THE OLD CHATEAU
One afternoon the French farm house was deserted except for Sally
Ashton, Mere 'Toinette and Miss Patricia.
As a matter of fact, Miss Patricia was not in the house, but in the farm
yard which was separated from the house by a newly planted kitchen
garden. It was here that she spent the greater part of her time working
far more diligently than if she had been engaged for a few dollars a
week. Yet in Massachusetts Miss Patricia Lord's three-hundred-acre farm
was one of the prides of the state. In ordinary times she was accustomed
to employing from twenty-five to fifty men, although always Miss
Patricia acted as her own overseer.
As she had announced, for the present she had managed to secure the
services of an old French peasant, nearer seventy years of age than
sixty, to act as her assistant. But Jean was possessed of a
determination of character only equaled by Miss Patricia's. Not a word
of any language did he know except French, while Miss Patricia's French
was one of the mysteries past finding out. Also Jean was nearly stone
deaf. This misfortune really served as an advantage in his relation with
Miss Patricia, as he never did anything at the time or in the way she
ordered him to do it, there was consolation in the thought that he had
not understood the order. Jean had his own ideas with regard to farming
matters and an experience which had lasted through more than half a
century.
Therefore with the assistance of Peggy and Vera the outdoor work on the
Sunrise Camp Fire farm was progressing with surprising success. The
supply of livestock had been increased by a second shipment from the
United States. This shipment Miss Patricia had divided with her French
neighbors.
Beside old Jean there was at this time another rebel in Miss Patricia's
camp, Sally Ashton. The other girls were frequently annoyed by the old
lady, nevertheless, appreciating her gallant qualities and for the sake
of their Camp Fire guardian, they usually agreed to her demands when it
was impossible to evade them. But Sally was not fond of doing
_anything_ she was told to do. Not that Sally was disagreeable, and
it was not in her nature to argue, she simply ignored either suggestions
or commands, always pursuing her own sweet way.
This afternoon, for example, several of the girls had invited her to
walk with them to one of the French villages. Once a week they
distributed loaves of bread and a few grocery supplies to the neediest
of the peasants, those who had been unable to rebuild their huts or find
regular occupation. Sally had declined with entire frankness. She had
done her duty by making the bread for the others to give away and more
successfully than any one of the girls could have made it. She disliked
long, fatiguing walks.
Mrs. Burton had gone off alone on one of her dramatic pilgrimages.
Mary Gilchrist had again motored into Soissons and Sally would have
enjoyed accompanying her. To have driven about through the French
country with convalescent soldiers would have been extremely
entertaining. But Mary had not asked her, preferring to take Yvonne,
whom the American girls all appeared to adore.
So in consequence Sally was vexed and a little jealous.
Observing the others depart and that apparently Sally had nothing of
importance to occupy her, Miss Patricia had ordered her to come out into
the yard and help with the young chickens. They seemed to be afflicted
with some uncomfortable moulting disease.
To this invitation Sally had made no reply. She especially disliked
foolish, feathery outdoor things and had no intention of sacrificing her
well-earned leisure. The school had a semi-weekly half holiday and for
once the house was quiet.
Yet after a little more than an hour of leisure, Sally found herself
bored. Many times of late she had missed her old friendship with Gerry
Williams, since this was her first Camp Fire experience without Gerry,
who had married Felipe Morris the summer before in California.
At least Gerry occasionally had been frivolous! Certainly these were war
times and yet could one be serious forever and ever, without an
intermission? The other Camp Fire girls now and then got upon Sally's
nerves.
As she was seldom warm enough these days, covered with her steamer
blanket Sally had been curled up on the bed in her room which she shared
with her sister. First she had taken a short nap and then attempted to
read a French novel which she had discovered in the attic of the farm.
The French puzzled her and it was tiresome to have to consult a
dictionary. So Sally lay still for a few moments listening to Mere
'Toinette singing the Marseillaise in a cracked old voice as she went
about her work downstairs.
Finally, stretching in a characteristically indolent fashion, Sally rose
and walked over to a window. She could only see through one small
opening. All the glass in the countryside had been smashed by the
terrific bombardments, and as there was no glass to be had for restoring
the windows, glazed paper had been pasted over the frames. The one small
aperture had been left for observation of climate and scenery.
Even without her birdseye view, Sally was conscious that the sun was
shining brilliantly. A long streak had shone through the glazed paper
and lay across her bed.
She decided that she might enjoy a short walk. She really had forgotten
Mrs. Burton's suggestion that no one of the girls leave the farm alone
and had no thought of deliberately breaking an unwritten law.
Mere 'Toinette and Sally had become devoted friends and also there was
an unspoken bond of sympathy between her and Jean, expressed only by the
way in which the old man looked at her and in certain dry chucklings in
his throat and shakings of his head.
As Sally was about to leave the front door suddenly Mere 'Toinette
appeared, to present her with a little package of freshly baked fruit
muffins. Sally's appetite in war times, when everybody was compelled to
live upon such short rations, was a standing household joke and one
which she deeply resented. Mere 'Toinette resented the point of view
equally, preferring Sally to any one of the other girls, and also it was
her idea that the good things of this world are created only for the
young. There was no measure to her own self-sacrifice.
A few yards beyond the house Sally discovered old Jean, who was
doubtless coming to find her, as he bore in his hand a French
fleur-de-lis, the national wild flower, which he had found growing in a
field as hardy and unconquerable as the French spirit.
Sally accepted his offering with the smile of gratitude which seemed
always a sufficient reward for her many masculine admirers.
With Mere 'Toinette's gift in her Camp Fire knapsack and with Jean's
flower thrust into her belt, Sally then made a fresh start. She had not
thought of going far, as the roads and fields were in too disagreeable a
condition.
Pausing about an eighth of a mile from the farm house, she considered
whether after all it were worth while to remain out of doors. Even if
the afternoon were enchanting, walking through the heavy upturned soil
was unpleasant.
Then by accident Sally chanced to observe the ruins of the old French
chateau shining under the rays of the winter sun.
It was not far away and suddenly she made up her mind to go upon an
exploring tour. Half a dozen times in the past few weeks the Camp Fire
girls had discussed paying a visit to the chateau to see what
interesting discoveries they might unearth among the ruins. But no one
of them had so far had the opportunity.
Ordinarily Sally Ashton was the least experimental of the entire group
of girls. Instinctively, as a type of the feminine, home-staying woman,
she disliked the many adventurous members of her own sisterhood. With
not a great deal of imagination, Sally's views of romance were practical
and matter of fact. Young men fell in love with one and she had no idea
of how many lovers one might have and no thought of limiting the number
so far as she was personally concerned. Then among the number one
selected the man who would make the most comfortable and agreeable
husband, married him, had children and was happy ever afterwards. So you
see, a romance which might bring sorrow as well as happiness had no
place in Sally Ashton's practical scheme of life.
Therefore the fates must have driven her to the old French chateau on
this winter afternoon.
The walk itself occupied about half an hour. Around the chateau in times
past there had been a moat. For their own convenience the German troops
quartered at the old place had left the bridge over the moat
undisturbed, else Sally would never have hazarded a dangerous crossing.
The house had been built of gray stone and it was difficult to imagine
how the enemy had managed so completely to reduce it to ruins. An
explosion of dynamite must have been employed, for the chateau appeared
to have fallen as if it had been destroyed by an earthquake. Certain
portions of the outer walls remained standing, but the towers in the
center had caved in upon the interior of the house.
[Illustration: The Figure Was that of a Young Soldier.]
As Sally drew near she felt a little desolate and yet she was not
frightened, although a proverbial coward.
The place appeared too abandoned to fear that any living thing could be
in its vicinity. It was only that one felt the pity of the destruction
of this ancient and beautiful home.
The waste and confusion of war troubled Sally as it does all women. So
hard it is to see why destruction is necessary to the growth and
development of human history!
Wondering what had become of the French family who formerly had lived in
the chateau before the outbreak of the war, Sally walked up closer to
the ruins. From a space between two walls, forming an insecure arch, a
bird darted out into the daylight. Not ordinarily influenced by the
beauties of nature or by unexpected expressions of her moods,
nevertheless Sally uttered a cry of enchantment.
Between the walls she had spied the ruins of an old French drawing room.
The bird must have flown through the opening into the room and then
quickly out again into the sunshine.
A little table remained standing with an open book upon it, laid face
down. There was a rug on the floor, now thick with mould, and yet it was
a rare Aubusson rug with sturdy cupids trailing flowery vines across its
surface. There were pieces of broken furniture and bric-a-brac strewn
over the floor.
Sally must have continued staring inside the room for several moments
before she slowly became aware that there was a human figure seated in a
chair in the shadow near one of the half fallen walls.
The figure was that of a young soldier. He was asleep when Sally
discovered him and incredibly dirty. His hair was long and matted,
hanging thick over his forehead. One arm was wrapped in a soiled
bandage.
Yet Sally did not feel frightened, only faint and ill for an instant
from pity.
Coming to their farm house after a few days in Paris, Sally had seen
trains filled with wounded soldiers. In Paris she also had noticed
blinded and invalided men being led along the streets by their families
or friends, yet never so piteous a figure as this.