The Camp Fire Girls on the Field of Honor

Vandercook Margaret

The Camp Fire Girls on the Field of Honor

CHAPTER I

AN OLD HOUSE

There are certain old houses in New York City built of rose-colored brick and white stone which face Washington Square.

On this morning in early winter a light snow covered the ground and clung to the bare branches of the shrubs and trees.

In a drawing-room of one of the old houses a young girl was moving quietly about at work. She was alone and the room was almost entirely dismantled, the pictures having been taken down from the walls, the decorations stored away and the furniture protected by linen covers.

The girl herself was wearing an odd costume, a long frock made like a peasant’s smock with an insignia of two crossed logs and a flame embroidered upon one sleeve. With her dark eyes, her dark, rather coarse hair, which she wore parted in the middle over a low forehead, and her white, unusually colorless skin, she suggested a foreigner. Nevertheless, although her mother and father were born in Russia, Vera Lagerloff was not a foreigner. However, at this moment she was talking quietly to herself in a foreign tongue, yet the language she was making an attempt to practice was French and not Russian. Since the entry of the United States into the world war, New York City had been exchanging peoples as well as material supplies with her Allies to so large an extent that one language was no longer sufficient even for the requirements of one’s own country.

Finally, still reciting her broken sentences almost as if she were rehearsing a part in a play, Vera walked over to a front window and stood gazing expectantly out into the Square as if she were looking for some one.

It was about three o’clock in the afternoon and the neighborhood was almost deserted. In the paths beyond the Washington Arch a few children were playing. Now and then an occasional man or woman passed along the street, to vanish into a house or apartment building.

A few taxis and private cars rolled by, but not one made even a pretence of stopping before the rose-colored brick house.

After about five minutes of waiting, sighing and then, smiling at her own folly, the girl turned away and began slowly to climb up the old colonial stairs leading to the second floor.

“When will human beings cease demanding the impossible?” she asked of herself, yet speaking aloud. “I know that Mrs. Burton and Bettina cannot arrive for another half hour, nevertheless I am wasting both time and energy watching for their appearance.”

During the past month Vera Lagerloff had been the guest of Mrs. Richard Burton in her New York home. Together they had been closing the house for an indefinite period and making their final arrangements for sailing for France. Within a few days the American Sunrise Camp Fire unit, with Mrs. Burton as their guardian, was to set sail to help with the work of reclamation in the devastated area of France and also to establish the first group of Camp Fire girls ever recognized upon French soil.

Since their summer “Behind the Lines” in southern California, Vera had been studying with these two purposes in mind.

In the front of the house on the second floor Mrs. Burton’s private sitting-room was to be left undisturbed until the day of her departure, and it was toward this room Vera was making her way.

Except for the two servants, man and wife, engaged only a short time before, who were presumably busy downstairs, she supposed herself alone.

Now as she approached the sitting-room, through the open door she caught sight of the blue and silver of the walls, a pair of old blue curtains and a tea-table decorated with a tea-service and a blue bowl of yellow jonquils. Then an unlooked-for sensation made the girl pause within a few feet on the far side of the threshold, almost holding her breath, for she had the extraordinary impression that the room she had presumed empty was already occupied.

The next instant Vera discovered that a man was standing in front of a small mahogany desk endeavoring to break into a locked drawer. He had not heard her approach, for he did not turn toward her, nevertheless she immediately recognized the man and the situation. The day before, in order to meet the expenses of the journey to France, Mrs. Burton had drawn a large sum of money from bank, placing it in her desk for safe keeping. To the members of her own household she had made no secret of this, and now one of them was taking advantage of his knowledge.

Vera recognized that she must think and act quickly, or it might be possible that all their hopes and plans for service in France would vanish in one tragic instant.

In the bedroom in the rear of the hall she knew there was a telephone. Yet the moments occupied in having the telephone answered and in calling the police seemed interminable. In far less time surely the thief must have accomplished his design!

Yet naturally after her call had been answered Vera knew she must return to make sure and equally naturally she feared to face the man were he still upstairs.

In the right hand corner of Mrs. Burton’s dressing table was a silver mounted pistol. This had been Captain Burton’s parting gift to his wife before his own departure for Europe a few weeks before. Vera distinctly remembered her own and Mrs. Burton’s nervousness over the gift and Captain Burton’s annoyance. They were about to make their home in a devastated country recently occupied by the enemy and yet were afraid of so simple a method of self-protection! Vera had shared in Captain Burton’s lecture and in his instructions.

Moreover, ordinarily she was not timid, but instead possessed a singular feminine courage. So an instant later, holding the small pistol partly concealed by her skirt, Vera slipped noiselessly back again into the hall, moving along in the shadow near the wall. Within a few feet of the sitting-room suddenly the thief appeared in the doorway. The next instant, startled by her appearance, he made a headlong rush down the stairs with his purpose too nearly accomplished to think of surrender.

As Vera followed she wondered if, when the thief reached the front door, where he must pause in opening it, would she then have the courage to fire? Much as she desired to secure the stolen money, she felt the instinctive feminine dislike of wounding another human being.

Yet now she discovered that, in spite of having failed to notice the fact on her way upstairs, the front door was not locked. It had been purposely left slightly ajar so that there need be no dangerous delay.

But before the thief actually reached the front door majestically it was flung open. From the outside a voice called “Halt.”

Immediately after, instead of a policeman as she anticipated, Vera beheld one of the most singular figures she had ever seen. For the moment, in her excitement and confusion, she could not tell whether the figure was a woman’s or a man’s. A long arm was thrust forward, then, such was the thief’s surprise, that he allowed the stolen pocketbook to be removed from his grasp without opposition.

As Vera regained sufficient equanimity to cover him with her pistol she heard a rich Irish voice unmistakably a woman’s, saying:

“Sure, man alive and have you nothing better to do than steal when the world is so hard put for honest soldiers and workmen to carry on her affairs. Now get you away and pray the saints to forgive you, for the next time you’ll not be let off so easily.”

Glad to take the newcomer at her word, the man vanished. Then before Vera could either move or speak, the surprising visitor marched up to her.

“Put that pistol away, child, and never handle it again, or you will injure yourself! Now take me upstairs to Polly Burton’s sitting-room and make me some tea, for the plain truth is I am famished. I have just arrived in New York from Boston, and travel in war times certainly has its drawbacks. But if you will wait I’ll first bring my suitcase inside the hall until we feel more like carrying it upstairs.”

Before Vera could offer her assistance a shabby suitcase was brought indoors.

Immediately after she found herself, not leading the way, but following the unexpected intruder to the second floor. Evidently the elderly woman was familiar with the house, for she made her way directly to the sitting-room and, seating herself upon the divan, began untying her bonnet strings.

In spite of her own confusion and excitement and the visitor’s surprising appearance, Vera believed herself in the presence of an important personage. She understood this, notwithstanding the fact that the woman’s costume was conspicuously shabby and she herself extremely plain.

The bonnet which she removed without waiting to be asked followed a fashion of about a quarter of a century before. When her traveling coat had been laid aside the black dress underneath was almost equally old-fashioned in design.

“Here, child, please take this money and hide it in the same place, or find a safer one,” she announced. “Yet it may be just as well not to mention the robbery to Polly Burton. She is sure to need more strength than she possesses to be able to start on this perilous journey to France almost at the beginning of winter, with only you foolish children as her companions. Besides, I presume Polly left the money in the most conspicuous place in the house; she never has learned not to trust the entire world. I allowed the thief to escape so we need give no further time to him. But tell me the whole story–who are you, how did the man get into the house and why are you here alone?”

At last, in the first opportunity which had been vouchsafed her, Vera endeavored to explain what had occurred. As she spoke she could feel herself being observed with the keenest, most searching scrutiny. Yet for some reason, although never having heard the name or seen her companion before, she had no thought of disputing her visitor’s right to whatever information she desired. The dark eyes in the weather-beaten old face were wise and kind; the manner belonged to a woman accustomed to being obeyed.

Later Vera and her guest made a careful tour of the lower part of the house. Of course the cook had vanished soon after her husband. But they were downstairs in time to meet the police when they finally made their appearance.

Vera opened the door, yet she stood aside to hear her companion announce.

“You can go away again. No, we have no need of you, the telephone call was a mistake.”

Finally when the police had disappeared without requiring a great deal of persuasion, for the second time Vera followed her unknown companion upstairs.

“You understand, child, it would have been the greatest interruption to our present plans if I had not permitted the thief to escape. Some one would have had to appear in court and doubtless Polly Burton would have had newspaper reporters coming to the house at all hours. They would have liked a story in which a woman of her prominence played a part.”

Fifteen minutes later, having presented the unexpected guest with the tea she had requested, Vera was sitting beside the tea table waiting to satisfy her further needs, when she caught the sound of a key being turned in the lock of the front door downstairs and the next instant Mrs. Burton’s voice, followed by Bettina Graham’s, calling for her.

With a hurried apology and really fearful that her autocratic companion might attempt to detain her, Vera ran out of the room.

Over the banisters she could see Bettina Graham, who had just arrived from Washington, and Mrs. Burton, who had gone down to the Pennsylvania station to meet her.

Standing near Bettina was a girl whom Vera had never seen before.

As soon as she joined them Bettina introduced her explaining:

“Vera, this is Mary Gilchrist, who is going abroad to drive a motor in France. She had no friends with whom she could cross, and as we were intending to sail on the same steamer, I suggested when we met in Washington the other day that she might like to join our Camp Fire unit. At the depot I introduced her to Tante, who of course insisted that she come home with us rather than stay in a hotel alone.”

During this conversation, Mrs. Richard Burton, the Sunrise Camp Fire guardian of former days, having passed by the group of girls, was making her way upstairs alone. She had moved so quickly that, in her effort to be polite to Bettina’s new friend, Vera had no opportunity to mention the presence of another stranger in the house. When she did murmur something, Mrs. Burton did not hear.

Reaching her own sitting-room she gazed uncertainly for half an instant at the tall figure on the divan, who, having poured herself another cup of tea, was now engaged in drinking it. The next she clasped her hands together and with a manner suggesting both nervousness and apology, began.

“Aunt Patricia, please don’t say you have come to argue with me about taking my group of Sunrise Camp Fire girls to work with me in the devastated area of France. It is really too late now to interfere. I was finally able to secure my husband’s permission.”

Miss Patricia Lord carefully set down her tea-cup.

“Come and kiss me, Polly Burton, and tell me you are glad to see me. I don’t like your fashion of greeting an unexpected guest. But there–you look tired out from too much responsibility before it is time to set sail! As a matter of fact, I have not come to try to prevent your going to France. Has anybody ever made you give up anything you had firmly set your heart upon? But, mavourneen, I have come to go with you. Do you suppose for a moment, after receiving yours and Richard’s letters telling me of your plans, that I dreamed of allowing you to undertake such a project as you have in mind alone? Why, you won’t be able to look after yourself properly, to say nothing of more than half a dozen young girls! I am told there are eight hundred and forty thousand homeless people in the devastated districts of France at the present time and I cannot understand why you wish to add to the number. But as you will go, well, I am determined to go with you.”

A moment later, seated close beside the older woman, Mrs. Burton had slipped an arm inside hers and was holding it close.

“Oh, Aunt Patricia, I am so relieved,” she murmured. “I have not confided this fact to any one before, but sometimes I have been so nervous over the prospect of looking after my group of Camp Fire girls in France that I have wanted to run away and hide where no one could ever discover me. Of course I am not afraid of disaster for myself, Richard is in France and then nothing ever happens to me! Besides, no one has a right to think of oneself at present. But to be responsible to so many mothers for the safety of their beloved daughters! I rise up each morning feeling that my hair must have turned white in the night from the very thought. But if you are with me, why, I will not worry! Still I don’t see just how you can arrange to sail with us; perhaps you can manage to cross later, but our passage has been engaged for weeks and – ”

Miss Patricia Lord arose and walked over to the tea table, where she devoted her energy to pouring her hostess a cup of tea.

“You need not trouble about my arrangements, Polly. I secured my ticket on the steamer upon which you are to sail some time ago and also my passport. I sent my trunk directly to the boat. Of course I am taking but few clothes with me, as a matter of fact, I have all I shall require in my suitcase downstairs. But later there will be many things necessary for our housekeeping in France of which you may not have thought.”

CHAPTER II

EXPLANATIONS

“Bettina, who on earth is Miss Patricia Lord? A more formidable lady I never imagined!”

Sitting before a fire in their bedroom, which they had chosen to share so as to be able to talk for as long a time as they wished before retiring, were the two Sunrise Camp Fire girls, Bettina Graham and Vera Lagerloff. Both girls had changed conspicuously in manner and appearance since the summer before when they had been in camp together “Behind the Lines” in southern California. However, there comes a day in every girl’s life when with entire suddenness she seems to understand and accept the revelation of her womanhood.

To Bettina Graham had been given an added social experience. During the past few months, without being formally introduced into society, nevertheless she had been assisting her mother in receiving in their home in Washington. In spite of the fact that there had been but little entertaining on a large scale because of the war, Bettina had gone to occasional dinners and small dances, and on account of her father’s prominence and her mother’s popularity, had shared in the best opportunities. Moreover, Washington had never been so crowded with interesting men and women, and yet scarcely a day passed when Bettina did not whisper to herself that nothing could make her enjoy a conventional society existence. It was only because of the universal absorption in the war at the present time that society had become more endurable. But to continue the life indefinitely demanded an impossible sacrifice.

One afternoon in late fall Bettina and her father, Senator Graham, in an hour of mutual confidence, imparted the information to each other that they regarded themselves as social failures.

“You see, Bettina, my dear, I was not to the manner born in this social game and had no one to teach me until I married your mother,” Senator Graham announced with a certain embarrassment. “Indeed, I never had entered a drawing-room until I was a grown man and then had not the faintest idea how the confounded thing should be done. You don’t think you could have inherited a social awkwardness from me?”

Then, fearing to have wounded his daughter’s feelings Senator Graham added quickly: “I don’t mean that you have not charming manners, little Betty, as charming as any in the world aside from your mother’s. And personally I have not seen a prettier girl in Washington or elsewhere. But if you really are unhappy among strangers and would like to go to France with your old friends to help with the work over there, why, I will try to see how matters can be arranged. I don’t think I would speak of your idea to your mother, not just at present, as there is no point in worrying her.”

In answer Bettina had laughed and promised. Always she was touched by her father’s use of her old childhood name now that she had become nearly as tall as he himself was.

“But, father, don’t think I mind sharing a social disability with you. I am afraid my infirmity goes somewhat deeper,” Bettina answered. “As a matter of fact, I heard one of mother’s friends say the other day that there was no more brilliant or agreeable man in Washington society than Senator Graham, once he could be persuaded to throw aside his social hauteur and condescend to ordinary mortals,” she continued, imitating the visitor’s voice and manner, to the Senator’s deep amusement.

“But of course I won’t annoy mother until I am sure our Camp Fire unit has a real chance of being accepted for the work in France. It is hard upon mother to have had Tony inherit all the family beauty and charm. However, he will make up to her some day for my failures!”

Bettina was doing herself an injustice. In reality she was unusually handsome and as she grew older her tall stateliness increased her distinction. Tonight she looked especially attractive as she sat braiding her long yellow hair into two heavy plaits, with a blue corduroy dressing gown worn over her night-dress.

“Aunt Patricia? It is odd, Vera, you have never heard her name mentioned! Yet I confess my personal acquaintance with Aunt Patricia also began this afternoon, although I have known of her for a long time and my mother is one of her great friends.

“Years ago when Tante was first married Aunt Patricia arrived in this country from Ireland, and as she seemed to be frightfully poor she secured a position at the theatre as wardrobe woman. Right away she adopted Tante and Uncle Richard and they have been devoted to one another ever since. Later on Aunt Patricia’s brother died, leaving her an enormous fortune. Then it developed that she had come to this country from Ireland because he had sent for her and afterwards had refused to live with him or accept a cent of his money because he would not do what she wished, or because for some reason or other she disapproved of him.

“After Aunt Patricia inherited the money she has spent as little as possible for her own needs, but instead gives away large sums in eccentric fashions which appeal to her. Nevertheless I confess I am not happy over the prospect of her going to France to be with us, although Tante seems immensely relieved to have her companionship and our families will be glad to know she will not have to bear so much responsibility alone. It is a good deal of a task to look after seven or eight girls.”

Vera frowned somewhat ruefully.

“But I thought we were going to France to care for other people not to be looked after ourselves. However, if Miss Lord’s behavior this afternoon is a fair criterion I shall certainly become as a little child. For the entire time we were together I don’t think I dared do anything except what she commanded. But isn’t it wonderful that our entire Camp Fire unit is to go to France for the reclamation work? I thought when Mrs. Burton offered me the opportunity last summer that I should go alone.”

Within the past months Vera Lagerloff had also changed, but the transformation was unlike Bettina Graham’s.

After Billy Webster’s death in California Vera had made astonishingly little open protest. But for that reason the effect upon her character had been the deeper.

Since her earliest childhood there had been but little in her life for which she cared intensely, save her friendship with the odd dreaming boy, whose ambitions for his own future had absorbed so much of her time and thought. Until Billy died Vera really had never considered her own future apart from his.

In many ways she was superior to the members of her own family, which in itself makes for a certain spiritual loneliness. Yet her parents were Russians, and Russia is at present offering more contradictions in human nature than any other race of people in the world. However, if her parents were peasants and had but little education, they had possessed sufficient courage to emigrate to the United States at a time when the Czar and autocracy ruled in their own land. Afterwards Vera’s father had become a small farmer on Mr. Webster’s large place, and here Vera and Billy had grown up together.

But at least Vera’s family made no effort to interfere with her. The other children appeared content to follow in the ways of their ancestors, living with and by the land. In a measure they were proud that Vera cared for books and people who could never be their friends. Yet perhaps Vera’s character had been largely influenced by her one singular friendship.

Now it remained to be seen what she could accomplish with her own life uninspired by a dominating affection.

She was an unusual looking girl, and not handsome according to Anglo-Saxon standards. She was tall and ruggedly built, with broad shoulders and hips, indicating strength more than grace. Her heavy dark hair, growing low over her forehead, had a unique quality of vitality. Her nose and mouth were both a little heavy, although her mouth gave promise of future beauty, and she had the fine Slavic eyes with the slight slant.

Vera and Bettina afforded a marked contrast. The one girl, whatever her brilliant father might say of his antecedents, showed only the evidences of high breeding, both its charm and limitations. Yet, thinking more deeply, was not after all Vera’s the older ancestry since the first men and women must have been those who lived nearest to nature?

At this moment, when the one girl finished speaking, leaning over Bettina rested her chin in her slender hand. She had not seen Vera for some time and was now trying to discover in her companion’s face what she knew would never be confided to her, to what extent Vera had recovered from her sorrow over Billy Webster’s death.

But instead of speaking of this, Bettina continued:

“Yes, it is extraordinary that our entire Camp Fire unit is so soon to cross over to France. I only wish the rest of us were as well prepared for the work as you are, Vera. You have been studying cooking and the care of children, besides the first aid and the farm work, which you must have known already? I was able to find time for only a short period of intensive study. Yet fortunately I know a good deal of French. Ever since I was a tiny child I have been speaking French and certainly I am familiar with our Camp Fire training and ideals. I only learned recently that, although there are organizations similar to our Camp Fire in England, China, Japan and Australia, there is none in France. Is it not a wonderful thing that we are to be the pioneers of the Camp Fire movement in France? Don’t you feel that if we can arouse sufficient enthusiasm among the French girls to induce them to form a national organization it will bring American and French girls into closer touch with each other?