The Hermit
In the return of the Camp Fire girls to their own country there was one
of the girls who was unreservedly glad. Not one word of regret, not an
instant of repining for foreign lands, or scenes or friends, and this
girl was Sally Ashton, notwithstanding the fact that Sally actually had
been through more entertaining experiences than the other girls.
However, these experiences had made but slight spiritual impression upon
her, for Sally was a matter-of-fact and not an emotional person. She had
nursed Lieutenant Fleury under curious circumstances in the story called
"The Camp Fire Girls on the Field of Honor", but neither then nor
afterwards had the young French lieutenant's gratitude and affection for
her wakened more than a friendly response. The same result followed her
acquaintance with the young Englishman in "The Camp Fire Girls in Merrie
England." Calmly Sally had announced in both instances that her own
affection was indissolubly bound up with her own country and that her
one desire was to return to the United States and to spend the rest of
her life there.
At present living with the Camp Fire girls in their cabin in the
Adirondacks, Sally had become her placid and contented self. The war was
over and she need not reflect upon the past, since it was of no avail to
make herself unhappy with old memories.
Moreover, although not particularly fond of the mountains, Sally
preferred living in the country to the town and was now particularly
pleased with their household arrangements.
The camp in which they were planning to spend the winter was a more
expensive mode of living than the Camp Fire girls appreciated and was
possible only because of Miss Patricia Lord. Upon Captain and Mrs.
Burton's small estate, the last few years in Europe had made serious
inroads. Indeed, one of the reasons for Mrs. Burton's desire to return
to her stage career was in order to increase their fortune. Her husband,
Captain Richard Burton, was a number of years her senior and although an
actor at the time of their marriage had no desire to continue his former
profession. In the past years of Red Cross work he had lost interest and
was out of touch with his old life and at present was continuing his Red
Cross work, holding a position at a small salary in Washington.
None of these details of other lives disturbed Sally Ashton. She was
merely aware that their new camp was beautiful and comfortable and that
she had the right to look forward to a long and peaceful winter. She and
her sister, Alice, had spent a few months with their mother and father
near Boston in the interval of their return from England and their
arrival in the Adirondacks and were expecting their mother and father as
guests at Christmas. Indeed, there were plans for a Christmas house
party which would tax the capacity of the big cabin.
Ordinarily the Camp Fire work was divided so that the girls were allowed
to devote their energies to the tasks they preferred, and as Sally was
more domestic in her tastes than any member of the Sunrise Camp Fire
group, she was frequently allowed first choice.
At present she had elected to have charge of the big living-room of the
cabin and at this moment was engaged in putting it in order.
She looked extremely young and pretty in her big blue apron which she
wore over a brown serge frock, the girls having concluded to lay aside
their khaki costumes, except on ceremonial occasions, because of the
cold. Her brown hair, parted a little at one side, was brushed smoothly
down across her forehead and into a large soft coil at the back of her
head. Over it she wore a net, but little tendrils of curling brown hair
showed on her temples and throat. Sally's skin, ordinarily of a clear,
warm pallor, was at present at its loveliest because she was especially
happy and well. To Sally happiness meant peace and contentment rather
than intensity of emotion or the constant movement of events.
She leaned down now to thrust some white birch sticks under the great
log that smouldered at the back of the mammoth fireplace. Behind the
cabin the winter fire logs were piled so high as to suggest an old time
pioneer fortification prepared against an attack by the Indians.
Then when Sally arose she glanced about the big room.
The floors were covered with thick, brightly colored rugs for warmth and
cheerfulness. Until the advent of the Sunrise Camp Fire girls, the room
had been conspicuously a man's room. As a matter of fact, Tahawus cabin
had been erected to serve as a clubhouse for a group of wealthy men who
wished to enjoy the winter sports. But losing interest, Miss Patricia
Lord had been able to rent it for the year.
In the center of the room stood a long, heavy oak table sufficiently
large for any number of books, magazines and newspapers. The chairs were
upholstered in brown leather, while upon the stained walls were several
fine paintings of scenes in the Adirondacks. The sofa was long enough
for two of the Camp Fire girls to find repose at the same time. Above
the mantel was a magnificent elk's head.
As a man's club room, the room may have been appropriate, but for their
purpose the Camp Fire girls and their guardian found it unsympathetic.
The changes they had made were not important, and yet its entire
character had altered.
On the mantel were the Camp Fire candlesticks holding the three Camp
Fire candles and Indian baskets and jars filled with autumn leaves,
bright red berries and branches of bayberry.
To-day on the center table was a big bowl of golden roses sent to Mrs.
Burton by an admirer of her work who but recently had learned of her
return to the United States. There was a basket of brightly colored
wool, the property of Mrs. Graham, who rashly had promised to knit each
member of the Camp Fire a new sweater before the winter was over.
On a smaller table was Sally's own basket of silk. Notwithstanding the
amusement of the other girls, she had begun to piece together an
old-fashioned octagonal quilt, following a pattern of half a century
before.
Indeed, there were many feminine evidences about the room, some of them
too subtle to be recognized immediately.
Satisfied with her scrutiny, Sally seated herself in a large chair
before the fire.
Breakfast had been over for an hour or more and the big cabin was almost
empty. Miss Patricia Lord was outdoors giving orders to the man who came
in the mornings and afternoons to look after the furnace and do whatever
work it was impossible for the girls to accomplish. Mrs. Burton was in
her own room writing letters or resting. Mrs. Graham, Bettina and
Marguerite Arnot had driven over to Saranac, several miles away, to do
some important shopping. The other girls were studying in one of the
smaller cabins. It was one of the rules for the winter that each member
of the Sunrise Camp Fire club should devote three hours a day to some
kind of fairly serious study save on holidays.
Sally personally felt that she should follow their righteous example and
yet at the present moment could scarcely make up her mind to be so
virtuous.
Slipping a box from her pocket, she placed a chocolate between her small
white teeth. The box had come through the mail the other day with a note
from Dan Webster, her old childhood friend. In Paris he had suggested
that she should come home before her other friends. He now expressed
himself as pleased at her return. The letter struck Sally as not so
enthusiastic as she had the right to expect. Dan Webster always had been
her especial friend since they were children. However, he was busy,
having recently taken full charge of his father's farm in New Hampshire,
so Sally presumed he was too absorbed to give much thought to her.
Hearing a sound outside in the hall, she got up and went to the open
door. The hall was nearly half the size of the living-room with a second
large fireplace. Mary Gilchrist had just come in from the outdoors.
"Why, Gill, I thought you were out for an early morning walk! I heard
Bettina say we were not to expect you at breakfast as you had made
yourself a cup of coffee and some toast and would not return until we
had finished. How white you look! Are you worrying over what almost
happened yesterday? Gill, it bores me so to have people worry over the
tragedies or the misfortunes that do not occur. Alice says that is
because I have a practical and unemotional nature. Perhaps that is true,
I do not know; it only seems to me a waste of time and energy. Elce was
not hurt yesterday, not seriously. She slept perfectly and says her arm
is not painful. Yet you look as if you were seriously ill."
Mary Gilchrist, who was sometimes called Gill and sometimes Mary by the
other Camp Fire girls, smiled at Sally's matter-of-fact manner.
"You are a comfortable person, Sally, and usually I agree with what you
have just said and try to follow your illustrious example. Only at
present I feel as if I ought to do some kind of penance for my fault. I
came to have a quiet talk with Mrs. Burton, and to ask her if she feels
I have forfeited my right to be a member of her Camp Fire group."
Smiling, Sally shook her head.
"Oh, you need not trouble over any criticism from Tante! Only on the
most unexpected occasions is she ever stern and I am sure she will
appreciate that you were sufficiently frightened not to be so reckless a
second time. By the way, I must tell you something amusing in order to
cheer you.
"Early this morning as I was coming to breakfast I heard some one at the
front door. Opening it I discovered the youth you and Bettina rescued
yesterday. He was wearing a bright scarlet tam-o-shanter and a velvet
coat and had a crimson scarf about his neck, and really looked rather
handsome. I met him at dinner yesterday evening, but he was not in the
least concerned in speaking to me and made no pretence of recognizing
me. At once he demanded Mrs. Graham. When Aunt Betty came out into the
hall he thrust a leather case into her hands and asked her to read his
collection of unpublished poems.
"Aunt Betty was of course very sweet and gracious about it, but I heard
her moaning over the fact afterwards that actually there are fifty
poems. Bettina counted. She and Tante were laughing over the fact after
breakfast, since Aunt Betty insists she detests poetry and has scarcely
read a line of it in years. However, the poet appeared to think she
would be delighted with the opportunity!"
Mary Gilchrist frowned.
"Oh, I wish the poet and his poetry might vanish together. In fact, if I
knew where Mrs. Graham had placed the masterpieces I should like to
light a blaze with them. It is absurd of me, Sally, but I took a dislike
to the youth and afterwards my own behavior made me dislike him the
more, as though he were partly responsible. But do go for a walk, Sally,
you love the indoors as much as I do the open country. It is a wonderful
morning and will do you lots of good."
Half an hour later, slightly against her will, as she preferred the open
fire and her sewing, Sally Ashton and the little Lancashire girl started
for a walk together. Mrs. Burton had sent word that Chitty was in need
of amusement and Sally had volunteered her services.
Now like children they danced through the pine woods behind the camp,
sometimes walking sedately, at others running a few steps, frightening
the squirrels and chipmunks, who came out and seated themselves on the
upper branches of the trees to chatter and scold.
"You do not appear in the least uncomfortable from your injury
yesterday," Sally remarked, after protesting that they walk more
quietly. "Nevertheless, suppose we sit down and rest for a few moments.
I am not a gypsy, although I remember you once said that you would like
to be one."
The younger girl, who was a daughter of an English miner, sat down on a
bed of pine needles facing Sally, who preferred the trunk of a riven
tree.
"Yes, I used to talk of wishing to be a gypsy, but that was before I
went to Ireland with my father and we attempted to live like gypsies.
Then we used to go about through the villages, where I had to sing in
the streets for pennies in the wind and rain and cold. Sometimes we
slept indoors but more often in stables and lofts, until I was often too
weary to sing. Then my father grew tired of the wandering life and
wished to return to the army. Now I think what I wished was to live in a
forest like this and always to be happy and free."
Sally's brown eyes were slightly puzzled. The little girl's nature was
an enigma to her, as it was to most persons. Freedom seemed Chitty's one
dream, and yet she could scarcely have known what the great word
signified even for her own small, individual life.
"Suppose you sing for me if you feel well enough, Chitty. I have not
heard you for a long time, you only sing when you are out of doors
unless some one urges you. I am sleepy, so you can feel as if you were
almost entirely alone."
Sally lifted up her head to watch a gleam of golden sunlight slant
through the exquisite cool darkness of the pine branches and to see the
long, delicate fingers of the pines tremble in the light winds.
Then suddenly her eyes dropped toward her lap.
If she were not musical, if she were not emotional, if she cared little
for the outdoors and more for the sheltered places and life's
serenities, yet the little Lancashire girl's gift set even her pulses
stirring.
Scarcely a proper definition to call the variety of sounds which Chitty
poured forth with the ease and unconsciousness of a mocking-bird,
singing. There were trills, gay and high and poignant, then a low note
like a sob, then light ripples like wind blowing over the water, then
bold, straightforward whistles, or the plaintive notes of a wood dove.
Never had the effect been more magical to Sally's ears.
Then suddenly, without being aware of any particular reason, she turned
her eyes and glanced in another direction.
Seated not many yards away and directly facing her was one of the
strangest figures she had ever seen. The man was so nearly the color of
the bark of the tree that he might have been carved out of wood. His
hair and skin were a coppery brown, he had a short beard of the same
shade and eyes that were only slightly more brown. He did not look very
old, although his clothes were old and shabby. He wore a leather coat
and knee breeches and was without a hat. Listening with absolute
intensity to Chitty's music, he seemed scarcely aware of their
existence.
When she ceased, he got up and Sally saw that he apparently wished to
speak to them, and yet could not make up his mind to alarm them.
As a matter of fact, Sally was not in the least frightened.