The living-room at Tahawus cabin suggested an outdoor cathedral. Evergreens1 arched overhead; the walls were lined with green branches of holly2, cedar3 and pine; while above the mantel and hanging from the chandelier were bunches of mistletoe, the white berries, like captured snowflakes.
Between the front windows swung a bell composed of mistletoe leaves with the clapper of the white berries. Underneath4 was an improvised5 platform with a background of green and stalks of lilies and roses.
Yet the wedding ceremony was to be of the simplest character with no outside guests.
On Peggy’s part this involved no especial sacrifice, since nearly every one she cared for deeply was at present in Tahawus cabin, her father having arrived with Ralph Merritt.
174
Ralph’s parents were the cause of the hurried wedding. Spending the winter in China, it had been their intention to return home in the early spring in order to be present at the marriage of their son and Peggy Webster. However, a cable announcing his mother’s serious illness, had urged Ralph to sail for China as soon as possible. And he had the good fortune at the last moment to persuade Peggy not to force him to make the long journey alone.
There was no opportunity for the purchase of wedding clothes, but Peggy was to spend several days in New York, where she could outfit6 herself for the journey.
The wedding was to take place at high noon, with a clergyman from Saranac officiating.
At exactly the moment of high noon, with the clock in the hall chiming twelve strokes, Peggy walked into the living-room on the arm of her father. Her brother, Dan, was best man and he and Ralph stood awaiting her.
175
Afterwards the Sunrise Camp Fire girls formed a semicircle about the bride, wearing simple toilettes of white serge which had been intended for the Christmas dinner party.
Peggy’s wedding dress was a white crepe de chine without trimming of any kind save an exquisite7 collar of Duchess lace, which Miss Patricia had unexpectedly produced as a wedding gift. Without a wedding veil Peggy looked as her family and friends were accustomed to seeing her at any time; her color never wavered, her dark eyes remained steadfast8 and untroubled, in fact she seemed less agitated9 than any one of the other Camp Fire girls.
Not far away from the little group the Camp Fire guardian10 stood between her husband and Miss Patricia. Having solemnly promised Peggy not to break down, her lips were firmly closed, her face white with two bright spots of color in her cheeks, yet her blue eyes less brilliant than usual.
Mrs. Webster cried softly during the ceremony, nevertheless, her lips continued to smile while her eyes were dim; her own marriage had proved so satisfying and, devoted11 to Ralph Merritt, she had the faith to believe that Peggy’s would be equally so.
176
Mary Gilchrist, whose position was at one of the ends of the semi-circle, toward the close of the ceremony glanced toward the group of people who were slightly more in the background—Mr. and Mrs. Ashton, and Philip Stead with Elspeth and David Murray behind them and David Hale a few feet away.
Beside the great fireplace Mrs. Burton was standing12 near Allan Drain, who always seemed to prefer her society to any other.
She had on a soft gray chiffon dress over silk. In an irrelevant13 fashion it occurred to Gill that Mrs. Burton was rather too close to the open fire.
The next instant the impression vanished as her interest in Peggy recurred14. Yet the subconscious15 thought must have remained, for scarcely aware of her action a second time she turned her head to behold16 a little, light flame flare17 suddenly amid the folds of the soft material and spread with amazing rapidity.
177
She was a number of yards away and a movement on her part would interrupt the ceremony, now at its most solemn moment. Besides, Mrs. Burton, or some one near, must know what was occurring before she could dream of reaching her. Transfixed, she remained staring perhaps not thirty seconds. Then she saw Mrs. Burton utter a little cry that was almost soundless, so promptly18 was it suppressed. Not wishing to destroy the beauty of the ceremony or to attract attention, unwisely she turned to escape from the room and with her first movement the blaze so increased that she appeared to be standing in a circle of flame.
However, Allan Drain immediately threw his arms about her and was holding her still, while at the same time he was beating out the flames. The following instant David Hale, aware at last of the situation, snatched a heavy shawl from a chair, enfolded Allan Drain and Mrs. Burton inside it.
It was all so quickly and quietly accomplished19 that Peggy and the other Camp Fire girls had no knowledge of what had taken place until the service was ended.
The others had seen it, and yet for Peggy’s sake, as the danger was past, had made no outcry.
178
“But, Betty, I do not understand how you could have been so careless,” Mrs. Burton protested almost irritable20 from fright, when Peggy and Ralph had turned and were surrounded by their mother and father, the Camp Fire girls, Dan and Mr. and Mrs. Ashton.
Only Bettina and Mary Gilchrist moved over to the smaller group encircling Mrs. Graham and almost concealing21 her.
“I am not hurt, Bettina dear, don’t be alarmed. And, Polly, it was careless of me, I am sorry to have frightened you. No, I am perfectly22 all right, only I am afraid Allan Drain is hurt. I am so sorry, Allan, I seem to be your evil genius. Bettina, suppose you come with us and please don’t let any one else trouble; I would so regret disturbing Peggy’s and Ralph’s wedding. We will come back in a few moments.”
So the little group disappeared, accompanied by David Hale and Mary Gilchrist, who followed after them to offer assistance.
A quarter of an hour later they all returned to the living-room save Allan Drain. Mrs. Burton, having changed her dress, showed no trace of her recent peril23 and begged that there be no discussion of it.
Peggy and Ralph were to remain for Christmas dinner at two o’clock and afterwards to leave for New York.
179
The dinner was the usual Christmas feast, but because Miss Patricia was hostess, she had ordered from the great city beautiful favors and bonbons24 as well, the principal favor a tiny log cabin with a small camp fire glowing outside upon a little surface of crystal to represent the frozen earth.
Before four Peggy and Ralph departed, driven to Saranac by David Murray and soon after a slight atmosphere of depression descended25 upon Tahawus cabin.
The older members of the house party departed to their own rooms, including Bettina Graham who felt Peggy’s marriage more keenly than the other Camp Fire girls, besides being worried over the possible nervous shock to her mother from the catastrophe26 of a few hours before.
The Camp Fire guardian was about to drop down on her couch to rest, and Captain Burton sat reading by the fire, when a knock at the door of her bed-room, which Mrs. Burton opened, admitted Miss Patricia Lord.
“I came in for a moment to find out how you have borne the day’s excitement,” she began in a tone of unexpected gentleness. “You look rather better than I anticipated.”
180
Mrs. Burton put her arm about the angular figure and drew her down on the couch beside her.
“What does it feel like to be a Christmas fairy godmother, Aunt Patricia—unlike being a fairy godmother during the remainder of the year. But you look tired yourself, dear, or if not tired something is the matter. What is it?”
Miss Patricia’s expression was unusual, a little shamefaced and appealing, altogether unlike her ordinary air of command.
“I want you to do me a favor, Polly. I came in to ask you and Richard when I hoped to discover you alone. I have wished to find you some little Christmas offering, but could not be sure of what you might desire, besides being shut off up here. So I thought perhaps you might get what you wish and so keep me from making a mistake.”
Flushing, and not glancing toward Mrs. Burton, Miss Patricia thrust into her hand a small slip of paper, and when her eyes fell upon it she discovered it to be a check for a thousand dollars.
181
“This is merely a small Christmas gift, Polly, which I trust you will not speak of,” Miss Patricia announced in her more familiar tone of severity before the younger woman had an opportunity to respond.
“Richard,” Mrs. Burton said finally, her voice a little uncertain, “Aunt Patricia has just given us a check for a thousand dollars, which of course we cannot accept, chiefly because she is the most generous person in the world, and if she is permitted to go on in this fashion some day will have no money at all. Dear, you know I am everlastingly27 grateful and that Richard and I already owe you more than we would be willing to accept from any one else, but really we cannot take this as well. There is your home in France for war orphans28 which must absorb a portion of your capital and then the expense of this cabin and all you have done for me and the girls this winter. You know how deeply I appreciate the added gift, dear, but you must try and see that it is out of the question for Richard and me to be under further obligation.”
182
“Obligation!” Miss Patricia repeated. “Were you my own daughter, Polly—and a dozen times I have told you that I am as much attached to you as if you were—would you treat my gift in this fashion?”
“Why, yes, dear, I think so. Please do not be hurt, I have told you Richard and I could not accept gifts of money from you.”
Leaning over, Miss Patricia took the check from the younger woman’s hand, tossing it into the fire.
“I presume you agree with Polly, Richard, since you have made no remark,” she added. Then, notwithstanding their protests and effort at persuasion29, she arose and stalked out of the room.
“You have wounded Aunt Patricia very deeply, I am afraid, Polly,” Captain Burton said the next moment. “However, I suppose you were right and that it was unavoidable.”
Mrs. Burton had flung herself down on her couch.
183
“Of course I was right, Richard, and you need not have placed the entire responsibility of the refusal upon me. Do you suppose I enjoy wounding Aunt Patricia any more than you do? Was there ever any one so dear and so difficult? She will not forgive me in many a day! The truth is, Richard, Aunt Patricia has conceived the idea that you are worried over some money difficulty and would like to give us a good deal more money if we should need it. Can she by any chance be right?”
Rising, Captain Burton walked over to the fireplace and stood looking into the fire.
“Yes, Polly, Aunt Patricia is never altogether mistaken. One can trust always to her wisdom and kindness. We have some investments which of late have not been turning out so well as I hoped. Yet at present there is no occasion to be troubled; after a little they will adjust themselves. I beg of you not to worry or in any way to allow the idea to interfere30 with your recovery.”
“You are telling me the truth, Richard? I object to being treated like a child or an invalid31 when I am neither. I am ever so much better and there is no reason now why I should not be allowed to return to work. In a year I feel convinced I could again be fairly successful.”
“Please do not refer to the subject, Polly. Before I should agree to such rashness I would appeal to Aunt Patricia. However, there is no necessity.”
184
“But you promise to let me know if there should be a necessity.”
At first Captain Burton made no reply and then said smiling:
“Polly, there are times when I agree with Aunt Patricia, that you are a trying person. I presume I shall be forced to tell you, but there will be no occasion.”
During this discussion the living-room of Tahawus cabin was gradually being deserted32.
Dan Webster, David Hale, Philip Stead with Alice Ashton, Marguerite Arnot and Vera Lagerloff had departed for an hour’s walk, the other girls having declined for various reasons. Alone before the fire with an open book, Allan Drain was trying to amuse himself and to forget the pain whose existence he steadfastly33 had been denying. There was nothing serious the matter, save that his hands had been burned, and, in spite of the cooling bandages in which they were wrapped, continued to ache.
With difficulty he could turn the pages of his book, so that he immediately heard the rustle34 of a soft silk gown and glanced up to find Mrs. Graham beside him. She had taken off her more formal dress and was wearing a light blue tea gown.
185
“I came in to ask if there was anything I could do for you, Allan? I am afraid you are pretty uncomfortable in spite of your denial of the fact. I have been wishing there was some way in which I could make up to you for the loss of your verses, but instead I am more than ever under obligation. I don’t intend to allow myself to think of what might have happened this morning except for your presence of mind and courage. What are you reading?”
“A volume of new plays, some one seems to have sent Mrs. Burton. I did nothing for you this morning; it was David Hale who really rescued us both, Mrs. Graham. Yet there is something you can do for me. I wonder if I am asking too much? Could you, would you ask Mrs. Burton to glance over a one-act play I lately have been struggling to write? A single word, or suggestion from her would be the greatest help and inspiration to me, more than you can dream. It is not that I think my little play is worth anything, yet if she only considers the idea worth while, why, some day I may be able to do something with it.”
186
“Why, of course Polly shall read your play and give you her criticism, although I warn you, she may not be flattering. Doubtless she would have read it had you asked her yourself. She certainly will now that I shall allow her no peace of mind until the fact is accomplished. You are going to stay with us a few days until you have recovered, but Bettina will walk over to your cabin with you to-morrow and bring back your manuscript. We shall see this manuscript does not come to grief. Good-by, go back to your reading, I’ll not interrupt you any further.”
But Allan Drain did not return to his reading; instead he allowed the leaves of his book to close while he sat gazing into the fire. He had been afraid he would not have sufficient courage for the request he had just made, but now having gone through the ordeal35 he wondered whether or not he regretted his own act. Doubtless the little play was no good and Mrs. Burton would be tired and bored by being forced to devote a half hour to it. Moreover, she was too sincere an artist not to give him her true opinion, and afterwards he would never have the steadfastness36 to go on with his writing, knowing her estimate of his work. This winter was going to be difficult enough, so why not better have kept this dream at least until the spring, when he need not be so much indoors?
187
On this occasion Allan Drain did not hear the door open, nor glance up until Mary Gilchrist stood beside him.
“I met Mrs. Burton in the hall and she suggested that I come in and offer to read to you if you will allow me. She said you were having some trouble in trying to turn over the pages of your book. I do not read very well, but it would give me a great deal of pleasure if you will let me make the attempt. Then if you can’t bear my effort, why I’ll stop and not be in the least offended.”
Gill’s manner was so friendly and had in it such a new atmosphere of shyness, almost of apology, that Allan Drain, although not anxious to have his reverie interrupted, did not like to decline.
“Perhaps it would be pleasanter to talk; I can read at any time, as I am so much alone.”
Declining a chair, Gill dropped down on the floor before the fire.
188
“Will you talk to me? I should like it ever so much better. There is something I want specially37 to say to you—I want to apologize for my bad manners ever since our original meeting. You see, you said something then which annoyed me and afterwards impulsively38 I did something for which I never have forgiven myself, so ever since I have in a way wished to believe you responsible. I thought you had no courage, because you are not the kind of man——”
Hesitating, Gill flushed hotly. How hopelessly stupid and awkward she was! Actually she was about to say the very thing she intended not!
“Because I am not the kind of fellow you admire. Go on, Miss Gilchrist. You don’t suppose I have any illusions on the subject, do you?”
“Well, yes—no,” Gill answered. “Only to-day I discovered that you possessed39 both courage and presence of mind, the very traits of character I do admire. Besides, at this moment I appreciate you are in lots of pain, your face shows it, and yet you would rather not have me mention the fact.
189
“I Wish You Would Help Me About Something,” She Said.
190
“I wish you would help me about something,” she went on. “The truth is, I seem to possess no moral courage, and somehow I feel that you do. I have been guilty of a fault that I am ashamed and afraid to confess. It has troubled me for weeks and I have been a good deal more unhappy than any one has realized. I really have wronged you more than any one else, and this morning while Peggy Webster was being married I decided40 I must confess to some one and that perhaps I had best confess directly to you.”
“But I haven’t the faintest idea what you are talking about,” Allan Drain protested.
“No, of course not,” Gill answered.
She had thrown back her head so that her face was slightly upturned. The light was on her red-brown hair, leaving her face in shadow. Yet Allan Drain observed that the gallant41 half boyish expression which she ordinarily wore had vanished and that her square, too determined42 chin was trembling.
“Let me tell you quickly and please don’t interrupt, else I might not be able to go on. I have done you the greatest injustice43, and not only you, but Mrs. Graham and Bettina, whom I like so much and whose good opinion I would give a great deal to possess.
191
“You remember when you brought your collection of verses here for Mrs. Graham to read and she told you afterwards that she had placed them upon a table in her bed-room, and then, after being away for a few hours, on her return discovered they had vanished?”
“I am not likely to forget.”
“Well, I went into Mrs. Graham’s bedroom while she was away and saw the verses lying among some books and papers. As I was curious and wished to read them, although I thought they would be poor, I took them to my own room. I had no opportunity to read them then, as I went for a walk soon afterwards.”
His eyes alight, Allan Drain leaned forward.
“You have them and will return them to me! I appreciate they are no good, just the same they mean a great deal to me. You would not be so unkind as to keep them when they are of no value to you.”
Gill shook her head.
192
“No, the trouble is I have not the verses. You see, you see, I destroyed them. Please, please don’t believe I intended this, it was wholly an accident, and yet so dreadfully stupid perhaps you can scarcely believe me.
“Not wishing the other girls to know I was sufficiently44 interested to have borrowed the poems, I hid your manuscripts in an old box with some papers of no value. Then, this is the incredible thing, I forgot they were there. It was only a moment of forgetfulness; I remembered when it was too late. Later in the same afternoon I decided suddenly to clear out my bureau drawer and so piled all the trash I could find into this self-same box and carried it into our study and flung the box and everything it contained into the fire. The instant the papers caught fire I knew what I had done. I did thrust my hands into the flames only to draw forth45 a few charred46 scraps47 without a single line upon them.”
Gill drew up her sleeve; the scar from a burn showed above her wrist.
193
“See I burned my arm in the attempt,” she murmured indifferently, “not that I cared except that I have had trouble in hiding the burn from the other girls. The worst thing I have done was not so much the accident and my foolish loss of memory, but the fact that when Mrs. Graham and Bettina asked if I had seen the manuscripts of your poems, I told them no, or at least I deliberately48 gave them this impression. Yet all the days of my life I have esteemed49 truthfulness50 and a sense of honor the greatest of all human possessions. This is why I have never been able to make the confession51. I could not pass through Christmas day without telling you and to-morrow I shall speak to Mrs. Burton, Mrs. Graham, and Bettina and let them know of what I have been guilty. Afterwards I shall go home, I cannot remain here at Tahawus cabin.”
“Nor can I say that I forgive you, Miss Gilchrist. If I should say so I would not be telling the truth. I’ll do my best to forget after a time. After all, I had given up any idea of my verses being restored, so I am not much worse off.”
Gill arose.
194
“I much prefer your not pretending to forgive me, because you could not mean it truthfully. After I leave Half Moon Lake I hope we may never see each other again. I cannot exactly explain, but I felt when I met you that you would have an unfortunate influence upon me. Now I can never see you without recalling that because of you, or through you, I have done what I never could have believed of myself.”
“I am sorry,” Allan Drain responded stiffly.
“So am I, but that makes no real difference now. I hear the others returning. Good-by.”
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1
evergreens
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| n.常青树，常绿植物，万年青( evergreen的名词复数 ) | |
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holly
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| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
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cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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6
outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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8
steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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14
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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subconscious
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| n./adj.潜意识(的)，下意识(的) | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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bonbons
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| n.小糖果( bonbon的名词复数 ) | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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everlastingly
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| 永久地，持久地 | |
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orphans
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| 孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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steadfastness
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| n.坚定，稳当 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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39
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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41
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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42
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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43
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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45
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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46
charred
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| v.把…烧成炭( char的过去式)；烧焦 | |
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47
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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48
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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49
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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50
truthfulness
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| n. 符合实际 | |
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51
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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