A Study in Temperaments
“But, Vera, you must not continue waiting on Billy in this fashion; he is
ever so much better and perfectly able to look after himself.”
Mrs. Webster had just walked across from where she had been sitting with
her sister sewing, to a particularly beautiful spot where Vera Lageloff
and Billy Webster had been spending the afternoon together. It had been
cool during the morning but, with the coming of the afternoon, the sun
had shone clearly and warmly.
Vera and Billy had chosen a place near the foot of the hill, down which
ran the stream of water that supplied the camp, and near the tiny lake
which the Camp Fire girls had conventionally named their wishing well.
Here, in spite of the warm weather, they had built a small camp fire, for
there was a quantity of wood from the pine trees nearby.
They had been together for an hour or so, and Mrs. Webster had just
observed Vera make the third trip to their group of tents and then return
to Billy.
She was standing now with her arms filled with papers and magazines,
which she had just secured.
Vera laughed. “Oh, Billy hates to move, and I don’t,” she replied a
little apologetically.
But Billy, who should have been the apologetic one, did not appear so in
the least.
He was sitting on an Indian blanket which had been spread by Vera before
their small fire, smiling placidly at his mother and friend.
“Don’t you think people ought to be allowed to do what they like,
Mother?”
Billy did not ask this question in a humorous fashion, as one might
suppose under the circumstances, but quite seriously. However, Billy
nearly always appeared serious, and yet one never could be sure what
spirit hid itself behind his large, abstracted blue eyes.
Mrs. Webster sighed as she sat down beside him. Billy was the least
satisfying of her three children and she made no pretense of
understanding him. Yet his illness and his physical need of her brought
him nearer to her than any one in the world.
“I think people ought to do what they like only when they can be
perfectly fair to others at the same time,” she answered gently.
This time Billy smiled. “If one is wanting a thing very hard for oneself,
it is not always easy to remember other people; although, of course, it
is right,” he agreed unexpectedly. “Still I don’t believe I am doing Vera
any serious injustice. She does a great deal more of the Camp Fire work
than any of the other girls, and yet none of you realize it. The
difference between us is that I do realize what she does for me.”
Vera had also taken a place on the ground with her two companions and
Billy now reached over and took hold of her hand.
There was nothing sentimental or emotional in the unusual friendship
between the boy and girl, although their devotion to each other was so
apparent, and neither ever made the least effort at concealing it. But it
was the kind of affection that sometimes exists, even if but rarely,
between a brother and sister, and only when the sister is older and the
brother unusual.
Vera’s hand was the larger of the two, or at least it appeared so,
because the palm was broad and the fingers long and capable. It was the
hand of a person whose ancestors had worked with their hands, while
Billy’s hand was extraordinarily thin and delicate, with blue veins and
long tapering fingers. Vera continued to hold it in hers as unconsciously
as a mother might have done.
“Oh, don’t worry about me, please, Mrs. Webster?” she protested smiling.
“What I most want is some day to be able to do some kind of work that is
worth while. Billy is quite right; I do like work, although I don’t call
the little things I do for him by any such name.”
Mollie Webster studied the two friends more closely than they
appreciated. Although fond of Vera she could not help, motherlike, being
slightly jealous of the friendship between Vera and her son. She accepted
the fact of Vera’s better understanding of him; or if not understanding,
at least her complete sympathy.
“I don’t believe I was worrying about you, Vera; I must be truthful,”
Mrs. Webster continued. “You see, mothers are pretty selfish, so it was
Billy I was actually thinking of. I don’t feel worried over your future;
you’ll be sure to turn out all right, if you have the proper
opportunities. But I don’t know what will become of Billy. You see, dear
you are so—so—”
“Lazy,” Billy drawled, good humoredly, finishing his mother’s sentence.
“Say the dreadful word; I don’t mind.”
Mrs. Webster shook her head. “I know you don’t worry over your future,
and that is the worst of it. You don’t ever try to think of what you wish
to do. Dan has already decided to be a scientific farmer, as his father
is, and will study agriculture at college. But you, you won’t ever talk
of what you would like to do. You know you won’t even exert yourself
enough at the present time to get as strong as you should. If you would
only walk about more. You might have ridden this afternoon with the
others. Dan and Sally both said they would come back with you as soon as
you wished, or if Vera had gone with you, she would have seen to you.”
Mrs. Mollie Webster’s tone was plaintive. She was apt to be plaintive in
talking to Billy; it was so difficult to make him do what she wished. It
was not that he opposed her, only that he did not seem to be convinced,
or even aroused, by other people’s opinions of him.
He now remained placidly staring up at the sky.
“Don’t you think it foolish to worry over the future when one may not
have any future?” He asked this question in his usual impersonal way, and
then added, as if he were surprised at his own sudden conviction, “Do you
know I believe I might have a good deal of energy if anything ever
strikes me as important enough to make me exert myself.”
Vera laughed. “I wonder what that will ever be? But I wouldn’t worry, if
I were you, Mrs. Webster. Billy will be a great writer, some day. He has
such queer ideas and is so original.”
Billy drew away his hand.
“Don’t be tiresome and conventional, Vera, like everybody else,” he
remarked pettishly, like the spoiled boy he was. “I have told you a dozen
times, whenever you mention that idea of yours to me, that I don’t want
to write. It must require a dreadful lot of work. Predict that future for
Bettina Graham; she yearns after authorship. I would rather talk than
write any day; it is so much easier.”
Mrs. Webster flushed and looked annoyed, but Vera paid no attention to
Billy’s protests. She seldom did.
However, their conversation was interrupted by several Camp Fire members
who rode up and dismounted by the side of Mrs. Burton who had stopped her
reading and gotten up to greet them.
The girls had been away for the past two hours, leaving no one in camp
save the group of four and Marie, who was busy in one of the tents.
Mr. Simpson had gone with them more as chaperon than guide. He rode in
first, attired in his rusty outfit, and looking much more himself than on
his first and last essay into the realms of fashion. Not once since the
evening of Marie’s refusal of him had he been seen in his “store
clothes.”
He was followed by Bettina Graham and Howard Brent, and behind them came
Sally Ashton and Terry Benton. Later, Alice and Gerry returned leading
their burros and talking to the two young men beside them, who had come
over with the others from the hotel for the ride. They were both
acquaintances of Howard Brent’s.
“Where are Peggy and Ralph Marshall?” Mrs. Burton inquired of Bettina
five minutes later, seeing that they were the only two members of the
riding party who had so far failed to appear. The young men were to stay
for supper and the girls had returned early in order to make the
necessary preparations for them. They had been promised a particularly
superior feast as an evidence of the Camp Fire prowess.
Bettina frowned. “I don’t know why Ralph and Peggy did not keep up with
the rest of us. Mr. Simpson insisted that we should all ride as close
together as we conveniently could. But they kept dropping behind and
getting off their ponies to look at views. I don’t understand Peggy’s
intimacy with Ralph Marshall for the past few days. I did not think she
liked him much better than I did until just lately. Howard Brent is ten
times nicer and likes her ever so much, but she will have nothing to do
with him. He has to accept my poor society as a substitute and he gets
dreadfully bored with me. I know so little about outdoor things compared
to Peggy.”
Bettina’s tones were distinctly aggrieved. She and Peggy were such
devoted friends that she was annoyed at Peggy’s sudden friendship with a
person whom she thought so ordinary and uninteresting, as she considered
Ralph.
“He and Peggy are about as unlike as two people ever were in this world,”
she added crossly.
“Oh, Ralph is nice enough, ‘Tall Princess;’ you never were altogether
fair in your estimate of him. Some people in this world must be
frivolous, and Ralph has never been up against a difficulty, or in fact
against anything that might develop his character,” Mrs. Burton answered.
Polly Burton put her arm across Bettina’s slender shoulders, giving her a
slight squeeze. She was recalling how she used to feel as a girl when
Bettina’s mother’s—then Betty Ashton—developed an interest in people,
whom she—then Polly O’Neill—never felt worthy of her.
“Besides Peggy may do Ralph good,” she continued. “Peggy is fine, and
Ralph—well, Ralph is not fine, Bettina, although I do not dislike him as
you do. I suppose they will be along in a few minutes. Peggy would not
like to shirk her share of the work tonight. If anything has happened,
however, I think it may be Peggy who will have to look after Ralph.”
Bettina then went away to take off her riding clothes and get into her
ceremonial Camp Fire dress. Mrs. Burton continued watching for Peggy’s
return. She carefully avoided coming in contact with her sister, hoping
that Mrs. Webster would not observe Peggy’s absence, as the camp was now
more or less in an uproar with the girls’ effort to get dinner and their
guests to render assistance, which usually consisted in getting in the
way.
Polly tried not to be uneasy, as she thoroughly believed in Peggy’s
ability to take care of herself and other people as well. However, when
nearly an hour passed and she and Ralph had not appeared, she began to
grow uncomfortable.
About an eighth of a mile away there was a shelter among the trees where
Mr. Simpson looked after the camp burros and provisions.
Thinking to ask him what should be done in order to find the wayfarers,
Mrs. Burton slipped apart from the others and started along a narrow path
through the woods.
But a few yards along the way she heard Peggy’s and Ralph’s voices and
waited for them to come up to her.
They were walking in single file and also leading their burros.
Peggy was in front. When Mrs. Burton caught sight of her, Peggy’s eyes
were shining and her cheeks glowing with color after a fashion they had
when she was especially happy or excited.
She passed the bridle of her burro to Ralph.
“Take him to Mr. Simpson along with your’s, won’t you, Ralph, please, and
then come on to camp?” she asked.
Then she slid her arm into her aunt’s.
“Don’t be cross, Tante; you look dreadfully severe,” she murmured,
rubbing her cheek against Mrs. Burton’s shoulder in a funny, boyish way
she had had ever since she was a tiny girl. “I know we are late, but
Ralph and I have had an adventure since the others left. We did not
intend to be so long in returning.”