THE INVALIDS
Sylvia Wharton wearing a trained nurse's costume tiptoed into a
darkened room.
Instantly the figure upon the bed turned and sighed.
"I don't see why she does not come to me, if she is no worse than you
say she is," the voice said. "Really, Sylvia, I think it would be
better for you or some one to tell me the truth."
Sylvia hesitated. "She isn't so well, Betty dear. Perhaps Dr. Barton
may be angry with me, as he distinctly said that you were not to be
worried. But as you are worrying anyhow, possibly talking things over
with me may make you feel better. It has all been most unfortunate,
Polly's being ill here in your house when you were enduring so much
yourself. But it all comes of mother's and everybody's yielding to
whatever Polly O'Neill wishes."
Sylvia sat down upon the side of the bed, taking one of Betty's hands
in hers. Ten days had passed since the accident at the cabin and the
burns on Betty's hands had almost entirely healed, but over her eyes
and the upper part of her face was a linen covering, so that it was
still impossible to guess the extent of her injury. She was apt to be
quieter, however, Sylvia had found out, when she could feel some one
touching her. And now the news of Polly for the time being kept her
interested.
"You see, mother's first mistake was in not bringing Polly straight
back home as soon as she found out what she was doing in New York.
Polly had a slight cold then and it kept getting worse each night. But
of course Polly pretended that it amounted to nothing and that the
stars would fall unless she finished her engagement. So finish it she
did, and then hearing of your accident toward the last, as mother and
Esther had kept the news a secret from her for some time, why come here
she would instead of immediately going home. She wanted to help nurse
and amuse you and you had said that you wanted her with you. And then
of course Polly was embarrassed over meeting father and Frank. And
father was angry at her disobedience and her frightening mother and
Mollie. However, that cold of hers has kept on getting worse and she
will have to stay in bed now for a few days anyhow. For I won't let
Polly O'Neill have her own way this time."
A faint smile showed itself on Betty's lips which Sylvia stooped low
enough to see. And then in spite of her own stolid and supposedly cold
temperament, the younger girl's expression changed. For it meant a
good deal for any one to have succeeded in making Betty Ashton smile in
these last few days.
"But you're fonder of Polly than you are of the rest of us, even
Mollie, Sylvia, and you let her lead you around," Betty argued.
Sylvia's flaxen head was resolutely shaken. She no longer wore her
hair in two tight pigtails, but in almost as closely bound braids wound
in a circle about her face. Her complexion was still colorless and her
eyes nondescript, but Sylvia's square chin and her resolute expression
often made persons take a second look at her. It was seldom that one
saw so much character in so young a girl.
"Yes, I am fond of Polly," she agreed, "but you are mistaken if you
think I let her influence me. Some one has to take Polly O'Neill
sensibly for her own sake." And Sylvia just in time stifled a sigh.
For of course her stepsister was in a more serious condition than she
had confessed to the other girl. It was well enough to call the
illness a bad cold--it was that, but possibly something worse,
bronchitis, pneumonia--Dr. Barton had not yet given it a name. She was
only to be kept quiet and watched. Later on he would know better what
to say. Her constitution was not strong.
Some telepathic message, however, must have passed from one friend to
the other, for at this instant Betty sat up suddenly with more energy
than she had yet shown.
"If anything dreadful happens to Polly, I shall never forgive Esther as
long as I live. It is all very well for Polly and your mother to
insist that Esther was not in any possible way responsible. Mollie and
I both feel differently. Esther should have told----"
By the fashion in which Sylvia Wharton arose and walked away from the
bed, Betty realized how intensely their opinions disagreed, although
the younger girl moved quietly, with no anger or flurry and made no
reply.
"Here are some more roses, Betty, that John Everett sent you. Shall I
put them near enough your bed to have you enjoy their fragrance?"
Sylvia asked. "John seems to be buying up all the flowers near
Dartmouth. I told Meg that you would rather he did not send so many.
But she says she can't stop him. For somehow John feels kind of
responsible for your getting hurt, as he arranged for you to sit under
those particular candles. Then he did not notice when you first called
for help and let Anthony Graham rescue you. Meg is downstairs now with
your mother. Would you like to see her?"
Betty shook her head. "Please don't let Meg know, but I don't feel
like talking, somehow. The girls are so sweet and sympathetic. And I
try to be brave, but until I know----"
With magically quick footsteps the younger girl had again crossed the
room and her firm arms were soon about her friend's shoulders.
"You are going to be all right, dear. Dr. Barton is almost sure of it
and I am quite. There won't be any scars that will last and your
eyes--why, you protected them marvelously, and they only need resting.
You are too beautiful, Betty dear, to have anything happen that could
in any way mar you. I can't, I won't believe it."
And somehow Sylvia was one of those people in whose judgment and faith
one must always find healing. Betty said nothing more, only put out
her hand with an appealing gesture and caught hold of Sylvia's dress.
"I don't want to talk or to see people, and I'm tired of being read to.
What is there for me to do, Sylvia child, to make the hours pass?"
Rather desperately the younger girl looked about the great, sunshiny
room. It was not Betty's old blue room, but the room once used as a
store-room and afterwards occupied by Esther, into which Betty had
moved a short while before her accident. Imagination was not Sylvia
Wharton's strong point. She was an excellent nurse, quiet, firm and
patient and always to be relied upon. But what to do to make Betty
Ashton stop thinking of what might await her at the end of her weeks of
suffering must have taxed a far more fertile brain than Sylvia's.
However, the suggestion did not have to come from her; for at this
instant there was a knock at the door, so gentle that it was difficult
to be sure that it really was a knock.
Outside stood the German professor with his violin under his arm. And
he looked so utterly wretched and uneasy that Sylvia wondered how he
could feel so great an emotion over Betty, although the entire village
seemed to be worrying as though in reality she had been their own
"Princess." No one could talk of anything else until her condition
became finally known; but Herr Crippen was a newcomer and Betty had
never cared for him.
"Would the little _Fräulein_ like it that I should play for her?" he
now asked gently.
And Sylvia turned to the girl on the bed.
At first Betty had shaken her head, but now she evidently changed her
mind.
"You are very kind. I think I should enjoy it," she answered. And a
few moments afterwards Sylvia stole away.
So there was no one in the room to notice how frequently Herr Crippen
had to wipe his glasses as he looked down upon the girl of whose face
he could see nothing now save the delicately rounded chin and full red
lips.
[Illustration: The professor had to wipe his glasses]
Then without worrying her he began to play: in the beginning not
Beethoven nor Mozart, nor any of the classic music he most loved, but
the Camp Fire songs, which he had lately arranged for the violin
because of his interest in the Sunrise Hill Camp Fire girls, and which
he was playing for the first time before an audience.
And Betty listened silently, not voicing her surprise. The song of
"The Soul's Desire," what memories it brought back of Esther and their
first meeting in this room! No wonder that Esther had so great talent
with such a queer, gifted father. Betty wondered idly what the mother
could have been like. She was an American and beautiful, so much she
remembered having been told.
Then ceasing to think of Esther she began thinking of herself. Could
she ever again even try to follow the Law of the Camp Fire, which had
meant so much to her in the past few years, if this dreadful tragedy
which hovered over her, sleeping or waking, should be not just a
terrible fear, but a living fact. Should she be scarred from her
accident, or worse fear, should her eyes be affected by the scorching
heat of the flames?
Softly under her breath, even while listening with all her soul to the
music, Betty repeated the Camp Fire Law.
"Seek Beauty?" Could she find it, having lost her own? Then she
remembered that the beauty which the Camp Fire taught was not only a
physical beauty, but the greater kind which is of the spirit as well as
of the flesh.
"Give Service?" Well, perhaps some day in ways she could not now
imagine, she might be able to return a small measure of the service
that her friends had been so generously bestowing upon her.
"Pursue Knowledge, Be Trustworthy." No misfortune need separate a girl
from these ideals.
"Hold on to Health." This might mean a harder fight than she had ever
yet had to make before, but Betty felt a new courage faintly struggling
within her.
"Glorify Work." That was not an impossible demand of her as a Torch
Bearer among her group of Camp Fire girls. It was the last of the
seven points of their great law that she dreaded to face at this
moment, here in the darkness alone.
"Be Happy." Could she ever again be happy even for a day or an hour?
And yet the law said: "If we have pain, to hide it, if others have
sorrow, be quick to relieve it."
But what the rest of the law read she could not now recall. For Herr
Crippen was beginning to play one of the most exquisite pieces of music
that can ever be rendered on the violin, Schubert's Serenade.
"Last night the nightingale woke me,
Last night when all was still
It sang in the golden moonlight"
Betty wondered why the music should sound so strangely far away, as
though she were dreaming and it were coming to her somewhere out of the
land of dreams.
Another moment and Betty was sound asleep. Nevertheless the Professor,
with his eyes still upon her, played softly on, played until Mrs.
Ashton noiselessly entered the room.
Then he ceased and the man and woman, standing one on either side of
Betty's bed, looked at each other with expressions it would be
difficult to translate. For each face held a certain amount of
pleading and of defiance.
"She is like her mother; _nicht wahr_?" the Professor murmured, and
then withdrew.
Afterwards for several moments Mrs. Ashton's eyes never ceased
regarding the curls of Betty's red brown hair, that lay outside on her
pillow. Her long braids had been cut off and latterly she had been
wearing a little blue silk cap, which had now slipped off on account of
her restlessness.
Mrs. Ashton, glancing in a mirror at her own faded flaxen hair, sighed.
Then, seating herself in a chair near by she waited in absolute
patience and quietness, until suddenly from a movement upon the bed she
guessed that Betty was waking.
And actually her child's lips were smiling upon her not only bravely
but cheerfully, as though her sleep had brought both comfort and faith.
"Sit close by me, mother," Betty said, "and don't let any one else come
in for a long time. You know I have been trying to get you to tell me
the history of this old room for ages and now this is such a splendid
comfy chance. I am just exactly in the mood for hearing a long,
thrilling story."