CHAPTER VIITHE VISIT TO CAMP MILLS
As Nathalie reached the booth she glanced quickly about; no one was in sight. With a hurried movement she drew a letter from the bag that hung from her wrist, and after glancing at the written words, “To whomsoever this Comfort Kit may come, greetings and good wishes,” she slipped out the enclosure and slowly read:
“Dear Mr. Soldier Boy:
“Please remember that you are going to fight under the banner of the Cross, which means that you belong to a Christian nation whose motto is, ‘In God we Trust.’ Hold to the feeling that you are a gentleman by the culture—not ‘Kultur’—that comes from kindliness, courtesy, and consideration for all people, so please don’t kill anybody unless you have to.
“Don’t forget that you are an American patriot, and that your heart is seared with the Stars and Stripes, which means the red of courage, the white of purity, and the blue of royal devotion to the right, and starred with the divine fire of liberty.
“Remember you are fighting for the mothers and children: yes, fighting so the mothers and children of all nations may have liberty and peace. Be strong andbrave in the thought that this war is to maintain the principles back of our flag, the ideals given to us by the founders of this nation. As Christ died to make men holy, so these men suffered and shed their blood that you might have the joy and independence that comes from the liberty which God has given to us. Be happy with the thought that no matter what comes to you you will not have lived in vain, but will have fought for the grandest and greatest things in life,—liberty and humanity. The best of luck to you,
“Blue Robin.”
“Blue Robin.”
Nathalie returned the letter to the envelope, and then rummaged under a pile of kits that had been filled and fastened, ready for the boys at camp, until she found one way down beneath the pile. She quickly opened it. Then something stayed her hand.
“No, it will not be a wicked thing to do, for it can’t do any harm,” she reasoned doubtfully; “and yet I justhateto do it, but I feel that I must do something to try to help some boy, who, perhaps, has a lagging spirit, whose heart may fail him when he thinks of what is before him, or who, perhaps, fails to realize the greatness of what we are fighting for, the way I did. This letter may spur him on, give him courage to dohis best, perhaps, when he realizes the truth. Andno one will knowwho Blue Robin is, and yet it will do for a name, as mother always says it is not considered fair to send an anonymous letter to any one, and I surely would not sign my own.”
Nathalie heaved a deep sigh, and then, as if shewould not let herself have any more misgivings, she seized the letter and dropped it into the bag. A moment later she was on her way to the Red Cross booth, to learn who had won the prize for buying the first Liberty bond.
“Oh, Nathalie, Dr. Morrow bought fifteen bonds!” came in an excited chorus from a group of girls, who were standing in front of the booth, chatting excitedly over this unlooked-for event.
“Fifteen? Oh, isn’t that just too lovely,” answered the girl. And then she hastily made her way towards the Morrow group, where the doctor, with the twins clinging excitedly to his coat-tails,—trying to climb up his back, he declared,—was signing the bond-certificate that made each one of them the possessor of five bonds, and his wife the owner of five more.
A Liberty button was now fastened to the doctor’s coat as a guarantee that he was a good patriot, and then he was presented with the prize, a box of Liberty candy from the Girl Scouts’ booth, something he never indulged in, he laughingly asserted, as he stood with the box in his hand, lookingly helplessly at it. But the twins did, and they quickly relieved him of it and were soon blissfully happy as they munched on the sweets.
A good beginning must have brought the girls good luck, for as soon as Mrs. Van Vorst heard of this sale she followed the doctor’s example and invested in ten bonds, five for herself and five for Nita. A few morefollowed suit, some buying two or three, while others only took one, but every little helped, the girl delightedly cried, jubilantly happy at the many sales they were having. And then a surprise came, as her cousin Lucille pushed her way through those surrounding the booth, and bought three bonds,—one for herself, one for Dorothy, and one for Nathalie.
“Oh, Lucille, don’t do that!” cried distressed Nathalie with flushed cheeks. “It is too much to give me.”
“Indeed, it is not,” insisted Lucille smilingly, who could be very generous at times, as her cousin knew by the gift of her Pioneer uniform. “I think you have worked hard enough for these Liberty Girls to have that much at any rate.” And several must have agreed with her,—judging by the nods and claps that came from those who were standing near and heard this remark.
As Nathalie, sometime later, sat gathering up her certificates,—she had been kept busy all the afternoon making out the little blue and pink receipts that certified as to her many sales,—Lillie came flying up.
“Oh, Nathalie, hasn’t it been a big success!” she cried with gleaming eyes. “And the patriotic speeches and recitations have been just fine. But, O dear!” she added with a sudden note of disappointment in her voice, “there are a lot of things that have not been sold. Of course they will all go to the boys at camp,but I was in hopes that everything would be sold, so as to add to our fund for the bonds.” For those who had purchased that afternoon had patriotically returned the things they had bought, as their donation for the boys at camp, thus giving the girls an opportunity to use the purchase money for Liberty bonds.
“Yes, we have several sweaters and mufflers left,” announced Barbara, who had been talking to Nathalie, “and poor Captain Molly is quite disappointed, as she was so sure that we should sell everything we had.”
“And we have a number of flowers and potted plants that have not been disposed of,” added a Girl Scout in a disappointed voice.
“But we can give those to the hospital,” answered Nathalie quickly, “and give some sorrowful heart a bit of cheer.”
“Well, we have some boxes of candy, too,” added the Girl Scout dolefully, “and they won’t do for the sick ones for—”
“And we have some books left over,” interrupted another bystander.
“Oh, I have an idea, a big one, too,” broke in Helen, her eyes all of a glow. “Why could we not have an auction sale? Of course a good many will return what they buy,—and I think it will be lots of fun.”
This idea was voted a good one, and a few minutes later Dr. Morrow announced from the Liberty platform that he was to act as auctioneer. A few briefwords of explanation and the auction was on. First a box of candy was bid for, which, after much laughter, was finally knocked down for one dollar, a much larger sum than it would have brought earlier in the afternoon. A few books were now disposed of, a pile of canned vegetables, a number of comfort-kits, and so on, until everything, even to the posters and decorations, had been auctioned off.
As the girls were counting up the proceeds of this expected sale, old Deacon Perkins came up, and, after a few hems and haws, told the girls that if they wanted to make a raid on his cherry-trees the next morning, they could do so, and carry the fruit to the boys. They were to visit Camp Mills the following afternoon, and present their many donations to the young soldiers.
“Oh, isn’t that jolly good luck!” “Oh, that’s just glorious!” and many similar outbursts of joy caused the old deacon to beam with complacent benignity. The Sport, with a little giggle, whispered to Lillie that she knew old Perkins had never felt so goody-goody in his life before,—he was called the meanest man in town.
“Yes, girls,” admonished Nathalie, after the old deacon had been overwhelmed with thanks, and had gone smilingly on his way, “you will all have to get up very early to-morrow morning if you want those cherries, for you know we are to start for Mineola atan early hour, for it is some drive. Mrs. Morrow kindly offered me her car, so I asked her to be one of the chaperons. Mrs. Van Vorst is the other, and then Grace, you know, will take some of the party in her car.
“I am sorry,” her face sobered a little, “but there will only be room in the three cars for the officers of the Club, and,—yes, I think we ought to ask Marie, Captain Molly,” she explained, “to ride with us, for you know, of course, that she can’t walk far. The rest of you girls will have to go by train, that is, those who want to go.”
“But we all want to go,” called out several voices eagerly, “and we expected to go by train, for Lillie and Helen have given us a time-table, so we shall know just what to do, and we’ll meet you at the camp.”
The raid on the cherry-trees proved “a lark,” Edith declared, as, an hour or so before the girls started in the cars, she and Grace whizzed up in the car, filled with several baskets of cherries. A little later the three cars started for the camp, passing two or three groups of the girls on the road, en route for the depot. But they were soon left far behind as the cars whirled along the Merrick road, every one in the best of spirits, the little newsdealer so buoyantly happy to think that she was riding in the same car with the young president, that it did one good to look at her face, keenly aglow with delight.
Nathalie’s eyes were sparkling, too, for the little Jewess had just cried, “Bend down your head, Mees President, for I likes I shall whisper mit you in your ear.” And then, as the girl had smilingly complied, she heard the happy announcement, “My papa, he says like that you iss my friend, und so my papa he buy me a Liberty bond, for he says you are loving now mit me.” The owner of the pink ear into which these words had been loudly whispered, dimpled with pleasure, and then came the thought, “O dear, I wonder if my little liberty lecture had anything to do with papa’s buying the bond?”
There was a short stop at the Military Police guardhouse, to learn the way around the encampment, where several soldier-boys, with the big letters M. P. on their arms, were viewed with much curiosity by the girls. A call at the hostess house now followed, where the gifts for the soldiers—the knitted articles, the books, candy, and fruits—were left, the girls reserving the baskets of cherries to distribute to the boys themselves.
The slow ride through the encampment, with its streets flanked by brown and white tents, reminded Nathalie somewhat of an Indian encampment, and she gazed about with eager interest, as this was her first visit to an army post. The girls were specially interested in the prisoners,—two or three men here and there guarded by a soldier-boy,—who were acting asWhite Wings by gathering up flying papers, or débris of any kind lying about, while other groups were digging ditches or performing similar duties.
“But see,” cried one of the girls, “the prisoners carry clubs, while the guard in the rear hasn’t any.”
“No, but he carries an automatic pistol in his trousers’ pocket,” answered Mrs. Morrow quickly, who had visited the camp many times; “and if he should fire it, a crowd of soldiers would immediately surround the prisoners and disarm them. And then, too,” she added, “you must remember that these prisoners, as a rule, are not real jailbirds, but just young, thoughtless lads who have probably been punished for what we would consider a very slight misdemeanor.”
But they were now in what Mrs. Morrow called the “chow” quarters, that is, where the mess-tents were. It was quite an interesting sight to see a long line of soldiers, with their plates, cups, and pans in their hands, standing waiting for the “eats” at one of these tents.
The girls, alert-eyed, watched them with more than the usual curiosity, for when they were supplied with food they came straggling out of the line with their “chow” and sat down here and there in groups, while others sat down on the street-curb and began their meal, using their laps for a table. This elicited many exclamations of surprise, especially when their director told them that Uncle Sam’s soldiers were notallowed to sit at tables, but had to dine standing. Their denunciation of this system and their expressions of pity were loud, but when they were told that it was these very hardships to which a boy had to be inured that made him a well-trained soldier, they became somewhat reconciled to what they had seen.
Just at this moment a sudden inspiration came to Nathalie, and, leaning forward, she whispered softly to Mrs. Morrow. That lady smiled and nodded approval evidently, and immediately brought the car to a standstill so that Nathalie and Helen could alight. Going swiftly towards a couple of boys who were sitting on the curb, their eyes bright and keen, and their faces tanned to a rich brown, Nathalie said, somewhat timidly, “I beg your pardon, but wouldn’t you young gentlemen—er—soldiers—” she hastily corrected herself laughingly, “like to have some cherries to eat with your dinner?”
“Most assuredly we would,” responded one of the lads, a tall broad-shouldered chap with dark hair, from whose sun-tanned face two dark-lashed eyes looked down at her, with a half-smile in their blue. The boys had courteously risen and were standing at attention when the girl spoke.
Nathalie’s cheeks took on a deeper pink, and then she turned, and the two girls walked back to the car with the boys in their wake. But unfortunately, as she attempted to lift one of the heavy baskets over the edgeof the car, something jarred her elbow, and the next moment the basket had fallen to the ground with the cherries rolling all over the road.
There was a loud shout from the boys, and then a dozen or more khaki-clad figures had rushed to the girl’s assistance, and presently soldier-boys and girls were all scrambling about in the dust of the road, gathering up the fruit. Indeed, by the time it was replaced in the basket,—for, of course, the girls had to polish off the dust from the luscious red fruit—they had all become very merry with one another.
Several minutes later, as the car whirled around the corner of the long street, they saw the soldier lads gathered about the basket, while laughing and joking with one another in good-natured banter. Suddenly one of the boys looked up, and as he spied the now disappearing car he took off his cap and waved it in a parting salute. Nathalie smiled back, for she recognized this good-by as coming from the boy with the dark-lashed, blue eyes.
“Wasn’t that young solider a handsome boy?” queried one of the girls admiringly, as the car flew along the level road. “And what lovely blue eyes he had.”
“Yes, and that boy with the light hair was nice-looking, too,” chimed in Helen. “He had such a frank way of looking you right in the eye. I’ll warrant you he’s no coward.”
But the cherries and the boys in the “chow” quarters were forgotten as the girls drove by a group of buglers, who were sitting on the grass near a large tent, practicing on their bugles. Every eye was curiously watchful as the three cars went slowly past, for Mrs. Morrow, who was driving, had slowed up as she saw “the camp alarm-clocks,” as she called them. Every head was bent forward and eyes grew big with alertness, for had the girls not set out that morning with the avowed intention of not missing anything worth seeing, and surely a group of soldier buglers was an interesting feature of the camp.
They were a merry-eyed crowd, those boys with their happy, care-free faces under the brown hats with their gay-colored cords. All on undress parade, Helen declared, as she noted their brown flannel blouses and belts, as they knelt or stood upon the grass, blowing on their golden horns as Captain Molly called their brass instruments.
Evidently they were not worrying about going overseas, or losing their lives in No Man’s Land, but were good examples of live-wire American lads, with the grit inherited from their ancestors, the Yanks, inspiring them to make good when called by Uncle Sam to the job of making war.
The girls were alert and watchful, as they spied into open tents, or behind flying flaps, at the rows of tiny white cots, or at a few stray articles of clothing seenhere and there, yes, even a pair of shoes set out in the sun to dry were objects of their silent adoration as they swung along the road.
But now the scene had changed as they whirled along, for, instead of tents, the streets were lined with little wooden houses, or cabins, the barracks of the United States Aviation School at Mineola, which adjoined Camp Mills. A stop at the hostess house was next in order, where a call was sent in for Dick.
Twenty minutes later Nathalie was blithesomely happy, as she and her brother, over in a corner of the little wooden building, chatted about home news,—how mother was getting along, yes, and about the wonderful events that had occurred in the last few days. Then Nathalie turned inquisitor, and Dick was subjected to a series of questions in regard to his life as a war-eagle. In fact Nathalie’s questions were so many and so swiftly put that her brother declared that one would have thought that he was being interviewed by some expert reporter.
Yes, reveille was at five in the morning, followed in half an hour by breakfast. His sister immediately asked, somewhat anxiously, if he got enough to eat.
“You bet your life I do,” was Dick’s laughing rejoinder. “The ‘eats’ are O. K.—nothing to be added. At six,” he continued, “I report at headquarters for flying, and then, with an instructor, learn a few flying stunts. I return to barracks at ten, andfrom eleven until two-thirty have a ‘do-as-you-please time,’ which includes luncheon, and, generally, a nap, for, by Jove!” exclaimed the young aviator, “this flying business makes a fellow feel drowsy.
“Then we drill for a while, listen to a lecture,” he went on, “and then again for a space I am a bird of the air. We dine about half-after eight, and at ten comes taps, or ‘lights out.’ Anything more you would like to know, young lady?” he inquired teasingly. But Nathalie was satisfied, for surely her brother’s ruddy cheeks, tanned skin, and glowing eyes attested to what he called the “joy-time of his life,” and a few moments later the little party started for the aviation field.
Here Dick conducted them around the field and showed them many kinds of aircraft, as aëroplanes, dirigibles, kite-balloons, serviceable in war; in fact, they were so well instructed as to the uses and mechanism of so many different machines that Mrs. Morrow declared that they would be well-versed in aëronautics. But the little personal stories that Dick told about the heroism of well-known war-eagles over in France made a stronger appeal to the girls, especially when he explained the several varieties of aviators and their special work.
To the girls’ disappointment there was no flying going on while they were on the field, but they were partly appeased when Dick showed them a group of students,aviation observers, he called them, who were learning to sketch from a miniature battlefield, and in this way learn how it would look from the air. As they were about to leave the field they saw some students bringing out a machine, to get it ready for flying, as testing the motor and so on.
At this particular moment one of the girls uttered a sudden cry, and as all eyes glanced upward with newly awakened eagerness, they were rewarded by seeing an aëroplane returning from a training flight. As Nathalie gazed eagerly at the machine that flew like some strange monster above their heads, the perils of flying in space came to her with a sudden, keen realization, and, with a sickening pang as to what might happen to Dick some day, her eyes darkened with apprehensive terror and she turned hastily away. But Dick, catching sight of the girl’s pale face and fear-haunted eyes, as if to divert her mind from dismal forebodings, called attention to the camp mascot, a little yellow police-dog, who was standing by his master, equipped, like him, with goggles. The girls were soon laughing heartily as Dick told of the dog’s alertness in doing “stunts,” and the eagerness he showed when waiting to take a flight in one of the machines.
CHAPTER VIIISEVEN PILLARS
Nathalie, seated in a low chair at one end of the broad white veranda, gazed with rapt intentness at the sun-hazed landscape, rising in green, undulating waves against the purple blur of the towering mountain-heights, that stretched in wide expanse before her, with a strange, mystical beauty.
Into her eyes, city-tired, came rest, as they swept over the velvet green of the meadow, splashed with the bloom of wild flowers, its scrubby bushes aglow with pink spires, and its spruces and maples standing upright with the slimness of youth, as it sloped gently down to the glen below. The trees of the glen, closely massed in a rich, feathery green, sombered by the darker line of the pines and firs, to the girl seemed weird and mysterious.
Her eyes quickly gathered in the stillness of the sunny slopes that rose from the darker hollow in squares of yellow cornfields, or the light green of unripe wheat or grain, and the brown of mountain meadow-land, dotted with browsing cows. Here and there a lone farmhousestood forth on some higher knoll, or, from a background of forest land, came the bright red of a solitary barn; while still higher, a hotel, its gables and chimneys spying upward, glimmered picturesquely from the green. And beyond all, high and dark, with majestic brooding silences, rose the jagged ridge of mountain blue, its peaks looming with a strange distinctness against the clear, soft blue of the sky, while sweeps of white cloudlets trailed like films of spun silk across their tops.
The girl closed her eyes as if to imprint upon her subconsciousness the rare loveliness of the scene, and then, as if fearful that in some passing, whimsical mood the picture would flash out of view, she opened them quickly. At that moment a passing breeze fluttered the pages of a letter lying on a table by her side. With sudden recollection she caught them up, and then as if to impress upon her mind what she had written, in a soft, low tone read:
“Dear Helen:
“I presume you are now in gloriousLa France, wondering why you have not heard from me. But my excuse is this magnificent mountain scenery, and my new duties, which have taken every minute of my time until to-day. We came up on the fifteenth from New York. Mother knitted and read during the ten-hour ride, while I wished inexpressibly good things for Mrs. Van Vorst for renting our little dovecote, and planned liberty work. I have decided to adopt theclub’s motto, ‘Liberty and Humanity—our best,’ for the summer’s watchword. As it means to try and be helpful and kind to people, whether I like them or not, wish me success, for I have undertaken something big.
“Mr. Banker, my aunt’s lawyer, met us at the Littleton station with his car. He is a tall, lean man, but his brown eyes have a quizzical gleam in them that makes you feel that you are affording him some amusement. The seven-mile ride up one mountain slope and down another, in the shade of the woods that gloomed dark and weird on each side of the road, with the hush of the gloaming in their moist depths, was most enjoyable.
“From out of their rustling shadows the white birches and poplars peered at us like ghosts, while the resinous aroma from the pines made us sniff with delight. Mountain villages with a straggle of white cottages, and grizzly gray churches in a setting of purple mountain-peaks, strangely somber and still, as they stood forth from feathery masses of clouds tinted with sunset’s glow, with gossamer wreaths of mist floating above them, stilled us to a mute ecstasy of sheer joy.
“Stone gate-posts, beds of old-time posies, backed by cobble-stone walls with hedges of green, and a little white house, like a keeper’s lodge, peered curiously out of the silver shadows of the rising moon as we whizzed up the roadway to Seven Pillars, and came to a stop under theporte-cochèreof a large, white mansion, set on a green knoll, facing the rocky heights of far-distant mountains. Here square glass lanterns threw yellowish gleams on the wide, low veranda, with its seven magic pillars,—round, fluted columns reaching high above the second-story windows, as with lofty stateliness they held the pointed dome above the portico.
“Passing through the quaint, white-columned doorway, with its tiny panes of glass and shiny brass knocker, we stood, dazed and tired, in a broad, gloomy hall, where, in the flare from a snapping log-fire, numerous trophies of the hunt eyed us glassily, as we were welcomed by my cousin, Janet Page, and her sister, Cynthia.
“Janet is a winsome thing. We have already become great chums, although she is a few years older than your lonesome. She is short and plump, with a white, satiny skin, and apple-blossom cheeks that make you feel that you want to kiss the pink of them. Her eyes fairly beam with kindliness as she looks at you from under her short, wavy brown hair. She’s a pacifist and a suffragist, and aims to be a farmerette. Although she has decided ideas on the war and voting questions, they are rather vague on farming, but she goes about saying, ‘God speed the plow and the woman who drives it.’
“Cynthia Loretto Stillwell—she always insists on the Loretto, as it is the sole heritage from some Italian ancestor, famed for his noble birth and deeds of valor—is not my own cousin, as she is the daughter of my uncle’s wife, who was a widow when they married. She is distinctively tall, somewhat angular, with sharp features, a drooping, discontented mouth, and a sallow skin which she endeavors to hide by dabs of white and pink powder. Her eyes are large and dark, and would be handsome, if they did not repel you at times by their hard, metallic glitter. Her coiffure is a wonderful combination of braids, curls, and puffs, and made me wonder how she did it. She greeted us effusively, but somehow its warmth seemed cold and artificial, and—well, I don’t believe I’m going to like her.
“After our hunger was appeased,—Janet said shegot the supper, as we shall have to be our own maids up here,—Mr. Banker ‘personally conducted’ us through many high-ceiled rooms with recessed window-seats, big doors, and dark closets, up winding stairways and through rambling corridors. The antique furniture, carved and black-looking, musty-smelling and stuffy, made one feel as if long-ago-dead people were peering at you from the eerie shadows of the hide-and-seeky nooks.
“Mr. Banker then read my aunt’s letter of instruction,—an odd document, as it stated that each one of ‘we girls,’—as Cynthia calls us,—she’s almost as old as mumsie,—during our stay is to search the house for the most valuable thing in it. And the lucky finder of the ‘mysterious it,’ as Jan and I call the valuable thing, is to inherit something. Whether this something is property, or money, or just some personal effects of my aunt’s, I don’t know, for that letter was so queer it made me feel creepy. And once when I glanced up, it really seemed as if her eyes were glaring menacingly at me from a large portrait of her which hangs over the library mantel.
“Each one of us is to keep a diary, and if we have not looked for ‘It’ each day, we are to state what particular thing prevented us. We can search every nook and corner in the house but one room, themystery room, as we call it, which is on the second floor, and barred and locked so that no one can enter. Mother only laughs when Janet and I talk about ‘It,’ and declares that the whole thing is just my aunt’s eccentric way of doing things. You know mother spent a summer up here with her when I was a wee tot, and my aunt grew very fond of me.
“Although I have had no time as yet to search for the mystery of mysteries, my first entry in my diaryreads: ‘Arose at 7A. M.and prepared breakfast. Cooked three meals and did housework all day, and am too tired to do anything but go to bed. Jan meant to help me, but she had to hurry with her plowing, and Cynthia Loretto says she never does housework, as it makes her hands rough.’
“You would laugh if you could see Jan scratching the earth with a baby rake. She was going to plant before she plowed, and hadn’t the slightest idea as to the proper time and way of planting her seeds. But she looks a dear in a smock and a big pink sunbonnet that matches the pink in her cheeks and on her nose, for her dear little snub has burned to the same color.
“It is great sport to see her take the stump, as I call it, and hold forth on woman suffrage. She talks beautifully, is so earnest and looks so sweet, and, as mumsie says, knows so little about it from a commonsense point of view. But when Cynthia Loretto suddenly appears and squelches her eloquence by witheringly ordering her to do something for her,—she bosses her dreadfully,—poor Jan drops from her pedestal and crawls about with the meekness of a mouse for the rest of the day.
“I was afraid my dreams of teaching liberty were doomed to oblivion, for there don’t seem to be any girls about to form a club, when one day, while reading the paper, an inspiration came.Fi-fo-fum, I have written to Mrs. Van Vorst, and she is going to send me three little slum boys, and I am not only going to give them the joy-time of their lives, but teach them ‘Liberty and Humanity—your best.’ When I asked Mr. Banker if there would be any objection to having these little waifs, he not only consented, but said he would pay their way up here. Isn’t that the dandiest thing going?
“Mother objected at first, but when I said I wouldteach them to wash the dishes—how I hate that job!—and to do chores about the house, she only said, ‘Well, you will have to make the bread then, for three hulking boys will eat a cartful,’—you know mother is the bread-maker. Then her eyes twinkled, and I had to hug her good and tight, for I knew she was just testing my ‘I can’ motto.
“Janet thought the idea fine, but when Cynthia Loretto heard of it she declared that she hated boys, they were such horrid, smelly things,—one would have thought they were weeds,—and thatshewould not have them in the house. Well, I was not going to be bossed by her, so promptly told her in my bestest manner—I am always very cool and sweet whenawfully mad—what Mr. Banker had said. Well, that silencedher, but I can foresee that she will make trouble for my little liberty kids, for that’s what they’re going to be.
“Did I tell you that Cynthia is an artist? Her studio is up in the little square cupola, or tower that crowns the house. Here she paints, and sleeps until all hours of the morning, for she slumbers in a beauty-mask—Janet let that out—and it has to be kept on until noon. Janet has to bring up her coffee every morning. At dinner my lady with ‘the manner’ and artistic temperament appears in a freakish get-up. Yesterday she was a Neapolitan maiden in a red skirt and blue bodice, with a rug for an apron, and a white cloth on her head. She dresses this way to create atmosphere, she declares, as she is her own model, and paints herself in a big mirror, that she got Sam to lug up from one of the lower rooms.
“She can be extremely disagreeable, for yesterday, while I was on one of my mountain prowls—mother was taking a nap—she was sitting on the veranda in one of her outlandish costumes, when an odd, little oldlady came along in a black poke-bonnet, carrying a basket on her arm. As soon as Cyn saw that basket she jumped up and ordered the old lady off the premises, saying that we could not be bothered with peddlers.
“The poor old soul immediately turned about and hobbled away, muttering and mumbling to herself, for Jan heard her as she came up the path from her miniature hillside farm. Mother was quite annoyed when she heard about it, for she said that she was undoubtedly one of the neighbors, and had brought us something in a basket to be friendly, as country people do. I think Cynthia should have allowed her to rest on the veranda, even if she was a peddler.
“I must close my letter if I want to get it in this mail, as I have to walk almost a mile to post it. So, with a bushel of kisses and good wishes, I am as ever your friend
“Nathalie Page.
“Nathalie Page.
“P. S. Be sure you tell me all about your work, and if you are anywhere near the front-line trenches. I am wild to know. Again, with love,
“Blue Robin.”
“Blue Robin.”
As Nathalie stood by the window putting on her hat in front of the old-fashioned dresser, her eyes suddenly widened. “Why, isn’t that the strangest?” she queried, as she stepped nearer the casement and stared down at the farther end of the lawn, where, from between the fringe of woodland on the side dividing their garden from their neighbor’s, came the glimmer of a little red house, fronting the road.
“Why,” said the girl, almost wonderingly, “that red house glimmers through the trees in the form of across.” Then her eyes brightened with the sudden thought, “I do believe it has come that way on purpose, and, yes, I am going to let it be my Red Cross insignia, warning me that I have work to do this summer by not losing my temper, and by being kind to people, even if it isthat irritating Cynthia Loretto.
“I wonder who lives in that little red house,” soliloquized the girl. “I must ask Sam. Ah, I remember now. I saw an old lady with silver-gray hair, the other day, poking about in that little flower-garden; she seemed to be weeding. Well, those flowers certainly repay her for her care, for they are a mass of bloom and color.” And then Nathalie, humming a snatch of melody, turned away and hurried down the stairway.
Some time later, on her way to the post-office at the near-by village of Sugar Hill, as she passed the red house she again saw the old lady with the silver hair, in a flopping sunbonnet, digging in the garden. She raised her head as she heard Nathalie’s footsteps, and the girl, with smiling eyes, pleasantly bowed a good-afternoon. But, to her surprise, the old lady stared at her rudely for a moment, and then, without returning her greeting, went on with her weeding.
“What a disagreeable old lady!” was the girl’s sudden thought, the blood rushing to her cheeks in a crimson flood. “Why, I always thought country people were pleasant and chatty with their neighbors. Well,”she murmured ruefully, in an attempt to ignore the slight “perhaps the poor old thing is near-sighted. No, I won’t worry, for, as mumsie says, it is just as well not to be in a hurry to think that people mean to be rude to you.”
So the little incident was forgotten, as she wended her way along the road, cool and dark with the moisture and shade from the woodland that fringed it on each side. On one side the trees screened green hills and sloping meadows, while on the other they guarded Lovers’ Lane, a narrow footpath, skirting the base of Garnet Mountain, that rose upward in scrubby, brownish pasture-land to its summit, crowned with dense masses of green foliage.
Nathalie hummed softly, in tune to the ripple of a tiny brooklet from a spring near by, that trickled and splashed in a low murmur over its pebbly bed in the ditch fringed with straggling wild flowers in flaunting July bloom. They were too luring to be resisted, and presently the beautiful dull pink of the Joe-Pye weed, saucy black-eyed Susans, yellow buttercups, wild carrot, and blue violets, nodded gayly from the nosegay pinned to her blouse.
A short walk and the woods had been left behind, as the girl stood on a wide-spreading knoll with the rock-lit eyes of Garnet Mountain peering down at her on her right, while on the left grassy meadows stretched away into velvety slopes. Their green was crossedby low stone walls, patched with the gray of apple orchard, and ribboned with avenues of stately trees, or fringes of woodland, but always ending in the rugged grandeur of craggy summit.
Nathalie drew a deep breath of the sweet-scented mountain breezes, as her eyes dwelt on the scene before her, for to her every blade of grass, or feathery fern, as well as each peeping floweret, wide-spreading tree, or gray bowlder, were but details that added to the charm of each day’s mountain-picture. The rare splendor of the scene inspired her, as it were, to new thoughts and feelings, vague and undefined, but the shadow of things to come, in the birth of ideals and words that were to find expression later on.
But now she was strolling along under an avenue of stately maples, bordered by a stone wall almost hidden with clambering vines, until presently she had passed by another silent greenwood, to arrive at a little white church, set on rising ground. A swift turn and she was walking down the flagged street of the mountain village, sheltered with friendly old trees, and lined with the usual straggle of white cottages, blurred with the red of an old barn, while just beyond, against the pearl gray of the horizon, rose the jagged line of the Green Mountains.
She glanced admiringly at the tiny Memorial Library perched conspicuously on a terrace opposite, and then she was at the post-office, once a small white cottage,but now used by Uncle Sam as a mail distributor, the lounging-resort of aged mountaineers and sons of the soil. Here, too, the village gentry, as well as the citified summer folk from the boarding-houses and hotels on the upper slopes of Sugar Hill, lingered for a chat or a word of greeting when they came for the mail.
After slipping her letter into the box, Nathalie found that although the mail had come in it had not been distributed, so she decided to wait for it. With ill-concealed impatience, for she hated to linger in the stuffy little store, she leaned idly against a glass case, in which one saw the yellow-brown of maple-sugar cakes, the red and white of peppermint sticks, as well as post-cards of mountain views, and pine pillows. As it was the only store within a radius of some miles its wares were numerous and varied, as almost anything, from a loaf of bread, a lollypop, or a case of needles, to a bottle of patent medicine, was on sale.
Suddenly, as if impelled by some unknown power, the girl raised her eyes to encounter the bold stare of a tall young man in a gray Norfolk jacket, knickerbockers, and high leather boots, who was nonchalantly leaning against the opposite counter, with his cap pushed on the back of his head, smoking a cigar.
CHAPTER IXTHE LITTLE OLD LADY IN THE RED HOUSE
The girl turned her head quickly aside, for there was something in the ill-concealed admiration in the man’s black eyes that caused the color to rush in a wave to her cheeks. Several minutes later a careless glance in the man’s direction, as she casually surveyed the other occupants of the store, impelled her to stare curiously, as she perceived a rather peculiar motion,—a sudden twitching shake of his head, repeated every moment or so. Realizing that the man was the victim of some nervous affliction, her eyes involuntarily softened with pity, and then noting that there were several letters in her box, she hurried forward to get them.
Slipping them into her bag, she hastened from the store, drawing quickly back, however, as the man who had been staring at her brushed rudely against her. Nathalie glanced up with annoyance, but as he begged her pardon, with a sweep of his cap in an exaggerated bow, and another bold, somewhat mocking glance from his eyes, the pink in her cheeks deepened angrily.
Nathalie, irritated at the incident, walked slowly down the narrow path leading to the flagging, but suddenly remembering her determination to explore the little village set in the hollow of a hill, the unpleasant occurrence passed from her mind. Attracted by the many flower-beds that bloomed so luxuriantly with such vivid coloring in the door yards of the little New England cottages beyond the post-office, she turned about and slowly strolled in that direction.
Presently she came to a sudden pause to gaze admiringly across the road at a white, gable-roofed house, with bright green blinds, on a grassy terrace, peeping from beneath a mass of vines and leaves. It was surrounded by a garden from which came the gleam of many colors, in the tall, flowering rows of sweet peas that flanked its sides. But it was not so much their beauty that held her eyes as the small east wing of the building, where a wide, roomy porch was surmounted by the sign,
The Sweet Pea Tea-HouseCome in and have a cup of tea
The Sweet Pea Tea-HouseCome in and have a cup of tea
Nathalie would have enjoyed going over and having a sip of that social beverage, lured by the daintiness of the house and its sweet-pea garden, but, on discovering that she had left her purse at home, she continued her walk. A few steps down the road, and shewas staring up at a timeless clock—looking as if its hands had been swept away in the mad rush of the hours—in the steeple of a church some distance back from the road. Then she was watching a horseshoer pounding with a noisy “Clank, clank” on the hoof of a horse, patiently standing in front of the blacksmith shop.
A half-hour later, as she stood in front of a little neglected cemetery at one end of the village, staring in melancholy mood at its time-scarred stones, gleaming with a dulled whiteness from the rank and overgrown shrubbery, she heard the purr of an automobile.
Turning carelessly, she noticed a bright red car, with the glossy, shiny look of newness, coming slowly in her direction, and quickly perceived that its only occupant was the bold-eyed man who had annoyed her in the post-office. She quickly glanced in another direction, but, to her surprise, the car came to a sudden stop, and as the man threw away his cigar, while doffing his cap, he said, pleasantly, “You have chosen rather a dreary place to linger, have you not, on this beautiful afternoon? Would you not like a little ride,—just a help up the hill, you know?”
For a moment Nathalie was tongue-tied with astonishment, and was about to walk quickly away, when sudden resentment at the man’s impertinence overwhelmed her. Swinging about, with marked emphasis she answered in stiff formality, “Possibly Imight—with friends.” The next second she was hurrying down the road, without waiting to see the man’s eyes darken with annoyance, as he emitted a low whistle. With the peculiar motion of the head already referred to, he started up the car, and a moment later whirled around the bend out of sight.
Nathalie in her haste, caused by her anger and annoyance at the man’s impertinence, was oblivious to the fact that the clouds had been gathering for a thunderstorm, until she heard a loud clap of thunder and a drop of rain swirled into her face. She was tempted to start and run, for she was an arrant coward in a thunderstorm, but remembering that a swiftly moving object is apt to attract the lightning, she curtailed her speed, trying to make as much headway as she could by extra long strides.
Oh, it was coming down in great big drops! What should she do? But with her heart thumping nervously, she kept resolutely on her way, covering her face with her hands in a spasm of terror every time a streak of lightning zigzagged before her eyes. Oh, she had reached the tea-house! She would take refuge on the wide veranda.
The next instant she was racing across the road; but before she gained the desired haven, a deafening clap of thunder, followed by a blinding glare of red flame, came bolting through the trees, causing her to utter a loud, frightened scream, as she stumbled blindly upthe steps. Another instant and the door of the house was flung wide, as a sweet-faced lady, with pleasant, smiling eyes, hurriedly beckoned for her to hasten in.
Nathalie, with a little cry of relief, made a wild rush for the door. As the lady closed it, with shaking limbs and white lips, but with an attempt at a smile the girl cried, “Oh, you are very kind to let me come in, for I am just about drenched”; quickly pulling off her hat as she spoke, and then shaking her wet, clinging skirts.
“Oh, my dear child! you must come in and take off your wet things,” at this moment came in sudden call from an adjoining room, whose door was standing ajar. Nathalie started in surprise, for the voice was singularly low and sweet, in strange contrast to the somewhat high-sounding, rather unpleasant voices of the few villagers whom she had heard conversing, when waiting for her mail in the post-office.
Fearing she would be intruding,—she had noticed that the lady who had opened the door for her, although she smiled pleasantly, had not seconded the invitation,—she shook her head. “Oh, no,” she protested with evident embarrassment, “I shall not take cold. I can stand here until the storm is over. I am sure I shall be all dry in a moment or so.”
But as the voice insisted that she come in, and the woman with the smiling eyes laid her hand on her arm as if to lead her into the room, she reluctantly entered. As she attempted to stammer forth herthanks, and her fear of trespassing upon their kindness, she saw that the owner of the voice was an elderly lady, evidently an invalid, for she sat in a Morris chair by the window, propped up with pillows. As she motioned for the girl to come nearer, and slowly and awkwardly put forth her hand to feel her wet skirts, Nathalie noticed that her hands were swathed with white cloths.
“Dear me,” she murmured worriedly, “you are wet. I am afraid you will take cold. But just take off your blouse and skirt, and Mona will dry them for you in a few moments by the kitchen fire.”
Then, with a few strange motions of the bandaged hands to the sweet-faced woman,—which immediately revealed to Nathalie that she was deaf and dumb,—the wet garments were quickly removed and taken out to the kitchen to dry. Presently the girl, with humorous amazement, found herself snugly wrapped in a silk Japanese kimono, seated in a big chair by the invalid lady, gazing at her in silent admiration.
It was a face that could lay no real claim to beauty, and yet to Nathalie there was a singular charm in the clear-cut outlines of the delicate features, and the soft, warm tints of a complexion that, although many years past youth’s fresh coloring, resembled a blush-rose. But it was the eyes that held Nathalie, black-lashed, deep-set, with a calm, peaceful expression in their deep blue; and the brown hair, slightly threaded withgray, parted in the middle, and curling in a natural wave on each side of her face, gave it the quaint sweetness of some old-time miniature.
Fascinated, as it were, by the charm of the lady’s personality, the girl was soon chatting volubly, as she told how she came to get caught in the storm. “I am sure I should have reached home before the rain came,” she cried in an aggrieved voice, “if it had not been for thathorridman. For I intended going home by the road he took, which is much shorter, but he had made me so nervous by his rudeness that I took the longest way back, for I was afraid I should meet him again.”
“Oh, you must not feel annoyed at receiving an invitation to ride in an automobile when trudging up these mountain roads,” laughed the lady, “for it is quite the customary thing to give a pedestrian a lift up the hills. But I think, in your case,” she added more soberly, “that you did right in refusing the man’s offer, for he was rude, as you say, and all young girls should be careful.”
Won by her companion’s sympathetic interest, Nathalie told that they were spending the summer at Seven Pillars, up near “Peckett’s on Sugar Hill,” but she was cautious not to tell of the peculiar conditions of their stay, or of her aunt’s strange letter. Miss Whipple, as that proved to be the lady’s name, said that she had known her aunt, Mrs. Renwick, and consideredher a very interesting woman, although, to be sure, she was somewhat eccentric. Nathalie also told about her Liberty Girls, a subject that was always close to her heart, and how she was going to try to teach liberty to the little settlement-boys, who were coming up to stay with her for a few weeks.
The invalid, and also her sister, were both greatly interested in Nathalie’s merry chatter; for Mona had come from the kitchen and seated herself on a low stool by the feet of her sister, who would interpret to her as the girl rattled on. In return for Nathalie’s confidences she told how she and her sister, although having been born in the White Mountains, had lived since childhood in Boston. On the death of their parents, after meeting with some reverses, she explained, they had determined to come up to the old homestead and start a sweet-pea farm, as her sister was passionately fond of flowers.
It was delightful work, she said, and it meant so much that was beautiful and joyous to her sister, who, of course, on account of her infirmity, was deprived of many pleasures that other people enjoyed. They had an old farm-hand who had lived with them when they were small children, who did the rough gardening, and who made the farm pay by selling the flowers to the mountain hotels.
“The tea-house was my sister’s inspiration,” continuedMiss Whipple, “and has always been a source of great enjoyment to us both, as so many of the young people from the hotels and boarding-houses would drop in of an afternoon for a cup of tea, or a little dance, as I always used to make it a point to be on hand to play for them. My sister,” she added a little sadly, “although deprived herself of the joys of girlhood, has always been passionately devoted to the young, and has spent any amount of labor in trying to make our little tea-room attractive.
“But now, as I cannot play any more,—you see I am the victim of inflammatory rheumatism,”—she held up her bandaged hands pathetically,—“the young people do not come in as much as they did. It is a great disappointment to us both,” concluded the invalid dolefully, “although perhaps my sister is partly compensated by her work among her flowers.
“But I am wrong to complain in this way,” she hastened to add, a sudden expression of contrition darkening the sweetness of her glance, “for every one has to endure disappointment and sorrow, sooner or later, as my mother used to tell me when I was a girl; and, after all, ours might have been much worse. I try to comfort myself with the thought that all these little jars of life are just ‘helps’ to fit one for the greater life beyond. Indeed,” she added softly, “I grow ashamed of myself for thinking I am even disappointed,when I think of the renunciation, the sufferings, and the agony of the Man of Sorrows, that we might have joy.”
Nathalie made no reply, not only because she was at a loss for words to express her sympathy, but stilled, possibly, by the beautiful look of calm peace that had crept into the sweet eyes.
“But I am wearying you,” smiled the invalid, her eyes lighting with a warm glow, “making you think I am a great martyr because I am deprived of a few things that I think needful to my happiness. Perhaps I am in a particularly rebellious mood to-day, for I am so anxious to read a book a friend sent me, but with my poor hands I cannot hold it, and it makes my neck ache to read from the bookstand. But here comes Mona with your dried clothing; yes, and to bring me off my cross of martyrdom by her sweet patience, for she is always cheery and smiling underhergreat deprivations.”
“Oh, and she can’t even read to you!” lamented Nathalie impulsively, suddenly reminded of what it must mean to live with a person who could not talk to you.
“Yes, and that is one of the nails in the cross,” said the shut-in, with whimsical sweetness, “for I not only want some one to talk, to read to me, but sometimes I just yearn for the sound of a human voice.Oh, but I am getting selfish again—for,—Yes, as soon as you get your gown on, you must go with Mona to see her sweet peas; she would love to show them to you.”
“And I would love to see them,” replied the girl as she dropped the kimono and slipped into her skirt, “for I, too, adore flowers.” And then, as Nathalie fastened up her blouse, and put on her belt, Miss Whipple made her sister understand that their guest wanted to see her bunches of sweet peas.
Mona’s face lighted happily as she comprehended, and in a few moments she and Nathalie were standing in an outer shed, where masses of the dainty flowers were piled in heaps, waiting to be tied into bunches, their delicate odor filling the place with quite perceptible fragrance. Nathalie watched the deaf-and-dumb woman tie a few bunches, dimpling in gratified embarrassment as she softly touched the blossoms. She held a beautifully pink-tinted one against the girl’s cheek, to indicate that they were of the same hue, and then smilingly fastened a big bunch to her waist.
By this time the worst of the storm was over, and Nathalie, seeing that it had settled down to a slow drizzle, decided that she must hurry on, for fear her mother would worry. So, after thanking her kind hostesses, and declaring that she would return their umbrella very soon,—she had promised to make thema real visit, as Miss Whipple called it, in answer to their repeated urgings,—she hurried out into the rain and was soon on her homeward way.
It was not a pleasant walk, this plodding over a road deep with mud, and in some places running in tiny rivulets, for the girl had no rubbers on, but she kept up her cheer by whistling softly, for not a person was in sight until she reached the road through the woods, leading to Seven Pillars. Here she spied a queer-looking little figure in black, hobbling on ahead of her with a cane, but no umbrella.
Something, perhaps it was the basket the woman carried, suggested that she might be the old lady who had called the afternoon before, so the girl hurried her steps, hoping, by the proffer of her umbrella, to atone for the seeming rudeness of her reception of the previous day.
As she reached the black figure, she pantingly cried, “Oh, won’t you come under my umbrella, for I am sure you must be wet.” As she spoke she peered at the woman’s face, almost hidden by the wide brim of an old, rusty-looking black bonnet. But the bright blue eyes in the withered face, under its halo of black, only stared coldly, stonily, while the drooping mouth, seamed with a network of fine wrinkles, and deep lines of worry and disappointment, narrowed into a tightly compressed slit of red.
But Nathalie, notwithstanding the disdainful glare,and the woman’s oppressive silence, pushed her umbrella over her head, and, somewhat to her own amusement, after a shuffle or two, was soon walking in step to the old woman’s hobble.
“It has been quite a storm, hasn’t it?” ventured the girl, although her cheeks were flushed with embarrassment under the ill-timed silence of the woman, who acted not only as if she could dispense with the shelter of her umbrella, but with her company as well.
The only reply to the girl was a sniff,—sounding almost like a sneer,—but, determined not to be daunted by the old woman’s surliness, Nathalie kept up her chatter, telling how charmed they were with the mountains, especially with Seven Pillars, with its magnificent view, and expressed her regret that they had not been at home the afternoon before, explaining that her mother had been lying down and did not know of her call.
Presently, with a sudden movement, the old lady came to a halt. Before Nathalie could understand what she was stopping for,—her umbrella was held so closely over her companion’s head that she didn’t perceive the splash of red peeping from between the trees,—she had turned in at a little gate and the girl suddenly realized that the queer old lady was her neighbor of the little red house!
For a moment she was speechless; then a smile dawned in her eyes, as she suddenly understood why her greeting had not been returned when passing byearlier in the afternoon. Quickly recovering her wits, however, she stepped forward, and as she held the gate open for her new-found neighbor to pass through, she cried, “Oh, I am so glad I met you, and know that we are near neighbors. Mother will be very pleased to meet you, I am sure, and will soon run over to see you.”
But no reply was forthcoming, and Nathalie, her patience at a boiling point, hurried on, inwardly vowing that she was never going to speak to that cantankerous old woman again, for had she not done her best to apologize for an unintentional slight? As she reached the veranda with its magic seven pillars her eyes gleamed humorously, as she suddenly realized how funny she must have appeared, hobbling along with that old woman. What a funny way she had of sniffing, andthatold black poke-bonnet. Then she wondered if the rest of their neighbors were as peculiar and queer as the old lady in the little red house.