if you can’t bear my effort, why I’ll stop and not be in the least offended.”
Gill’s manner was so friendly and had in it such a new atmosphere of shyness, almost of apology, that Allan Drain, although not anxious to have his reverie interrupted, did not like to decline.
“Perhaps it would be pleasanter to talk; I can read at any time, as I am so much alone.”
Declining a chair, Gill dropped down on the floor before the fire.
“Will you talk to me? I should like it ever so much better. There is something I want specially to say to you—I want to apologize for my bad manners ever since our original meeting. You see, you said something then which annoyed me and afterwards impulsively I did something for which I never have forgiven myself, so ever since I have in a way wished to believe you responsible. I thought you had no courage, because you are not the kind of man——”
Hesitating, Gill flushed hotly. How hopelessly stupid and awkward she was! Actually she was about to say the very thing she intended not!
“Because I am not the kind of fellow you admire. Go on, Miss Gilchrist. You don’t suppose I have any illusions on the subject, do you?”
“Well, yes—no,” Gill answered. “Only to-day I discovered that you possessed both courage and presence of mind, the very traits of character Idoadmire. Besides, at this moment I appreciate you are in lots of pain, your face shows it, and yet you would rather not have me mention the fact.
“I Wish You Would Help Me About Something,” She Said.
“I Wish You Would Help Me About Something,” She Said.
“I wish you would help me about something,” she went on. “The truth is, I seem to possess no moral courage, and somehow I feel that you do. I have been guilty of a fault that I am ashamed and afraid to confess. It has troubled me for weeks and I have been a good deal more unhappy than any one has realized. I really have wronged you more than any one else, and this morning while Peggy Webster was being married I decided I must confess to some one and that perhaps I had best confess directly to you.”
“But I haven’t the faintest idea what you are talking about,” Allan Drain protested.
“No, of course not,” Gill answered.
She had thrown back her head so that her face was slightly upturned. The light was on her red-brown hair, leaving her face in shadow. Yet Allan Drain observed that the gallant half boyish expression which she ordinarily wore had vanished and that her square, too determined chin was trembling.
“Let me tell you quickly and please don’t interrupt, else I might not be able to go on. I have done you the greatest injustice, and not only you, but Mrs. Graham and Bettina, whom I like so much and whose good opinion I would give a great deal to possess.
“You remember when you brought your collection of verses here for Mrs. Graham to read and she told you afterwards that she had placed them upon a table in her bed-room, and then, after being away for a few hours, on her return discovered they had vanished?”
“I am not likely to forget.”
“Well, I went into Mrs. Graham’s bedroom while she was away and saw the verses lying among some books and papers. As I was curious and wished to read them, although I thought they would be poor, I took them to my own room. I had no opportunity to read them then, as I went for a walk soon afterwards.”
His eyes alight, Allan Drain leaned forward.
“You have them and will return them to me! I appreciate they are no good, just the same they mean a great deal to me. You would not be so unkind as to keep them when they are of no value to you.”
Gill shook her head.
“No, the trouble is I havenotthe verses. You see, you see, I destroyed them. Please, please don’t believe I intended this, it was wholly an accident, and yet so dreadfully stupid perhaps you can scarcely believe me.
“Not wishing the other girls to know I was sufficiently interested to have borrowed the poems, I hid your manuscripts in an old box with some papers of no value. Then, this is the incredible thing, I forgot they were there. It was only a moment of forgetfulness; I remembered when it was too late. Later in the same afternoon I decided suddenly to clear out my bureau drawer and so piled all the trash I could find into this self-same box and carried it into our study and flung the box and everything it contained into the fire. The instant the papers caught fire I knew what I had done. I did thrust my hands into the flames only to draw forth a few charred scraps without a single line upon them.”
Gill drew up her sleeve; the scar from a burn showed above her wrist.
“See I burned my arm in the attempt,” she murmured indifferently, “not that I cared except that I have had trouble in hiding the burn from the other girls. The worst thing I have done was not so much the accident and my foolish loss of memory, but the fact that when Mrs. Graham and Bettina asked if I had seen the manuscripts of your poems, I told them no, or at least I deliberately gave them this impression. Yet all the days of my life I have esteemed truthfulness and a sense of honor the greatest of all human possessions. This is why I have never been able to make the confession. I could not pass through Christmas day without telling you and to-morrow I shall speak to Mrs. Burton, Mrs. Graham, and Bettina and let them know of what I have been guilty. Afterwards I shall go home, I cannot remain here at Tahawus cabin.”
“Nor can I say that I forgive you, Miss Gilchrist. If I should say so I would not be telling the truth. I’ll do my best to forget after a time. After all, I had given up any idea of my verses being restored, so I am not much worse off.”
Gill arose.
“I much prefer your not pretending to forgive me, because you could not mean it truthfully. After I leave Half Moon Lake I hope we may never see each other again. I cannot exactly explain, but I felt when I met you that you would have an unfortunate influence upon me. Now I can never see you without recalling that because of you, or through you, I have done what I never could have believed of myself.”
“I am sorry,” Allan Drain responded stiffly.
“So am I, but that makes no real difference now. I hear the others returning. Good-by.”
While Gill and Allan Drain were having their interview in the living-room, Bettina Graham slipped out of Tahawus cabin alone and carrying her skates walked down to the edge of Half Moon Lake.
She had been depressed all day; Peggy’s marriage and departure to a foreign country meant more to her than most persons dreamed. They had been intimate and devoted friends since they were tiny girls, and Bettina believed their friendship could never again have its old value.
The fact that Peggy appeared to have found her place in the scheme of things also affected Bettina, because of late she herself had felt that she must find some more definite outlet for her own life. Her school days were over unless she were to choose some special course of study; this winter in the mountains, delightful as it had been in many respects and not without its useful lessons, nevertheless seemed to be a pause and not a step forward in any particular direction.
Unwilling to confess either to her mother or Camp Fire guardian who would be wounded by the knowledge, Bettina had been far more restless and dissatisfied for the past few months than any one had imagined. This afternoon her restlessness had culminated.
Kneeling down, she fastened on her skates.
Twilight was approaching, the distant snow-covered hills were amazing studies in purple, from pale violet to the deeper tones. The surface of the lake itself bore the reflections of a crystal ball.
Bettina started skating slowly, wishing to pursue her own train of thought. She knew what her mother expected of her; they had been discussing the subject this afternoon, and Bettina not only recognized the reasonableness of her mother’s position, but would have been hurt had she felt otherwise.
Naturally after two years of absence abroad, her father and mother looked forward to her returning to Washington and entering society. She was no longer young enough to plead for more time, the war was past and she had been allowed to devote herself to its service. This winter in the Adirondacks was due to a special set of circumstances, her Camp Fire guardian’s illness, her father’s long absence from Washington, and her mother’s desire to be with Mrs. Burton and her group of Camp Fire girls. In another six weeks her mother probably would join her father in the west and conclude the trip with him. She would then go back to Washington and they were looking forward to a happy summer together in their own cottage by the Blue Lagoon. So far Bettina knew nothing save happiness in the prospect before her, but after the summer, her mother had been planning this very afternoon a brilliant winter in Washington society.
Why could she not feel the interest that any other normal girl in the world would feel in such a future, with a successful marriage as its climax?
Yet Bettina knew she only dreaded it with an even deeper antagonism than she had felt in the past.
If only she and her brother, Tony, might have changed places? Tony was as strikingly handsome as their mother was beautiful and possessed her social grace and charm of manner.
Bettina believed she had neither; it was not merely a matter of appearance; there were persons who thought her reasonably good looking in her own fashion. Besides, she and her Camp Fire guardian had discussed the subject many times, and she herself had witnessed in Mrs. Burton a triumph of personality which always transcends mere physical beauty. Her own distaste was a far more important factor. In the midst of a group of society people Bettina knew she always was obliged to fight a sense of awkwardness, of shyness, and that she had no conversation and no animation. She could only prove a disappointment to her mother, and yet was it not fair that she should make the experiment? Against her own judgment and desire, her mother had allowed her the past two years of freedom in her Camp Fire life.
Bettina was skating more rapidly than at first, and without her knowledge her depression was fading. The cold air stung her cheeks, but her blood flowed warmly; this portion of the lake was smooth as glass. Finally a smile appeared at the corners of her lips. Perhaps she was taking herself and her own future too seriously, as this was one of the faults of her character. Moreover, doubtless she was spoiled. Never had she to contend against real difficulties such as many other girls face. Marguerite Arnot, for instance, friendless and oftentimes ill, for years had been forced to earn her own living.
If at this instant Bettina could only have beheld herself with other eyes she would have appreciated her own good fortune more keenly.
Her skating costume was of the color she most affected, a soft, deep-toned blue serge, neither light nor dark blue, with a short skirt and coat. About her throat she was wearing a beaver fur and on her head a cap of beaver nearly the shade of her own hair, one of her mother’s Christmas gifts, and carrying a small muff.
Her complexion, at times too pale, was now a lovely combination of white and rose. Tall and slender, Bettina was always exceptionally graceful, but more conspicuous than any other characteristic was her air of high breeding.
“Are you a part of the wind? Won’t you please pause and wait for a fellow mortal who has not your swift skill?” Bettina heard a voice behind her calling, and turning skated slowly back.
“But I thought you were off for a walk, Mr. Hale; the cabin was nearly deserted when I escaped?”
“Yes, I was, Miss Bettina, but our walk was over a half hour ago and I inquired of your mother what had become of you. I have been following you for the past fifteen minutes. You observe that I skate abominably and yet I was determined to catch up.”
Bettina extended her hand.
“You are a bit out of practice; perhaps if you take my hand I can be of some assistance. It was kind of you to care to join me.”
A moment they skated along in silence, David Hale gaining in prowess from the touch of the gloved fingers.
“Does it occur to you, Miss Bettina, this is the first opportunity I have had to exchange a word with you alone?”
Bettina laughed.
“Yes, I know, but you only arrived a short time ago and we have been having a pretty strenuous existence at Tahawus cabin for these last two days. I hope you have not been bored by being forced to be a guest at a wedding, which was as unexpected to us as to you. I want to thank you for your presence of mind this morning. Mother and Mr. Drain would have been more seriously injured except for you.”