The Camp Fire Girls Across the Seas

"Who says that I am so desperate over leaving mother and the Princess to take care of our future great American prima donna?" he asked half-joking and half-serious.

The girl's brows drew together in her effort to understand and appreciate her friend's real meaning. "Why, I don't see what else there can be to make you unhappy," she replied thoughtfully. "You are going back to your own country, which you know you have learned to care more for with each year that you have spent away from it. And you are going to commence the practice of the profession you have always loved since you were a child. But of course if there is anything else that is worrying you which I have not the right to know, I don't want you to think that I am trying to make you confide in me. I can sympathize with you without understanding."

"Then you have a very rare and wonderful gift, Esther," Dick Ashton replied. "But please read your letters and don't consider me."

Slowly the girl read a letter from her father, which besides its interest in her work was so full of bits of Woodford interest and gossip that she felt herself growing sharply homesick. Then, tucking this letter inside her dress, to re-read to her sister later, Esther slowly opened the one from her music master in Berlin. It was just what she had expected. Professor Hecksher felt that she might have a future in grand opera, only she was far too young and too untrained to attempt it for several years. So she must stay on in Germany, working unceasingly with him until they could both understand more thoroughly her capabilities.

Esther let this single sheet of paper slip out of her hand to the ground, where Dick picked it up, returning it to her. But not before he had recognized the master's handwriting and letter head.

"It is all right, isn't it?" he queried, surprised at the girl's expression.

"Oh, yes, I suppose so," she replied, not looking at him but at a far stretch of country with her eyes and of years with her mind. "Only I expect I am what both Betty and Polly think me, an ungrateful and unreasonable person with no ambition and no imagination."

Dick was silent for a moment and then answered, "No, Esther, I do not believe you appreciate what a great gift you have; you are too modest and care too little for the applause most of the people in the world are willing to sacrifice everything for."

Richard Ashton turned his serious dark eyes upward toward the tall, pale girl sitting in the chair near him. "Esther," he said, "I want to tell you, to make you believe what a great gift you have. I love you, and more than anything on earth I want you to be my wife. The other day when Anthony Graham came with the news from Woodford that Betty had inherited a small fortune I was happier than I can ever tell you. And it was not for Betty's sake or even mother's; it was a selfish happiness. For then I believed that both you and I were released from our first duty to them and that I had the right to tell you that I cared for you and meant to try and make you love me. Then came the night of your concert, when I heard you sing. And since then, Esther, I have realized that I have no right to ask you to give up the career that is before you and to ask you to share my uncertain future. For with my work I could not follow yours and my profession is the one thing I have learned. I had not meant to tell you this, but, after all, Esther, I don't know why I should not. A girl can never be hurt by knowing that a man loves her."

And for the second time Dick kissed Esther's hand and then turned his face away.

The next moment the girl had risen from her chair. "Dr. Ashton, will you take a walk with me?" she asked. "I am tired sitting here."

Then, without referring to what had just been said between them, the girl and man walked along, talking quietly of other things until they came to the stream of water sheltered by trees, with a rim of hills along the other side. Away from the possibility of being interrupted Esther stopped, putting her hand on her companion's arm.

She did not look like her usual self; her face was flooded with color and her shyness and reserve for the moment seemed swept away.

"You were not fair to me just now," she declared. "You had not the right to tell me you cared for me without asking me what my feeling was for you. Why does everybody in the world think that because I have a talent I have to sacrifice my whole life to it? I love my music, but I don't wish to be an opera singer. I hate the kind of existence it forces one to lead. I want a home of my own and some one to care for me. Why do people nowadays think that girls are so changed, that all of us are wishing to be independent and famous? Why, it was because our old Camp Fire club taught us that all the best things of life are centered about the hearth fire that means home, that I first cared for it so much. I wonder if any one realizes because I was brought up in an orphan asylum and then lived with other people that I have never had a home of my own in my life. But of course this would not count, Dick, if I did not care for you more than I do for my music, or even for Betty. Tell me, then, is it my duty to go on with my work in Berlin, to give up everything I wish for a career I don't desire?" And here, overcome by the rush of her own feelings and her own words, Esther ceased speaking, feeling her old stupid, nervous trembling seize her.

But Richard Ashton's arms were about her, holding her still.

"The most perfect home that my love can make for you, Esther, shall be yours so long as we live. And there are other ways where the gift of a beautiful voice may bring pleasure and reward outside of the life you dread."

CHAPTER XXI

Sunrise Cabin

It was Christmas once more at the Camp Fire cabin and a wonderful white night. Everywhere there was snow and enchantment under the "Long-night Moon."

Dinner was over, for from the inside of the great living room came the sound of music and dancing and many gay voices.

Built like a magic circle about the log house were seven camp fires, uncurling their long fingers of flame into the frost-laden air. And now and then fire-makers came out of the cabin, usually in pairs, to pile more logs and pine branches where the need was greatest.

First Eleanor Meade and Frank Wharton, and Eleanor looked tall and picturesque in her Indian costume with a white shawl over her shoulders. But when they had finished with their fire building they walked on a few yards and then lingered for a moment close to the tall Totem pole, which still stood like a faithful sentinel outside the Sunrise Cabin door, its colors bright with the history of the Camp Fire club it had been chosen to tell.

"I thought I was going to be a great artist when I painted that pole and the walls of our cabin, Frank," Eleanor whispered. "But the paths of a woman's glory sometimes lead – "

"To the altar," Frank returned. "Never mind, dear, there is no place where one so needs to keep the white lights burning." And a little later he and his companion disappeared along the path that led to the grove of pines closer to the foot of the mountain.

For nearly ten minutes no one else opened the cabin door; then two muffled figures stole out and industriously piled wood on half a dozen of the dying fires. Out of breath they afterwards paused and began talking to each other. They were the two girls in the Camp Fire club at Sunrise Hill who were now the closest friends.

"I am awfully glad to hear of your new position, Nan. Are you going to make more money?" Sylvia Wharton asked with her old-time bluntness.

And as Nan Graham nodded, she went on, "I want everybody in our club to understand that no matter what any one of us accomplishes, you are the best of the lot. Because the rest of us have had money and aid from other persons, but you have done every blessed thing for yourself and have helped other people besides."

"Yes, but I don't have to help now," Nan explained. "Anthony is able to do everything for the family that is necessary beyond what father earns. And he has made me promise to go to college next year and study all the courses in domestic science that I can manage, besides chemistry and physiology and hygiene. I shall be a wonderfully learned person if I ever know half the things he wishes me to."

"Anthony is splendid," Sylvia announced, "and you will have a chair in a college some day."

At the absurdity of this suggestion, which nevertheless might one day come true, Nan laughed, putting her arm across Sylvia's shoulder. "We must go back indoors or you may take cold, Dr. Wharton," she teased. "Truly I am glad that your father and mother have made you undertake the study of medicine instead of going on with nursing. For my part I shall always prefer you as a physician to Dr. Ashton, even though he has a good many years' start of you."

Never could Sylvia take things humorously. "Then you will show very poor judgment, Nan Graham. Richard Ashton is going to be a perfect wonder. Betty and Esther both say I may be his partner, but I shall not. I am coming back to Woodford after I graduate and help Dr. Barton. Thank heavens, he and Rose Dyer finally decided to marry last month. It will take both of them to look after little Faith. That child is so queer and fanciful I am afraid she may turn out a poet." And Sylvia did not smile or have the least understanding that she had said anything amusing when her friend led her back inside the cabin living room.

Then Meg Everett and her brother John strolled out into the night air, arm in arm, and went and piled logs on the camp fire farthest away from the house.

Meg wore nothing on her head in spite of the cold, so that her yellow-brown hair blew about her face in shocking confusion. Yet her elder brother did not seem to be in a sufficiently critical mood tonight to notice it.

"Don't stay outdoors too long or go far away from the cabin, Betty; I am so afraid you may take cold," Esther Ashton whispered ten minutes after John and Meg had come in, wrapping her own long white fur coat about her sister. Esther had been married now for two weeks and she and Richard Ashton had returned from their honeymoon journey to spend the holidays with their own people before leaving for Boston. So Esther was in bridal white, with no other color than her crown of red hair. Betty wore the last frock she had bought in London before sailing for home, having paid a great deal more for it than she felt that she should, just to taste the joy of being extravagant once again. It was of blue velvet with a silver girdle, with silver embroidery about the throat. Instead of jewelry she wore her chains of Camp Fire honor beads.

"No, I won't be gone long, dear," Betty answered. "I have promised too many people to dance with them. But it is such a glorious night! And I have told Anthony Graham that I would look at the beautiful picture our cabin makes with the camp fires burning around it. The moon is now just above the top of the old hill."

At this moment Dick Ashton joined them. "Moon, Betty Ashton," he began with a pretense of sternness, "is the very last word I wish to hear from your lips."

Then, as Betty ran away from the possibility of his further objecting to her departure, Dick turned seriously to Esther.

"Esther, if you have any influence with Betty, do please stop allowing her to have admirers. Tell her that she is not to be permitted to consider any one seriously, say for five or ten years."

As Esther laughed, he added, "Who is it that she has gone off in the moonlight with this time? Anthony Graham? Well, he is a fine fellow, but has his way to make, and thank fortune cannot think of marrying for several years!"

Down by the lake, which was frozen over with a thin coating of ice, forming a kind of mirror for the silver face of the moon, Anthony and Betty were at this moment standing in the shadow looking out over its surface.

"I want to tell you something I never have mentioned, Anthony," Betty said gravely. "I want to thank you for coming to Germany to bring me the good news of my inheritance. Oh, it is not that I could not have waited longer to have heard, but that if the news had not come just when it did, I might have been the unconscious cause of making the two people I love almost best in the world unhappy all their lives. For you see I did not dream that Dick cared for Esther or she for him. So I kept on urging Esther to devote herself to her music, when all the time she and Dick wanted to be married, and Esther was only going on with her music because she wanted to earn money for me and for father. As though either one of us wished her to sacrifice herself!"

"Still, your brother was a brave fellow to ask a girl to give up such a future," Anthony Graham returned. "I don't think I could have done it."

Betty frowned at him. "Why not?" she demanded.

Turning toward her, Anthony now looked at her so steadfastly that the girl's white lids drooped.

"Well, once I cared for a girl who was miles and miles above me in family, position, beauty, brains, oh, everything that is worth having, except one thing!" he explained. "Neither she nor her people had money; they had lost it through misfortune. So I used to work and dream that some day I might be able to climb that one hill. But before I was even halfway up my hill – oh, I can't talk in figures of speech, I must speak plain English – why the girl inherited a lot of money. So now she has everything and I have nothing worth while to offer her. Yet I don't wish her to think that I have ever ceased caring for her or ever will."

"Anthony," Betty replied unexpectedly, "I always wear that little enameled pin representing a pine tree that you sent me by Polly a long time ago. But I have been thinking lately that perhaps you did not remember that one of the meanings of the pine tree is faithfulness."

Then she moved away toward the cabin and, as the young man walked along beside her without speaking, she said half to herself and half to him, "Not long ago I had one person declare that he cared for me because I had inherited a fortune. And here is another person who has ceased caring because I have money. Yet, if I have to choose between the two, I believe I like the American way best."

"You don't mean that you like me, do you, Betty?" Anthony pleaded.

The Princess shook her head. "I don't mean anything – yet, Anthony," she answered.

Inside the living room on their return they found at least a dozen friends urging Esther to sing. To Margaret Adams' request she finally yielded. For Miss Adams had lately come to Woodford to spend the week with Polly O'Neill's family. And now Polly was standing with her arm slipped caressingly through her friend's.