THE APRIL WOODS
“Again the blackbirds sing; the streams
Wake, laughing, from their winter dreams,
And tremble in the April showers
The tassels of the maple flowers.”
Polly recited Whittier’s verse with a wistful inflection in her voice
that made her companion turn from looking at the scenery to gaze at her.
“Don’t make a cheerful poem sound like a lament for all the lost springs
in the world, Polly darlint,” Betty Graham pleaded. “I declare you
become more of a fascinator the older you grow. But I suppose that is a
part of your genius. Funny we didn’t know you were a genius in the old
Sunrise Hill Camp Fire days, and only thought you were ‘fee’ as the
Irish say. Queer there is another Camp Fire organization of girls now,
with our old title and with Mollie Webster for their guardian! Ah well,
times do change, though I know that is not an original remark.”
Polly laughed. The two friends were cantering along side by side through
a lane in the New Hampshire woods. They were on their way to see the old
cabin where long ago they had lived and worked together with nearly a
dozen other girls for a happy year.
The riding was difficult because the road was still muddy from spring
rains, but Polly rode frequently in Central Park when she happened to be
in New York City and Betty, in an effort to keep her figure, had daily
horseback exercise in Washington. At present they were actually paying
more attention to each other’s conversation than to their horses.
“And here I am adopting some of Mollie’s Camp Fire responsibilities
without being half so well equal to them as she is. Do you think my
scheme of taking a few of her Camp Fire girls and some of my own to camp
on the edge of the Painted Desert with me a mad scheme, Betty? Of
course, I have to see the girls first and choose the ones I wish and
then argue the matter with their parents. You and Anthony are going to
allow me to have Bettina?”
Involuntarily both women had slowed down their horses.
“We cannot help it very well, Polly,” Mrs. Graham replied. “Bettina has
thought of nothing else and dreamed of nothing else since you first
wrote of your plan to her and to Polly—oh, to Peggy, I mean. I do hate
this business of two persons in one family having the same name. We have
had trouble enough with the difficulty in our own family. Bettina has
even written some charming verses about the desert, which she showed to
me the night of my arrival.
“But I am afraid I shall never have any more influence over my daughter
after she has been with you, dear. Truth is, Bettina and I adore each
other but are not in the least alike. And Anthony says I must give
Bettina the chance to do the thing she believes she would love. She does
not care in the least for society or many people, and it is so hard for
me to understand,” Betty Graham ended wistfully.
But in return her beloved friend only laughed. “Nonsense, Betty; we are
not all born beauties and belles, as you were. Oh, yes, I do think your
Bettina is very pretty, so don’t get your mother bird feathers ruffled.
But I don’t think ‘the little Princess’ is the beauty her mother was and
is.” Then seriously, “Of course I shall do my best to look after your
daughter, Betty dear, if anything should—” she hesitated.
Her friend answered gravely, “Of course her father and I will both
understand. But Bettina knows nothing of the actual world. She has lived
in her ambitions and dreams. Hard as it is for us, she must take her own
risks and learn her own lessons.”
“If only you would come with me, Betty—you or Mollie. I may not be equal
to the task alone,” Polly suddenly announced, having felt another qualm
at the task ahead of her. Then she laughed.
“I have just had the funniest letter from Sylvia Wharton. You see, I
wrote and asked Sylvia to take a year from her hospital work and come
west to look after me. Doctor Sylvia flatly declines and suggests that
she has more important things to do. Still, she has done a Sylviaesque
thing! She proposes, or rather orders me, to take with me a young woman
who started her hospital training and has broken down. She has
recovered, but Sylvia thinks the change will help her. Also, she says
the young woman is particularly well adapted for looking after all of
us.
“She writes that I won’t need a maid and am to leave poor Marie in New
York. She is right, I expect, about Marie, but I won’t do that. However,
I don’t think it will be a bad idea, if the young woman Sylvia wishes me
to take is fairly agreeable. She can teach my Camp Fire girls first-aid
requirements and then, if any one is ill, help in an emergency.”
Mrs. Betty Graham nodded her handsome head.
“Sylvia is always sensible and has been from her youth up, in contrast
to you, dear. However, don’t think that you and your girls are to be
left in peace in your desert camp, Polly. I cannot go along with you at
present, but I wouldn’t miss the experience of being with you for a time
for a year of every-day life. So I’ll turn up some time when you least
expect me—and I shall bring my Tony. You haven’t invited my son to your
camp, Polly; are you taking Dan and Billy?”
For the second time Mrs. Burton’s expression changed to one of anxiety.
“I wish I knew whether to ask your advice about something, Betty.”
But, before she had finished, her horse stumbled in a hole ahead and,
becoming frightened, started to run.
First Polly felt herself being thrown violently forward, then tilted to
one side, then backward and forward again. However, she had no idea of
being frightened and, although her saddle girth was broken, she still
held on. Really, the first thought flashing through her consciousness
was the recollection of her sister Mollie’s parting words:
“Do please remember, Polly, that you are not young as you used to be. I
don’t approve of this horseback riding for women of yours and Betty’s
age. And I always feel more nervous about your getting into trouble than
I do my own children.”
Then her own reply: “Nonsense, Mollie; you always were a ‘’fraid cat.’ I
expect to ride a bucking broncho for the next year, so I certainly ought
to be able to manage one of William’s quiet steeds.”
However, Polly Burton was becoming unable to manage one of “William’s
quiet steeds.”
Although, by a firmer clutch on the reins, she had been able to keep
herself in the saddle without its slipping off, yet her horse kept
pounding ahead, paying not the least attention to her exhortations or
her pulling.
A difficulty was that the horse was often used for driving and had a
less sensitive mouth than those to which its rider had been accustomed.
However, the experience might be exhilarating if the saddle did not slip
off entirely, as the road lay straight ahead. The horse would stop when
he grew tired. There was only one trouble to be particularly feared and
that was the loss of one’s breath from a pain in the side which the hard
awkward riding might bring on.
The other horse had straightway been outdistanced. After one cry from
Betty, Polly heard no other sound from her.
But now the pain was coming which was the trial of her life, and a sense
of dizziness followed.
Fortunately a little ahead, on a path that ran alongside the road, a boy
and a girl were walking. Polly believed she called to them, although
they must have heard the noise of the runaway first.
For Billy Webster moved only a few steps and then stood waiting for the
horse to come opposite him. When it did he made an upward leap. Seizing
the bridle he continued holding on to it until the horse, after running
a few yards more, peacefully stopped as if this had been his intention
all along.
However, before this instant, looking down upon her nephew, it seemed to
Mrs. Burton that he was very inadequate to the task ahead of him,
although she never had seen any one so calmly determined.
When the horse ceased running Billy must also have lifted her down. The
next thing she was conscious of was hearing him say:
“I don’t think you need be frightened, Vera; she has not really
fainted.”
[Illustration: BILLY GAVE AN UPWARD LEAP]
Then Mrs. Burton discovered that she was seated on the ground with her
back against a tree, and with her riding hat dangling rakishly over one
eye. Above her a girl whom she had never seen before was anxiously
bending.
Without making an effort to speak until the pain in her side grew less
severe and her breathing more natural, Polly at once tried to straighten
her hat.
But Billy continued to talk as if nothing unusual had occurred and as if
his aunt could give him her undivided attention.
“I have been thinking the matter over, Tante, and I want to explain
something to you,” he said as he made a slight movement with his hand
toward the girl. “This is Vera Lageloff, a friend of mine. I took your
money before you had a chance to give it to me because Vera’s people
needed it and I knew it would be useless to ask father. I hope you will
pardon me. I suppose it was not square. Vera’s father is one of my
father’s farmers, who has been working a part of our land on shares. He
has not been straight or industrious and father has asked him to go. Of
course, he had to find some other place to go, but he had no money and
there are several other children. Vera told me that he had a chance, if
he could only get the money for a railroad ticket, but had to have it at
once. I had been to their house the night I met you. I did not tell them
at home, because father does not like my interfering with his working
people. And he does not trust Vera’s father. I don’t trust him, either,
but I don’t wish his children to suffer. Do you?”
Billy had at last concluded his speech.
While he was talking it occurred to his aunt, who was accustomed to
having a good deal of attention paid to her health, and indeed to all
her concerns, that her nephew was but little interested in her accident.
But then he was never interested in anything which he considered
unessential. Nevertheless, there was something about this youthful Billy
Webster, which made him difficult to answer readily. If he was not going
to become a socialist or an anarchist, at any rate he was a law unto
himself.
Yet his aunt did not clearly understand what point he was trying to make
at the present moment. In reply she murmured something about being
sorry; but this was not the time for such a discussion. In any case, his
father must, of course, know best.
Then, struggling to get on her feet again and finding the girl beside
her trying to help, Mrs. Burton for the first time acknowledged their
introduction. She scarcely looked at the girl, because Billy again took
up the conversation and was more amazing this time than before.
“I do hope you will take Vera to camp with you, Tante. She is a member
of mother’s Camp Fire club and mother likes her. Besides, she ought to
get away from her family.”
Billy’s effrontery or his belief in his own judgment affected his aunt
curiously. She had never known anything like it before. However, she had
seen but little of Billy in the last few years, and before now he had
appeared only as a shy, delicate boy.
Fortunately, before having to reply one way or the other to his latest
demand, Mrs. Burton observed Betty Graham riding up the road toward her
as rapidly as her horse could travel. Betty’s concern over her friend’s
experience and its possible unfortunate consequences was in striking
contrast to the coldness and lack of interest of the younger generation.
Afterwards, returning home a little later on an entirely subdued animal,
Mrs. Burton regretted that she had not looked at Billy’s friend more
carefully. At present she believed she would hardly recognize the girl
if they chanced to meet again. And undoubtedly the Russian girl and her
nephew must be devoted friends.