“I was a dunce, Miss Bettina, not to have discovered sooner what was taking place almost beside me. I suppose I was too interested in the wedding ceremony. But in any case all the danger and therefore all the credit is due Allan Drain. I confess I am a little envious of his position as hero and my own as anything else. I would give a good deal to have you and your mother grateful to me. You seem altogether to have forgotten our friendship. Oh, I do not mean you are not friendly, but I believed we were more than ordinarily friendly during the months in France. I hoped when we met again that we might take things up where we left off on that enchanting afternoon in the Queen’s secret garden at Versailles. Now I see I must begin again at the beginning, but I am a persistent person and am looking forward to your return to Washington. Then you will be meeting so many people and no doubt will be a great belle, so I am afraid my opportunities for seeing you there will be limited.”
Bettina moved so slowly that the two skaters appeared to be poised like birds about to take wing for further flight.
“If I am forced to make my début in Washington next winter if youwillbe good to me I shall be more grateful than you realize. I know I shall be a dismal failure. Really I don’t mind for myself so much as for my mother; I am afraid she is going to be dreadfully disappointed in me, and she always has been in a fashion. It is hard when people love each other a great deal and yet have no congeniality of taste.”
“Then why not follow your friend Peggy Webster’s example and so escape the society adventure altogether?”
Bettina shook her head.
“Thanks, I don’t like to quote tiresome old axioms, but one has heard of the frying pan and the fire. Besides, one cannot follow Peggy’s example all alone. By the way, did you and Marguerite Arnot manage to have your walk together? I hope so. Isn’t Marguerite charming? I envy her exquisite manners. You know she is coming to spend next winter with us in Washington; mother has persuaded her. Sometimes I think it might be well if some witch or fairy should force Marguerite and me to change places. She could fill my place so much more gracefully, however, than I could her’s.”
“You could never change places in my estimation.”
Bettina laughed.
“No, I never anticipated such an honor. But come let us go back to the cabin, the darkness is nearly upon us. Isn’t the evening exquisite? See the little half moon rising there above our lake! I am sorry, but I cannot stay out longer, I promised I would not. It has been nice to have this little talk with you.”
The week following the end of the Christmas holidays, Mary Gilchrist said good-by to her Camp Fire group and returned home.
She had made her confession to Mrs. Graham, to the Camp Fire guardian and to the girls themselves. If they were surprised or disappointed, the decision to leave Tahawus cabin was Gill’s own.
No one precisely understood the situation. Save for Peggy Webster, Gill had appeared the frankest and most straightforward of their number. The accident to the manuscript was unavoidable, her refusal to confess the accident, her evasion of the truth as little like Gill as any one could imagine.
Nor could Gill explain even to herself her unexpected deceit and cowardice. She was more astonished, more disappointed in her own character than any one else.
Her talk with her Camp Fire guardian upon this subject she felt she would always remember.
“My dear, of course I am grieved and in a way angry. You have forced Mrs. Graham, whom I love better than most persons, to bear a sense of guilt and a burden of responsibility that was your’s and not her own. I have seldom seen Betty more worried and it has affected the pleasure of her winter with me which I desired to be especially happy. Yet the fact that you have committed the very fault you believed most foreign to you is not so unusual as you consider it, Gill dear. Life has a fashion of tricking us in our preconceived notions of ourselves. She has done the same thing to me and it is one of her bitterest lessons. Of course one has only to try to see that she does not succeed again. I wish you did not feel you were forced to leave the Camp Fire because of your fault. If membership in the Camp Fire demanded perfection I am afraid our number would not be large. You know it only demands an ideal and the effort of getting up and going on after a mistake or a downfall which brings one nearer the ultimate goal.”
Gill had been silent for a few moments afterwards, seated on the floor beside her Camp Fire guardian in her bed-room.
“Nevertheless, I think it would be best for me to return home,” she said finally, “although the girls also have been kind enough to urge me to remain. Beside my own feeling that I have in a measure betrayed the trust of the Camp Fire, of late I have received several letters from my father telling me that he was lonely and needed me. I have been too long away, but some day perhaps I shall be able to return and once more be a member of the Sunrise Camp Fire. Until then I hope you will not forget me.”
So early in the new year Gill vanished from the household at Half Moon Lake and a month later Mrs. Graham departed. Afterwards the winter closed in about Tahawus cabin.
The thermometer fell to ten, then twenty, then thirty degrees below zero. Very rarely now did the snow ever fall, only the ice packed thicker and deeper, the limbs of the trees laden with winter’s burdens now and then breaking, fell stiffly to the earth. The wind rarely blew with any fierceness and the cold was extraordinarily still.
Actually the household felt the coldness less than any one of them anticipated. Rarely a day passed by but the greater number of them were out walking or skating or skiing. Frequently David Murray or one of the girls drove the sleigh to Saranac for provisions and mail. And as she grew stronger, Mrs. Burton was able to accompany them on their shorter excursions.
Nevertheless, it was the long evenings at Half Moon Lake that the Sunrise Camp Fire ever hereafter was to recall as adding a peculiar value and interest to their winter in the Adirondacks.
The darkness fell between half-past four and five o’clock, by six the final afterglow had departed from the crown of hills, and above them hung the stars or the pale winter moon.
Inside Tahawus cabin at this hour there was added warmth and cheerfulness. More logs were piled on the open fires, David Murray heaped the furnace with a fresh supply of coal, lamps were lighted and one by one the girls, their daily tasks accomplished, wandered into the big living-room.
Elspeth had continued to live with them, utterly declining to return to the loneliness and lack of comfort in her brother’s bachelor establishment. Owing to her presence the daily program had been changed.
Afternoon tea was no longer a feature of the day, but instead, as Elspeth expressed it, high tea was served at six o’clock. This was a custom among Scotch and English country people and admirably suited to the girls at present, since it afforded them long, uninterrupted evenings, when they were able to read, write letters, sew, or play games, or entertain themselves in a variety of fashions.
But by and by, without a prearranged plan, one entertainment began to be appreciated beyond all others. From eight o’clock until her early bed-time Mrs. Burton read aloud, at first an occasional short story, then as this did not seem to tire her, one or two plays that were her especial favorites.
There were several new plays of unusual quality that were among the New York winter successes. Mrs. Burton sent for these, hoping not to become altogether out of touch with the public taste.
Occasionally the beauty of a few poetic lines or the dramatic value of a situation caused her to forget the character of her little audience. Then her voice and manner revealed the old enchanting quality which had made her famous.
On these occasions Allan Drain, who trudged over every evening when it was possible, oftentimes spending the night in the smallest of the cabins which held no other occupants, used to sit with his head bent seeing and hearing nothing save the magic beauty of the voice able by a swift change of tone to call forth tears or laughter.
Mrs. Burton had read his play and had not thought it altogether bad; had even made suggestions so that he was re-writing it for the third time.
The Camp Fire girls were accustomed to their guardian’s gift and therefore accepted it in a more matter-of-fact fashion, although Bettina Graham and Alice Ashton were both aware that she was showing added power, and understood her impatience to return to her profession.
One other person besides Allan Drain appeared to be completely under the spell of Mrs. Burton’s art, but apparently she responded to no one else. Since her unexpected arrival at Tahawus cabin, Juliet Temple had made no effort to make friends with any member of the Camp Fire, nor showed any interest in their attempts toward including her as one of their circle.
She was courteous but plainly cared for no one save Mrs. Burton, whose every wish she seemed able to anticipate and fulfil. Devoted as they were to their guardian, the other girls had been entirely free from any spirit of hero worship, so that Juliet Temple’s attitude became annoying.
To Miss Patricia it was more than annoying; her disfavor increased daily. Yet whatever story Juliet Temple had confided to the Camp Fire guardian must have aroused her sympathy. Mrs. Burton insisted Juliet was not to leave Tahawus cabin until she had secured surroundings in which she could be content. And pleased with her present environment apparently, Juliet Temple made no especial effort to discover any other abiding place, notwithstanding Miss Patricia’s open hostility.
Moreover, there was no disputing the obvious fact that she was useful to Mrs. Burton, although the Camp Fire girls agreed with Miss Patricia in not particularly liking or trusting the latest member of their household, and there was no thought of inviting her to become one of the Sunrise Camp Fire. So, perhaps for this reason, as well as her personal devotion, Mrs. Burton behaved toward the newcomer with especial kindness.
Now and then sitting a little apart from the group and fiercely engaged with her knitting, Miss Patricia, after listening to the reading aloud for half an hour or more, would glance from Mrs. Burton to the girl who managed always to be nearer to her than any one else, and observing the expression on the usually colorless and listless face, would rise abruptly and stalk out of the room. Occasionally Mrs. Burton would follow her, but never was Miss Patricia persuaded to return.
Early spring had arrived in the Adirondack forests. Little pools of water lay in patches amid the snow where the sun’s rays shone with especial warmth; down the sides of the mountains one could hear the sounds of brooks released from the winter fastness. Thin cakes of ice still were floating on the surface of Half Moon Lake, yet in the open spaces of clear water one could see the reflection of the spruce trees which all winter had stood sentinel.
Now and then a water fowl appeared and stopped to drink, and from deeper in the woods occasionally there was a bird call, poignant and sweet, and the barking of young foxes at night, the beavers, having come forth from their seclusion, were again at work on new dams to meet the spring freshets.
On the veranda in front of Tahawus cabin Sally Ashton in a golden brown sweater and tam-o-shanter was sweeping away light patches of snow. Standing in the open doorway Alice Ashton and Bettina Graham were talking to their Camp Fire guardian, who was walking rapidly up and down.
“I don’t see why such a display of energy, Tante, unless you are trying to keep warm. Isn’t it a heavenly day?”
Mrs. Burton nodded and laughed.
“I am trying to reduce my weight, Princess, after so indolent a winter. But it is wonderful to be alive on a day like this and to feel so extraordinarily well!”
The Camp Fire guardian walked to the centre of the veranda and paused for a moment, looking out at the landscape. The sun appeared to be shining with a strange brightness as if it also was feeling the year’s new birth. The sky was radiantly blue.
At this moment there was a faint noise of a pony’s hoofs striking against the stones in the road and the next the Camp Fire pony, hitched to a small wagon, appeared in a turn of the road about an eighth of a mile away.
“I’ll race you to see who gets the mail first,” Mrs. Burton called, and slipped off the porch, running swiftly and lightly over the damp earth, the three girls in pursuit.
“Here, David Murray, please give the letters to me, I’ve won,” she demanded, slightly out of breath and holding up her hands for the bag of mail, David having drawn rein to watch the contest.
“Yes, but of all the unfair races, this is the climax!” Alice protested, “seeing that you got away before the rest of us knew what you intended.”
“Perhaps, Alice, but considering my age and infirmities, I think I should have been allowed a slight advantage.”
“Your age and infirmities are not particularly apparent at this instant, Polly,” Miss Patricia announced drily from her seat in the wagon where she and Vera Lagerloff were enthroned surrounded by parcels, “but your lack of dignity undoubtedly is. Do go to your room and do something to your hair; this March wind has blown you to pieces.”
If Miss Patricia’s tone was severe, her satisfaction was none the less visible. Moreover, at this same instant her own strange, little gray felt hat, which she affected beyond all others, perhaps under the impression that it was suited to her present informal mode of life, had been tipped to one side, giving her the eccentric appearance to which her companions were accustomed.
“Very well, Aunt Patricia, I am ‘yours obediently,’ as the old-fashioned letter writers advise. Anyhow, I believe that is the form of signature you like best from me.”
Mrs. Burton, slipping her arms through Bettina Graham’s and Alice’s, started back toward the cabin, Sally climbing into the wagon beside David Murray, since she objected to all unnecessary exertion.
“I wonder had I been so autocratic as a Camp Fire guardian as Aunt Patricia has been with me if I should have met with equal success?” Mrs. Burton inquired laughingly.
Alice Ashton shook her head.
“Oh, I don’t know, perhaps so. You see, I have an idea that you are fairly apt to do what you wish in important matters, Tante, even if you do concede the smaller ones.”
Mrs. Burton wrinkled her forehead.
“Do you mean my keeping Juliet Temple here with us this winter when neither you girls nor Aunt Patricia like her? There have been reasons I have not been able to explain; besides, Juliet has been very kind and useful to me.”
Alice Ashton shrugged her shoulders.
“No, I was not thinking of Juliet Temple or any particular case, but she will serve as an example if you like.” Alice appeared entirely undisturbed, although her Camp Fire guardian flushed and looked wounded. Alice was not sensitive and had a fashion of saying what seemed to her the truth without any especial regard for consequences.
“Besides, we should all have been glad to have done for you whatever Juliet Temple has done,” Bettina added.
“But, my dear girls, you were busy with your own work and studies and I did not feel I had the right to interrupt you nor to allow Aunt Patricia to exhaust herself utterly.”
The subject was not an altogether happy one, so there was no further reference to it. A little later Mrs. Burton in the hall of the cabin was distributing the morning mail.
Five minutes after she vanished to her own bed-room carrying half a dozen letters.
The one from her husband she read immediately, and then without glancing at the others began walking up and down her room, her buoyancy of a short time before departed.
By and by she came back to a table where she had thrown the other letters, and picking them up studied the outside of the envelopes with an abstracted air, as if her mind were not intent upon her occupation. Then she tore open a second letter, reading it carelessly at first and afterwards with closer attention.
She began walking a second time, with a change of manner and as if she were thinking deeply. Her straight brows became a fairly level line, her blue eyes perceptibly darkened, her lips closed more firmly than usual.
At noon there was a knock at her door and Juliet Temple entered.
“Please say that I am not coming in to lunch, Juliet, and bring me something to eat here. If possible, as I expect to be busy, I’d rather not be disturbed this afternoon.”
Mrs. Burton had but scant hope of Miss Patricia’s observing her wish and yet the entire afternoon passed and no one came near her.
Nevertheless, she did not appear to be seriously occupied during the earlier part of the afternoon. Instead she sat for an hour before her fire with her hands tightly clasped. Afterwards, drawing her writing table toward her, she wrote a short note which she placed in an envelope and addressed to her husband. The second note was longer and oddly enough addressed to Miss Patricia Lord, who at present moment was not many yards away. But this letter Mrs. Burton placed inside her bureau drawer, and then fell to packing a small suitcase which she afterwards hid away in a closet.
She went in to supper and sat talking an hour or more in the living-room with the Camp Fire girls, but asked to be excused early in the evening and again retired to her own bed-room. She was undressing to put on a tea-gown when the door opened and in walked Miss Patricia looking uncommonly severe.
“I came in to inquire if you are ill, Polly, or if there is any particular reason why you have avoided our society all day? Really you are one of the most unreasonable people in the world!”
An instant Mrs. Burton hesitated, her expression a little wistful, with almost a childish appeal. Then conscious of Miss Patricia’s unrelenting air, and knowing her inflexible will, she shook her head.
“No, Aunt Patricia, I am not in the least ill, in fact I rarely have felt better. But I have had some business I wished to attend to this afternoon and found it more convenient to be alone.”
Afterwards, when Miss Patricia, having responded coldly to her good-night, had departed, Mrs. Burton laughed and frowned.
“I am planning to behave like a child. Actually I don’t believe one of my Camp Fire girls would be so absurd, but fortunately for me I have never pretended to be a model. The truth is I simply have not the strength of character to oppose Aunt Patricia until I am more definite in my plans. But how I shall ever escape to New York City to-morrow without being found out is beyond my knowledge at present. I simply must hope for some unexpected good fortune.”
The next morning Mrs. Burton, suddenly having concluded that she had best have Juliet Temple accompany her upon her unexpected journey, explaining that she wished to drive to Saranac, she and Juliet, Sally Ashton and David Murray, started forth, the small suitcase concealed beneath the lap robe.
In choosing Sally Ashton for a measure of confidence, Mrs. Burton appreciated that one could always rely upon Sally’s perfectly matter-of-fact point of view and her openly expressed conviction that every human being possessed a right to their own choice of life.
“Sally, I want you to do me a great favor,” Mrs. Burton explained when they were almost in sight of the town. “When you return to the cabin will you look in my bureau drawer, where you will find a letter addressed to Aunt Patricia? Will you give it to her at once? No, I am not going back with you, I hope to be at home again by day after to-morrow. I am on my way to New York for a few days. I don’t know whether Aunt Patricia will reveal the fact to you and it may be unnecessary, but I yesterday received a letter from an old friend asking me to talk over with him the possibility of my appearing in a new play in the early autumn. I am extremely well and anxious to return to my work as you girls know. Only, as I appreciate that Aunt Patricia will not consent I wish to be more sure myself before I discuss the situation with her. I presume I am behaving very badly, Sally dear, and have the grace to be ashamed of myself.”
In response Sally dimpled and nodded.
“Yes, I suppose you are, nevertheless I think you are sensible. After an argument with Aunt Patricia you would have little strength left to discuss business affairs in New York, and besides you probably would have to run away in the end in any case. I’ll present your letter, although I do think you are asking a good deal of me.”
“Sally, you are a joy forever!” the Camp Fire guardian returned.
Two days later after dusk, when the girls and Miss Patricia had finished supper and were in the living-room, an automobile drew up before Tahawus cabin. Five minutes after, Mrs. Burton stood in the center of the circle of girls, who were helping her remove her wraps.
Save for a curt nod of her head, Miss Patricia Lord gave no further sign of being aware of her presence.
A little later, as Mrs. Burton approached her, she drew back.
“Please tell us at once what decision you have reached, Polly. Do you intend to disregard your responsibility as a Camp Fire guardian and the wishes of your family and friends and return to the stage when your health as well as your age make it impossible?”
Mrs. Burton shook her head.
“Really, Aunt Patricia, that is an unkind fashion of presenting the situation and I hope the girls will not agree with you. I have no idea of giving up my position as guardian so long as the Sunrise Camp Fire girls do not desire some one else. In a few weeks they will be leaving Tahawus cabin and returning home and we have no right to be selfish enough to ask them to remain longer. As for me, I am entirely well again, thanks to you. I saw a specialist in New York and he agrees with the doctor here that I need have no further anxiety about myself. And I have had a splendid offer which has made me very happy. Really, Aunt Patricia, I am not yet too old, but as I am becoming so, all the more reason why I should return to the stage immediately. I have not wished to worry you, but the day before I left for New York I received a very discouraging letter from my husband telling me that some stock in which we had invested more heavily than we should had ceased to be of value. So you must understand the necessity for me to return to work as well as the pleasure. I know, dear, that you would help us of course, but it is not necessary and already we have accepted too much from you. I wrote Richard mentioning what I wished to do, told him not to worry over the tiresome stock, and he telegraphed his consent when I was in New York. You’ll come and live with us; I’m sure you will enjoy the winter. I have been idling too long.”
There was a silence in the room waiting for Miss Patricia to reply. Finally she arose.
“As you have arrived at your decision without consulting me and knowing it to be against my wish and judgment, Polly, there is nothing for me to say. Only bear in mind that our friendship is ended and I shall never forgive you.”
Miss Patricia stalked out of the room.
Bettina Graham put her arm about Mrs. Burton, who was slighter and small, and drew her back inside the circle.
“Don’t try to argue the question with Aunt Patricia any more to-night, dear, you are far too tired.”
“Perhaps next winter when you are in New York some of us may also spend the winter there; it is what I am hoping and planning for a part of the year, as I wish to take a special course at Columbia. I am trying to induce father and mother to give their consent,” Alice Ashton remarked.
“No such good fortune for me!” Bettina ejaculated.
“But perhaps it is as well that Tante be separated from a few of us, if she is to have time and strength for her own career.” Bettina made a graceful gesture.
“Here is wishing you greater fame and fortune than ever before.”
[1]See “Camp Fire Girls in Merrie England.”[2]See “Camp Fire Girls at the End of the Trail.”[3]See “Camp Fire Girls in Glorious France.”[4]See “Camp Fire Girls on the Field of Honor.”[5]See “Camp Fire Girls at the End of the Trail.”
[1]See “Camp Fire Girls in Merrie England.”
[2]See “Camp Fire Girls at the End of the Trail.”
[3]See “Camp Fire Girls in Glorious France.”
[4]See “Camp Fire Girls on the Field of Honor.”
[5]See “Camp Fire Girls at the End of the Trail.”