The Camp Fire Girls in After Years

CHAPTER VI

The First Disillusion

"BUT you can't mean, Anthony, that you positively refuse to do what I ask?"

It was a little after midnight and Betty and Anthony were up-stairs in their own apartment. Betty had on a blue dressing gown and her hair was braided and hung over her shoulders. But her cheeks were flushed, her gray eyes dark with temper and her voice trembled in spite of her effort to keep it still.

Undeniably Anthony appeared both obstinate and worried. Moreover, he was extremely sleepy and yet somehow Betty must be made to understand before either of them could rest. Never before had he dreamed that she could be so unreasonable.

"I don't think that is exactly a fair way of stating the thing, Betty," the young Governor answered gently enough. "You see, I have tried to explain to you, dear, that I can't give positions to friends just as though running the affairs of the state was my private business. I could afford to take risks with that if I wished, but you know I promised when I was elected Governor only to make appointments of the best men I could find."

If possible, the Governor's wife looked even more unconvinced. She was sitting in a big blue chair almost the color of her wrapper, and every now and then rocked back and forth to express her emotion, or else tapped the floor mutinously with the toe of her bedroom slipper.

"You talk as if there was something wrong with John Everett," she answered argumentatively, "and as if I were asking you to give a position to a man who was stupid or dishonest. I am perfectly sure John is none of these things. He has been unfortunate in business lately, of course, but that might happen to any one. Really, Anthony, would you mind telling me exactly what you have in your mind against John Everett? Of course, I remember you never liked him when you were boys, but I thought you were too big a man – "

"See here, Betty," the Governor interrupted, "can't we let this subject drop? I never knew you to be like this before." He had thrown himself down on a couch, but now reached over and tried to take his wife's reluctant hand. "I've been explaining to you for the past hour that I have nothing in the world against John Everett personally, except that he has no training for the kind of work I need men to do. He has been a Wall Street broker. Well, that is all right, but what does he know about prison reform, about building good roads for the state, or anything else I'm after? Just because he is your friend – our friend, I mean – I can't thrust him into a good job over the heads of better men. Please look at this as I do, Betty. I hate desperately to refuse your request and I know Meg will be hurt with me too and think I'm unfaithful to old times. Heigh-ho, I wonder if anybody thinks being Governor is a cheerful job? Good-night, Princess."

Plainly meaning to end their conversation, Anthony had gotten up from his sofa. He now stood above Betty, waiting to have her make peace with him. But Betty looked far from peaceful, more like a spoiled and angry little girl thwarted in a wish which she had not imagined could be refused.

Of course the Princess had always been more or less spoiled all her life. Her friends in the Camp Fire Club and her family had always acknowledged this. But she was usually reasonable with the sweetest possible temper, so that no one really minded. Nevertheless Betty was not accustomed to having her serious wishes denied, and by her husband of all people!

Really she would have liked very much to cry with disappointment and vexation, except that she was much too proud. Moreover, even now she could not finally accept the idea that Anthony would not eventually do as she asked.

But she drew back coldly from any idea of making friends until then.

"Good-night," she replied indifferently. "I don't think I shall try to go to sleep." Her voice trembled now in spite of all her efforts.

"Really, Anthony, I don't know how I can tell Meg and John that you have declined to do what I have asked you. I wonder what they will think? Certainly that I haven't any influence with my own husband! Do you know, Anthony, perhaps I am wrong, but I thought I had helped you a little in your election. I've made a good many sacrifices; you have to leave me alone a greater part of the time because you are too busy to spend much of your time with me. Well, I have never thought of complaining, but somehow it does seem to me that I have the right to have you do just this one thing I ask of you. I'm afraid I don't find being a Governor's wife so very cheerful either."

While she was talking Betty had also gotten up and was now standing near the doorway. As her husband came toward her she moved slowly backward.

"I say, Betty dear, you are hard on a fellow," Anthony protested. "Of course I owe my job to you and anything else that is good about me. But you can't want me to do wrong even for your sake. Maybe you may see things differently tomorrow."

However, instead of replying, the Governor's wife slipped outside the room. In the nursery she lay down by Bettina. But she slept very little for the rest of the night.

For in her opinion Anthony had not been fair; he had not even been kind. A few hours before, when she had assured John and Meg of her sympathy and aid, she could not have believed this possible. This was the first time in their married life that her husband had refused her anything of importance. Surely she had been wrong in suggesting or even thinking for half a second that his old boyish dislike and jealousy of John Everett could influence Anthony now! It was an absurd idea, and even a horrid one; and yet is one ever altogether fair in anger?

Down-stairs, in spite of his fatigue, Anthony Graham walked up and down their big room for a quarter of an hour. If he only could have reconciled it with his conscience to do what Betty asked him, how much easier and how much more cheerful for both of them! She was right in saying that he owed something to her. He owed everything. It was not just that she had helped him since his marriage – most wives do that for their husbands – but she had helped him from that first hour of their meeting in the woods so many years before.

Nevertheless he had given his word to keep his faith as Governor of the state. He had promised to give no one a position because of pull and influence. Naturally he had not expected his wife to have any part in this, but only the politicians and seekers after graft. Yet even with Betty misunderstanding he must try to keep his word.

Sighing, the young Governor turned out the lights. He did look too boyish and delicate for the weight of his responsibilities tonight. For there had been other troubles in his office which he had wished to confide to his wife, had she only been willing to listen. However, he finally fell asleep somewhat comforted. For he was convinced that Betty was too sensible a woman not finally to see things in the light that he did. When he had the opportunity and she was neither tired nor vexed with him he would explain to her all over again.

An uncomfortable spirit, however, seemed to be brooding over the Governor's mansion this evening, for in another part of the big house, there was another argument also lasting far into the night.

Angel and Faith sat on either side an old-fashioned four-poster bed, often talking at the same time in the way that only feminine creatures can.

In her white cashmere kimono over her gown, with her pale hair unbound, Faith Barton looked like a little white saint. But alas, and in spite of her name, the little French girl bore no resemblance to one!

Angel's dark hair was extraordinarily heavy and curly but not very long, and now in her uneasiness she had pushed and pulled at it until it was extremely untidy. Moreover, her black eyes now and then flashed resentfully at her friend and two bright spots of color burned in her cheeks. When she was not talking her lips were pressed closely together.

"Faith, it isn't right of you; you know it isn't. You should not have made me promise to keep your secret before telling me it. How could I ever have guessed such a dreadful thing! I simply must, must tell Betty if you are not going to confide in Mrs. Barton. Then Betty can do what she thinks best and it will be off my conscience."

Certainly Angelique Martins was not speaking in an amiable tone, and yet her companion seemed not in the slightest disturbed.

Indeed, Faith began quietly brushing her long, straight hair.

"Don't be a goose, Angel, and don't have so much conscience for other people. Of course, I am sorry I told you. Kenneth said it would be wiser not to speak to any one for the present, but I had to have some confidant. Now you are trying to spoil my first real romance by wanting me to get up and proclaim it on the housetops. What I like most about being engaged to Kenneth is that no one knows of it and that we can see each other without a lot of silly people staring and talking about us. Of course, when we begin to think about being married I shall tell Rose everything. Then I know she will understand. But we are not going to be married for a long, long time, I expect. Kenneth says that nothing would persuade him to marry me until he could give me everything in the world I want. Oh, you need not look so superior, Angel; I understand you don't approve of that sentiment, but I think it is beautiful for a man to feel that way about a girl. You simply can't appreciate Kenneth." And Faith looked sufficiently gentle and forgiving to have tried the patience of a saint.

"Perhaps not," the other girl answered shortly. "Anyhow, Faith, you are right in believing I don't approve of the things you have told me. The idea of your being secretly engaged to a man whom you have only known about two weeks! It is horrid! Naturally you don't either of you know whether you are really in love; but then I don't think you ought to be engaged until you are willing to tell people. Besides, what do you know about Mr. Helm's real character, Faith? He is the kind of fellow who makes love to almost every girl he meets."

Almost under her breath and with her cheeks flaming the little lame French girl made this last speech. Nevertheless her companion heard her. Still Faith did not appear angry as most girls would have been under the circumstances, but perhaps her gentle, pitying expression was harder to endure.

"Is that what troubles you, Angel? I am so sorry," Faith returned, ceasing to brush her hair to smile compassionately at her friend. "You see, Kenneth warned me that you did not like him very much. He was too kind to explain exactly the reason, only he said that you seemed to have misunderstood something about him. I suppose he was kind to you once, Angel, because of course he would be specially kind to a girl like you. But, there, you need not look so angry! You have a dreadful temper, Angel. Even Betty Graham thinks so in spite of being so fond of you."

With pretended carelessness Faith Barton now glanced away, devoting all her energy to plaiting her long hair. Really her speech had been more unkind than she had intended it. But somehow she and Angel were always having differences of opinion and it seemed to Faith that it was usually Angel's fault, because she never quarreled with any one else.

Besides, ever since her first meeting with the little French girl at Sunrise Cabin she had been the one who had tried to make and keep their friendship. Angel never seemed to care deeply for any one except her mother and now Mrs. Graham and her babies, and was always getting into hot water with other people.

However, it certainly did not occur to Faith that her own amiability came partly from a lack of interest in any one except herself and partly because her own whims were so seldom interfered with.

Curious that Rose Barton, who had been such a sensible guardian and friend to her group of Camp Fire girls, had been so indulgent to her adopted daughter! But very few persons understood Faith Barton. She seemed to be absolutely gentle and loving and to live always in a world of beautiful dreams and desires. How could any one guess that she was often both selfish and self-willed?

"There is no use talking any more on this subject, Faith, if you think I wish to interfere because I am jealous of you," Angel declared, and finding her cane slipped down from the bed. "Besides, you know perfectly well you are doing wrong without my saying it. Anyhow, I believe that something will happen to make you sorry enough before you are through."

With this parting shot Angel marched stiffly out of the room, too proud to reveal how deeply her friend had wounded her.

CHAPTER VII

A New Interest

IT is a far journey from the New Hampshire hills to the plains of the West.

Nevertheless a girl whom we once knew at Sunrise Hill is walking alone this afternoon on the rim of a desert and facing the western sun. It is scarcely fair to call her a girl, unless one has the theory that so long as a woman does not marry she retains her girlhood. Yet glancing at her as she strolled slowly along, no one could have guessed her to be more than twenty, though perhaps she was a little nearer the next decade.

Exquisitely dressed in a long, dark green broadcloth coat with a fur collar and small hat, she was a little past medium height and unusually slender. Her hair was so black that it had an almost somber look, and yet her eyes were vividly blue. Just now, having wandered a good many miles from the place where she was staying, she looked extremely tired and depressed. In no possible way did she appear to fit into her present surroundings, for without a doubt she was a woman of wealth and distinction. It was self-evident in the clothes she wore, but more so in the unconsciously proud carriage of her head and in the lines of her face, which was not beautiful and yet seemed to have some curious charm more appealing than mere beauty.

She stopped now for a moment to gaze with an appreciation that was almost awe at the beauty of the sinking sun. There was a glory of color in the sky that was almost fantastic; piles of white clouds seemed to have been flung up against the horizon like mammoth soap bubbles, tinted with every rainbow shade. With unconscious enthusiasm, the woman clasped her hands together.

"Why," she exclaimed aloud, "I was wondering what this scene reminded me of. It is dear old Sunrise Hill! What would I not give to be there in the old cabin tonight with Betty and Mollie and the others! But they must not know what has become of me until things are all right again. Both Betty and Mollie are too happy with their babies and husbands to worry over the old maids in the family. Sometimes, though, I feel that I should like to send for Sylvia." Then the wanderer turned and stared around her.

In every direction there were long waving reaches of sand with an occasional clumping of rocks, while growing near them were strange varieties of the cactus plant. Some of them had great leaves like elephants' ears, some were small and thick with queer, stiff hairs and excrescences, and among them, in spite of the lateness of the season, were occasional pink and crimson flowers with waxen petals.

Behind the wayfarer there was a trail which she must have followed from some nearby village, yet it was growing less and less distinct ahead, and certainly the hour was far too late for a stranger to be traveling alone so near a portion of the great Colorado desert.

Nevertheless the young woman at this moment turned and left her path. Walking deliberately for a few yards she seated herself on a giant rock, and leaning forward, rested her chin in her beautifully gloved hands.

"So like you, Polly O'Neill, even in your old age to have gotten yourself entirely used up on the first walk you were allowed to take alone!" she began aloud, giving a half despairing, half amused shrug of her thin shoulders. "I am not in the least sure that I know the way back to my hotel if it grows dark before I arrive there, and assuredly I am too weary to start for the present. And hungry! Heaven only knows when I was ever so ravenous! Now if I had only been a Camp Fire girl in the West instead of the East, doubtless I could at once discover all sorts of delectable bread fruit and berries growing nearby. But I don't feel I want to run any further risks at present."

So for the next half hour in almost perfect quiet Polly O'Neill remained seated. It would have been impossible for her to have done otherwise, for suddenly a curious attack of exhaustion had swept over her. It was not unusual of late, for indeed Miss O'Neill and her maid had established themselves in a small hotel near Colorado Springs in order that the well-known actress might recover from an attack of nervous exhaustion which she had suffered during her successful tour in the Western states. So Polly was quite accustomed to finding herself all at once too weary either to move or speak. But quite like the Polly of old she had just deliberately walked five miles without reflecting on her lack of strength or the fact that she must return by as long a road as she had come.