  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. |
|
