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CHAPTER III
A New Dawn
Very rarely did Polly Burton arise early in the morning. This excellent habit she had never liked as a girl and, of course, later on her stage life had made the custom well nigh impossible. Now, however, within the past few months of outdoor camping, she had changed and become that very doubtful early bird, or early worm, for one never can be sure which one may be – the winner of the morning prize or the victim.
However, the coming of daylight in this extraordinary land of hills and deserts, of giant cliffs and fairy gardens, was worth a serious effort.
At any rate this was Mrs. Burton’s impression. Frequently she used to slip out of her tent before any one else had awakened and watch the dawn above the blue San Francisco peaks spread itself slowly over the entire horizon. Afterwards she sometimes returned to bed and to sleep, or else read until the Camp Fire girls were in evidence.
This morning it was a little before six o’clock when, getting into her clothes, she slipped out of doors. Quiet had to be preserved for, now that Mrs. Webster had arrived, she was sleeping in her sister’s tent, while another smaller tent had been put up not far off which Dan and Billy Webster were occupying together. Now, that Billy was so much better, his brother was able to look after him at night. Moreover their mother, after her siege of nursing, required the rest.
For two reasons, therefore, Mrs. Burton departed without making the least disturbance. First, she wished her sister to continue sleeping, second, she did not wish her own plan interfered with. One never could be sure when Mollie would not take a stand against what she might consider an unnecessary eccentricity.
Mrs. Burton’s desire was to see the sun rise above one of the canyons and to see it alone. Not the Grand Canyon itself; one still had a day’s journey down a precipitous trail from the Sunrise Hill camp for the best view of this amazing spectacle. She intended visiting one of the lesser canyons which was within reasonable walking distance.
The pine forest was as gloomy and quiet as a dim old cathedral when Polly Burton started swiftly through it toward the neighborhood of the cliffs of the day before.
There was a mist at the top of the trees hiding the first shafts of daylight. No other living human being was about. Only in one of the trees a screech owl, still under the impression that it was night, continued his curious wailing.
Mrs. Burton was not frightened, but naturally she was a little nervous and keenly alive to every sight and sound. Always enjoying new emotions and new impressions; now the early morning walk alone in so strange a place was unlike any past experience she could recall.
Not many miles away stood a fashionable hotel filled with tourists, who had come to Arizona to see the Grand Canyon. Yet here in the forest one appeared to be in a primeval world. Not so different could these forests have been in the prehistoric days of the cliff dwellers, whose ancient homes were in the nearby cliffs.
Following the trail Polly Burton kept glancing from one side of the path to the other. Ridiculous, of course, but all through dinner the evening before Dan Webster had been regaling the girls with stories of the deer and bear supposed to live in the adjacent woods.
Yet, in spite of her unfaith, there was always enough of the spirit of the adventurer in Mrs. Burton, left over from the one-time Polly O’Neill, to hope for the unexpected.
Once in a place where the trees grew thicker than elsewhere, she half believed she saw a big, brown figure go lumbering off on all fours in the opposite direction. Nevertheless, without being interrupted in any way, she finally arrived at the ledge of cliffs where she had spent the afternoon before.
Now, instead of stopping at the same place, she walked slowly along, carefully guarding each step. The morning light was a dull grey – the color of deep shadows. Slowly the sky was growing warmer and breaking into light, coloring the thick mist in the ravine below until it resembled a mammoth, iridescent soap bubble.
Then the mist began to separate and to float upward like an army of ghostly figures.
The effect was fascinating – even thrilling – and yet it was eery. To an imaginative person many fantastic ideas would have presented themselves. It was as if the spirits of evil persons having been enchained to do penance for their sins in the world below, and now, having expiated their misdeeds, were allowed to float upward. Sometimes they moved in pairs, gradually drifting apart as they reached the higher air. Now and then a more lonely ghost, appearing as if wrapped about in a cloak of silver mist, would pursue his upward flight alone.
Mrs. Burton felt more than repaid for her trip, yet regretted that she had not brought one of the girls with her. Bettina would perhaps have enjoyed the spectacle most. The Camp Fire guardian was beginning to understand Bettina Graham better than she had in their past Camp Fire experience. But her desire was not purely unselfish, for she was nervous.
The scene was almost too beautiful and mysterious to be witnessed by oneself. Besides, in the past few months she had grown so accustomed to being in the society of the Sunrise Hill Camp Fire girls that she was almost uncomfortable any great length of time without them.
Now it would have been pleasant to have heard Bettina’s pretty fancies, or to have had Peggy dispel the mists by a practical suggestion, or to have listened to Alice’s or Ellen’s scientific explanation of clouds, or to have beheld Sally and Gerry giggling irresponsibly over something which had nothing to do with mists or ghosts or canyons.
Yet Mrs. Burton lingered until the dawn had fully come and all the sky was rose crimson. Then, glancing at her watch, she started toward camp.
In another half hour the girls would be up and preparing breakfast. As no one knew where she had disappeared it was possible that her Sister Mollie might become uneasy.
Once in the woods again she walked more hurriedly, not only because she feared being late, but for another more absurd reason. Unexpectedly Mrs. Burton had the sensation of being followed.
She did not see any one or anything, and was not even sure that she heard distinctly. Nevertheless her impression was vivid.
Twice she stopped and waited; once she called aloud; the second time, very like the one-time Polly O’Neill, she stamped her foot, crying out:
“If any one is playing a prank on me, please understand that I am weary of it.”
There was no answer. However, afterwards she had no longer the sensation of being pursued.
At camp Sally Ashton and Gerry Williams were busy preparing breakfast. Camp life was at least eventful when these two girls were at work.
Really, once stirred out of her slothfulness, Sally Ashton, who was essentially feminine, was an extraordinarily good cook. However, she required several persons to wait upon her while she was at work.
This morning, in honor of Mrs. Webster, she was making a new cornmeal bread from a recipe which the Indian girl, Dawapa, had taught her.
She had Dan Webster engaged in assisting her. Dan not only brought fresh wood for her fire every few moments, but in between his pilgrimages watched with anxiety the cakes slowly browning in the hot ashes. Sally was never content unless she had at least one man or boy engaged in her active service. As a matter of fact if one were about she did not find this difficult to accomplish.
She waved a plump little hand toward their guardian when Mrs. Burton strolled into camp. Over the great pan of bacon she was frying Gerry Williams threw her a kiss.
There was no one else about. A little tired from her walk, Mrs. Burton sat down a short distance from the fire, for the warmth was pleasant, and, embracing her knees, began rocking slowly back and forward just as Polly O’Neill had always done when she wished to work out a problem.
Mrs. Burton was again considering her group of Camp Fire girls. How pretty Sally looked! Her hair lay in soft brown curls over her white forehead. She did not tan as the other girls. At the moment her big brown eyes were shining with an animation she did not always show. She was wearing a big apron over her Camp Fire dress.
Deliciously domestic Sally appeared to be working out-of-doors! For, although Sally did belong to the type of women whom we choose to call especially feminine, she had gone far beyond the history of the primitive woman. Sally’s idea was to enslave, certainly not to be enslaved.
In appearance she and Gerry Williams were a complete contrast, although having many tastes in common.
Since the trouble between Gerry Williams and Bettina Graham, Gerry and the Camp Fire guardian had not continued such devoted friends. Until then, except for her niece, Peggy Webster, Gerry had undoubtedly been Mrs. Burton’s favorite among her group of girls.
But Gerry’s effort to force Bettina to remain behind in the Indian’s house, in order to place her in a false position during their last camping experience, had appeared not only mischievous but malicious. Mrs. Burton wondered if she had been right in bringing a girl of Gerry’s training and tastes to live with girls who had been brought up so differently. She still said nothing to any one of them concerning Gerry’s history, but she had one talk with the girl herself. Afterwards Gerry apologised, both to Bettina and to her and appeared to repent her behavior.
Now, in spite of the fact that Mrs. Burton could not trust her as she had at the beginning of their friendship, nevertheless Gerry’s prettiness and affectionate manners never failed to appeal to her. She returned the kiss light-heartedly.
A few moments later the other Camp Fire girls appeared.
Peggy took away her aunt’s coat and hat, since Marie had not been seen since the night before. She was no longer sleeping in Mrs. Burton’s tent, but in a tent with several of the girls.
Alice Ashton reported to Mrs. Burton that Marie had not yet lifted her head from the pillow, so overcome did she appear to be, either from relief or regret at the loss of Mr. Simpson.
Breakfast was about ready to serve before Mrs. Webster and Billy finally came out to join the others. They were an odd contrast – the mother and son – suggesting the homely but immortal comparison of the hen with the ugly duckling.
Mrs. Webster – who had once been Molly O’Neill – had cheeks round and soft and rosy as a girl’s. Her blue eyes were filled with the sweetness of a loving and unquestioning nature. She was well past her youth and yet, in spite of her comfortable plumpness and the few grey hairs among the black ones, to the persons who loved her she seemed to grow prettier and sweeter as she grew older. Certainly her own family adored her.
But Billy Webster, her son, was a delicate boy with fair hair and large blue eyes. His expression was difficult to understand until one came to know that Billy questioned everything, but, having decided for himself acted, whenever it was possible, solely upon his own judgment.
When Dan Webster started forward to join his mother and offer his morning greeting, one felt better satisfied. For, except that he was big and strong and virile, he was exactly like her, both in appearance and apparently in character.
The Sunrise Hill Camp Fire girls were in the habit of beginning each day with some little ceremony appropriate to their outdoor life and the spirit of their Camp Fire. Each member had her appointed time, for a morning ceremony. Today chanced to be Mrs. Burton’s.
When everybody had assembled she walked toward a clearing and stood with her face to the east and her back against a group of pine trees with a growth of underbrush between.
“I am sorry all of you were not with me this morning at daylight. To have recited my verse then would have been more appropriate,” she began.
However, what she recited was not so important, since always Mrs. Burton’s audiences heard her with thrilling interest. For one reason, the voice of the great actress was so beautiful and appealing. Like the great Sara Bernhardt she would have been able to stir her hearers both to laughter and tears by a mere recital of the alphabet, could she have spoken as Bernhardt did in a language unfamiliar to her listeners.
“This verse is a part of the Indian New Fire ceremony and seemed to me appropriate to our morning camp fire,” she explained.
Some vivid, charming quality appeared to be born anew in Polly O’Neill Burton each time she faced an audience, no matter how small and unimportant. This love of her work was perhaps the surest expression of her genius.
She now lifted her head, the color coming swiftly to her face, and pointing to the sun and then toward their own fire she spoke in a beautiful resonant voice:
“All people awake, open your eyes, arise,
Become children of light, vigorous, active, sprightly;
Hasten clouds from the four world quarters,
Come snow in plenty, that water may abound when summer appears,
Come ice and cover the fields, that after planting they may yield abundantly,
Let all hearts be glad.”
The last words sounded like an invocation to happiness. However, it was Mrs. Burton who started forward, saying unexpectedly:
“Dan, there is some one watching us. I was under the impression I was being followed in my walk this morning. Why, I cannot understand! Will you find out who it is?”
Then, without replying, Dan went quickly forward into the nearby woods.
CHAPTER IV
A New Girl
There was an instant of waiting, then a little cry quickly suppressed. Soon after Dan could be heard returning.
But when he appeared he was half leading, half carrying, a girl of about fifteen or sixteen who did not look like a formidable intruder. She was small and her face was pale; at the moment her lips were pressed tightly together. Yet, in spite of her effort at self-control, her eyes were full of tears, either of anger, embarrassment or pain.
Yet, although Dan was resolutely holding her to the duty of facing the Camp Fire party, he was perfectly gentle. It would have been impossible for him to be otherwise.
Immediately Mrs. Burton walked forward. There was something about the girl that attracted her. She was not pretty; her features were too irregular; she had a long nose a little crooked, a wide mouth, and her chin was too sharply pointed for the breadth of her brow. But her eyes were a fascinating grey-green with extremely dark brows and lashes, and her hair was reddish brown.
“I am sorry,” the Camp Fire guardian began quickly. “Dan and I must both have been mistaken in thinking you the person we were seeking. But you must forgive my nephew, the fault was mine. I was under the impression that some one was spying upon us, and who, for some absurd reason, was not willing to be discovered.”
The girl shook her head. “You were not mistaken. I have been watching you – or trying to – since early this morning. And I hate your having discovered me.”
She spoke quietly in a soft but at the same time throaty voice, as if she were a little hoarse.
Polly Burton was puzzled and yet it was stupid of her to have been. It was true that here in the West in the past few months, living outdoors with her group of Camp Fire girls, she had honestly forgotten a number of facts about herself.
“I don’t understand.”
But at this instant, murmuring something or other in apology, Dan Webster moved a few steps aside.
The girl turned her head.
“Don’t let go your hold on me,” she said almost angrily.
Again Dan held out his arm and this time the girl clutched it.
Dan’s face was crimson; he felt the whole situation to be extraordinarily awkward. He was not quick either in thought or action and undoubtedly he was confused by the words and the behavior of the girl who had been his prisoner a few moments before. Now she held on to him as if she dared not let go. He could feel her hand trembling on his arm and indeed her whole body was shaking.
Then Dan gave an inward sigh of relief, seeing that his mother was approaching them.
“You have hurt yourself, haven’t you, child?” she began in a sensible comfortable fashion. “I presume you were merely curious about my sister and our Camp Fire proceedings. I know the information has gone out over the neighborhood that we wished to be left to ourselves. You understand my sister has to see so many people when she is playing that she has let it be known she wishes to meet nobody here. If you have been trying to see her without being observed, she must remember a time, which does not seem so long ago to me, when she was only a stage-struck girl herself. There, take my arm and let Dan help you to my tent.”
The girl had looked unhappy at the beginning of Mrs. Webster’s speech, but before the close she laughed a little uncertainly.
“I am afraid that is true,” she returned. “In any case I owe you an apology, Mrs. Burton.” She had dropped the lids over her eyes to hide her chagrin, but she went on honestly. “I suppose I am a stage-struck girl, although I do not like hearing myself called one. But I did come over here this morning at daylight for a look at your camp. Of course I never dreamed of seeing you. But when you started for your walk I did go along near you, as I did not suppose you would either see or hear me. But it was wonderful just to be so near you!”
In the meantime Peggy Webster had slipped forward and now stood alongside her aunt.
“Don’t be hateful, Tante,” she whispered warningly, knowing from experience that her aunt’s good nature was not always to be relied upon under trying circumstances. Moreover she had forgotten, as ninety-nine people out of a hundred do, when they arrive at distinction, how she had felt toward famous persons in her own youth.
But on this occasion Peggy need not have been uneasy.
The new girl was evidently of gentle breeding in spite of the shabbiness of her attire and the fact that she was rather more plain than good looking.
“Nonsense, child, it is oftentimes distinctly disagreeable to be near me, as my Camp Fire girls may tell you. But come and have breakfast with us, if you really have been prowling about since daylight as I have. I am dreadfully hungry.”
She started away with Peggy, expecting the others to follow. Either Mrs. Burton had not heard her sister’s speech, or else believed that her beloved Mollie was only fussing over the newcomer’s health as she did over everybody’s.
“Thank you, I would rather not be troublesome,” the new girl answered.
At this she let go Dan’s arm and took a step forward. But the pain of walking alone was too great for her self-control.
As people always did in disaster she turned to Mrs. Webster.
“I fear I have hurt myself and it is so stupid of me. Really I don’t know what to do. You see I did not want to be discovered and when I heard some one coming after me I started to run. I must have tripped and fallen over a stump in the underbrush. As soon as I got up I was a prisoner.”
She flashed a peculiar glance at Dan Webster; but whether she was angry or amused over his discomfiture it was difficult to decide. Yet Dan looked wretched enough to satisfy the most teasing desire for revenge. He had the sweetest and most chivalrous temper in the world. No one ever remembered Dan’s deliberately hurting any one in his life. Now he undoubtedly felt as if he had caused a perfectly innocent girl to do herself a painful injury and had afterwards treated her with unpardonable rudeness. But it was not difficult to make Dan Webster feel himself in the wrong, both his sister Peggy, and his twin brother, frequently taking advantage of this trait of his character.
“You are not a prisoner in any sense,” Mrs. Webster replied, speaking more coldly, and appreciating Dan’s embarrassment. “But if you are hurt we shall be glad to do what we can for you and some one will drive you back to your home.”
More humbly the girl then took hold of Mrs. Webster’s proffered arm, and still holding on to Dan, started toward Mrs. Webster’s tent not many yards away.
In a curious fashion Dan felt that, in spite of her pretense of anger, the girl by his side felt a reliance upon him. And for some reason he could not explain he was interested in her. She was not half so pretty as many of the Camp Fire girls – Sally Ashton and Gerry Williams for instance. Yet there was something fascinating in her grey-green eyes, in her long nose with that funny twist at the end of it, and in the uncertainty of her behavior.
Naturally Dan thought it ridiculous of the strange girl to have been hiding about in their neighborhood for the very ordinary pleasure of beholding his famous aunt.
Dan did not take Mrs. Burton or her fame as an actress seriously. Indeed, unconsciously he had inherited some of his father’s old prejudice against women in any kind of public life. He was fond of his aunt, but not as Peggy was, or even his brother, Billy. For, although Billy did not bestow much affection upon any human being, except his mother and Vera Lageloff, he admired Mrs. Burton, was proud of her success, and was really more influenced by her opinion than any one’s else.
The new girl walked with difficulty, but Dan could not help admiring her pluck. Ordinarily her skin was sallow but it was an odd greenish-white at present.
Outside his mother’s tent Dan departed to find Ellen Deal.
Since the arrival of the Sunrise Camp Fire girls in Arizona, Ellen Deal had had but few opportunities for the display of her usefulness as a trained nurse. She had not graduated in nursing, since a breakdown in health had prevented her from finishing the last year of training. But she was older than the other Camp Fire girls and had come West with them because of Dr. Sylvia Wharton’s request made to her half sister and always her beloved friend, Polly O’Neill, or Mrs. Richard Burton.
The call to the sick, however, with Ellen was like the call to arms with a soldier.
Fifteen minutes later, when Dan was finishing a belated breakfast, Ellen reappeared and sat down beside him. The next moment he saw the new girl come out of his mother’s tent with her assistance and drop down on a cushion outside.
“Nothing serious the matter, as far as I can tell,” Ellen announced in the business-like manner which seems to be considered professional. “Nevertheless I would like to have a doctor if one can be found over at the hotel or anywhere nearby. Our unexpected visitor has bruised and strained her knee and it may be worse than I think.”
“Dan won’t you take your victim, or our victim, her breakfast,” Mrs. Burton suggested, smiling and yet looking sympathetic. Having finished her own breakfast she and Peggy had arranged a breakfast tray for their uninvited guest.
“Sit here, Dan,” his mother announced a few moments later on his arrival before her tent. Then she hurried away to her own meal.
Dan sat silently watching the new girl.
She was evidently trying to show self-control. Yet it seemed impossible for her to choke the breakfast down, in spite of the fact that Sally had made new corn bread especially for her. Her lips kept twitching and finally the tears ran unchecked down her face.
“I am sorry you are in such pain,” Dan said gently, and there was something very attractive in his gentleness, combined as it was with his beauty and strength. “I’ll find a doctor for you in a little while.”
To his surprise his companion again turned upon him angrily.
“I am not crying because I am in pain. I am not quite so ridiculous.” Then her nose twitched in a funny fashion and she added with the hoarse note in her voice which was so unusual, “I am crying because I am such a – such a fool.”
In spite of his wish to be sympathetic, Dan laughed.
“Oh, that is a common enough experience.”
But the girl shook her head.
“No,” she answered quietly, “there are a good many foolish people in the world, I know, but there are degrees. It seems to me I am the most hopeless kind.” She turned her eyes full upon Dan and curiously he was reminded of certain pools in his own New Hampshire woods on a soft grey day.
“My name is Marta Clark. I meant to tell you before. My brother and I are here living in a tent not far away from your camp – a few miles I believe. My brother broke down in health and we had to come out here because of him. He is still very ill and I have been taking care of him. If I can’t even hobble about for a few days I don’t know what is to become of us. Besides he has not the faintest idea where I am. I realized he would not allow me to prowl about trying to see Mrs. Burton if he knew, although he and I had talked of her being here. We had seen her act once and adored her.”
“Oh, you’ll find some one able to look after him for a few days well enough,” Dan replied, not viewing the matter as seriously as his new acquaintance did.
Again the girl flashed what seemed to be an angry glance toward him.
“I don’t enjoy your forcing me to confess the fact,” she went on, “but my brother and I are desperately poor – far too poor to hire any one to take care of us, even for a few days. He was working and taking care of me, and when his illness came we had almost nothing. He was only a reporter on a paper and I was at school.”
“Nevertheless,” said Dan firmly, “I am sure we shall manage in some way to have you cared for until you are all right again.”
The girl’s face cleared, and Dan noticed that she had a rather care-worn look which her words had just explained.
“I don’t know why I should feel it when we are utter strangers, but you do look as if you could make things happen the way they should. I suppose it is because you are strong and patient. I am neither of those things.”
But they could not go on talking because, at this moment, the Camp Fire guardian was coming toward them.
