Closed In
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.