"A Man for a' That."
Several days later Mary Gilchrist was again in the living-room in the
early afternoon, but on this occasion she was alone.
At the piano in the corner of the room she was practising a number of
new Camp Fire songs. During their shut-in winter in the mountains, music
promised to be one of the principal relaxations, and, although not so
good a pianist as Bettina Graham, Gill felt it her duty to regain a
little of her lost skill, due to the failure to work at her music during
the years spent abroad.
At present she was attempting a more ambitious effort, trying to capture
and repeat the odd, musical notes that poured forth so spontaneously
from the youngest of the Camp Fire girls. Meeting with scant success,
she was so intent upon her effort that she was not aroused until the
living room door opened and an unexpected guest entered.
As he did not glance in her direction, at the same instant Mary
Gilchrist slipped from the piano stool and at once concealed herself
behind a tall fire screen that had been placed near the wall. Her action
was involuntary, since she scarcely had time for thought; nevertheless,
once in her place of hiding, deliberately Gill made up her mind to
remain where she was until she might escape without detection.
The visitor who had come into the living-room was Allan Drain.
They had not seen each other since their original meeting and Gill
wished for no other. Not liking her present position, yet it appeared
impossible to make her escape without being discovered and so obliged to
speak with him alone.
Between a tiny opening in the screen she could behold a tall figure
moving up and down before the fire, and afterwards quietly gazing into
its depths. He looked older than she recalled and yet Gill felt that she
disliked his appearance. The thin figure seemed theatrical and
self-conscious and in a way effeminate, but then the type of youth she
admired had great physical strength and courage, and Gill was convinced
that the present unconscious actor was possessed of neither.
She was aroused from her reflections by a second opening of the door and
the appearance of Mrs. Graham in the same room.
Dressed in a simple, dark blue serge, nevertheless she gave an effect of
social elegance and grace. A remarkably pretty girl as Betty Ashton, as
Mrs. Anthony Graham, the wife of a distinguished United States senator,
her beauty and poise had increased with added years and opportunities.
Her abundant auburn hair had the lovely sheen which comes from careful
attention, there were a few lines about her eyes, but except for these
her skin was firm and clear with a bright rose color in her cheeks, her
nose short and straight, her lips full and deeply curved.
Not able to catch her expression as she moved swiftly across the room
and held out her hand to their guest, Gill was able to hear her first
words and to wish that she had faced the situation in the beginning
rather than place herself in her present position. No one in their
household would be more vexed than Mrs. Graham to discover her in
hiding.
Brought up by her father on their large wheat farm in the middle west,
Mary Gilchrist had lived an outdoor life, and without a mother had been
taught few of the social amenities. During the years abroad, her
strength and endurance, her skill as a motorist, her somewhat boyish
abilities had proved so useful that it had not occurred to Mary
Gilchrist until her return to the United States that she was without the
social knowledge and education that girls of her age and position should
possess. Before her visit home, during the few weeks in New York City,
she had been conscious of her own awkwardness, particularly appreciating
the difference between her own manners and Bettina Graham's. For this
reason, as well as others, she was pleased over the Camp Fire's choice
of the Adirondack forest for their winter home. In a wide, free, outdoor
atmosphere she would be once more at ease and undisturbed by her want of
social knowledge.
Then, unexpectedly, Bettina's mother, Mrs. Graham, had chosen to spend
the winter with them and from the first moment of their introduction
Gill had been able to understand why Bettina Graham had acquired a poise
and graciousness no one of the other Sunrise Camp Fire girls possessed.
Moreover, what Bettina had in slight measure her mother possessed in
fuller degree. Indeed, not alone to Mary Gilchrist's untrained judgment,
but among persons with the widest social acquaintance, Betty Graham was
famous for her charm of manner and her gift for attracting men and
women.
"I wrote to ask you to come to see me to-day for a special reason, Mr.
Drain. But because I am sorrier than I can say I am going to explain to
you at once and have the ordeal past. I shall not ask you to forgive me,
only to appreciate my regret. Suppose we both sit down."
Instinctively disliking Allan Drain, yet Mary Gilchrist realized that he
also had a gracious and cultivated manner when he chose to employ it, as
he did with Mrs. Graham. From her vantage point, Gill watched him draw a
chair closer to the fire and wait until Mrs. Graham was seated, before
seating himself near her.
"I cannot imagine why you should be asking my pardon for a mistake or a
fault, but of course you know that I freely forgive you. The apology
should come from me. I appreciated later that I ought not to have thrust
my poor verses upon you to bore you and absorb your time when I knew you
so slightly. The truth is I am lonely this winter and my scribbling
means more to me than it warrants. My family are not in sympathy with my
versifying or any of my views of life. There are no women among us,
there is only my father, two older brothers and myself. They have worked
very hard and are not prosperous and feel I ought to be grateful to my
uncle for offering me the education they were not able to have."
"Then it is all the more difficult for me to tell you, Mr. Drain, that
the manuscripts of your poems which you entrusted to me have by some
extraordinary chance vanished. I did not wish to tell you of this and so
for days I have made inquiries and every member of our household has
searched for the verses. Now I cannot conceive of what actually has
become of them, and yet I am afraid I am beginning to lose hope of their
being discovered. It is all the more mysterious because we have no
maids, no one who could have thrown the papers away from sheer
carelessness and then be unwilling to confess. Nevertheless, I do feel
so guilty and responsible, for if I had locked the manuscript away
instead of placing it on a small table in my bed-room along with some
books and papers, this probably would not have occurred."
Mrs. Graham leaned over and laid her hand lightly upon her companion's.
"Do reproach me, please do not look so white and wretched. I know the
loss of your verses means many days of your time. But if you will give
me the privilege, in order to show you have in a measure forgiven me, I
shall send for some one to come to you and do the typewriting for you a
second time, or if you will permit Bettina to copy the poems, I am sure
she will do her best."
"But, Mrs. Graham, I have no other copies of my poems, except three or
four which I have had the good luck to have published in second-class
magazines. Two days before I brought my manuscript to you I got them all
into shape and burned up and threw away the odd bits of paper upon which
they had been written. The afternoon I met your daughter and her friends
in the woods I had gone for a walk to celebrate the fact that my task
was accomplished. As I was thinking more of my verses than the
landmarks, I lost my way. But please, please don't be so unhappy on my
account. The fault was mine, not yours. I should not have troubled you.
You'll allow me to say good-by and come to see you another day. No use
pretending, Mrs. Graham, that I am not a good deal cut up and that I
don't feel that fate has been pretty hard. You are sure that you have
looked everywhere and that the manuscript has not merely been
misplaced."
"I'm afraid not. But really I don't feel that I can accept the idea that
your verses are lost forever. Surely you must recall some of them, or
will find stray copies here and there!" There were tears in Mrs.
Graham's voice as well as in her eyes.
"Don't stay any longer than you wish, if it only makes things harder for
you. One would rather, I know, face disappointment alone. And don't try
to fight your resentment, I shall feel better the angrier you are with
me."
Allan Drain and Mrs. Graham arose at the same time, and Mary Gilchrist,
scarcely realizing what she was doing, half followed their example, so
that she was enabled to see the two figures over the top of her screen.
Mrs. Graham's back was turned to her, but she could catch a glimpse of
her companion's face. He was painfully white, yet his lips were firmly
closed and his expression showed less of the self pity than she
anticipated.
"You are very brave, braver than I could possibly be in your place,"
Mrs. Graham murmured. "If there was only something I could do, some
possible way to make up to you I should not feel so unhappy. Yet for the
loss of creative work there is no recompense."
"Oh, but my work was not so valuable as all that, Mrs. Graham, you are
mistaken. Most of my poetry was the veriest trash. Editors and friends
were of the same opinion. Good-by, I will come in again in a day or so,
if you will allow me."
The following instant the young man was gone.
Startled and troubled by his swift departure, making an unexpected
movement behind her screen, Gill beheld the screen pitch forward and
stood facing Mrs. Graham, who had swung around at the unexpected sound.
"You have been in hiding and listening to what Mr. Drain and I were
saying to each other, one of the Sunrise Camp Fire girls! I am afraid I
do not understand. There was nothing in our conversation you might not
have heard openly, had you cared to join us."
There was more surprise than reproach in Mrs. Graham's manner and voice.
Blushing hotly, Mary Gilchrist felt unable to offer a defense. What
defense had she to offer?
"I had no thought of listening, not at first, Mrs. Graham. In order not
to be seen I hid myself for a moment and then when you came into the
room I did not wish to interrupt you."
Even to her own ears Gill did not feel that her explanation really
explained. Therefore she could scarcely resent the slight look of
disdain on her companion's face, as she answered:
"You are not a child and under the circumstances I think might have met
the situation in a less undignified fashion. As Mrs. Burton is not well
I shall not trouble her by speaking of this because I am afraid she
would be a good deal displeased."