The Camp Fire Girls on the Field of Honor

“Have you your husband’s permission for this trip, Polly? I presume you have written Richard Burton of your new French friend?” Aunt Patricia demanded as a last forlorn hope.

In reply Mrs. Burton smiled and nodded.

“Yes, I have done both of those things. I wrote Richard about Monsieur Duval soon after our meeting on shipboard. But of course I have had no reply to my letter with regard to my trip south with Mrs. Bishop and Monsieur Duval, for there is not time for me to hear before we leave.”

“And nothing will change your decision, Polly?”

Mrs. Burton had slid down on to the floor from the high old bed and now stood before Miss Patricia, hesitating for the fraction of a second.

“I do wish you would not put the question in such a way, Aunt Patricia. You make me think of what Sally Ashton said to you, as if I too were a disobedient child, and I am more than twice Sally’s age. Of course I do not wish to do anything you oppose, but the trip to southern France and the work I hope to be able to accomplish will be a great opportunity and a great experience. I hope you will make up your mind to feel as I do before we start the day after tomorrow.”

Before Aunt Patricia could reply, Mrs. Burton made a hasty and carefully designed retreat. Being fully cognizant that there was no possibility of Miss Patricia’s relenting, she wished to pretend to believe she might change her mind and at the same time to announce the proposed time for her own departure.

Fortunately for Mrs. Burton’s courage and decision, her plan met with no especial opposition from any other member of the Camp Fire group.

The girls regretted her leaving, and Sally Ashton more than the others; nevertheless it appealed to them as it had to Mrs. Burton, as a wonderful chance for service and at the same time a thrilling adventure.

Two days later, even at the moment when the automobile appeared at the door to bear off Mrs. Burton and her two companions, Miss Patricia’s attitude remained unchanged.

Mrs. Burton devoted the last five minutes before her departure to begging Aunt Patricia to bestow her final consent and parting blessing. Aunt Patricia steadfastly refused.

She also declined to see the automobile leave the farm. Instead, during the final farewells, turning her back upon the assembly, she marched up alone to her own room. Once inside, it is true she wiped away several tears, but immediately after set herself to writing a letter to Captain Richard Burton. And Captain Burton and Miss Patricia only were to know what the letter contained! Fortunately Captain Burton understood Miss Patricia and her devotion to his wife. Moreover, the extent of her devotion was to be proven later.

The following day, perhaps because of Miss Patricia’s prediction that nothing in life runs on continuously in the same groove, an unexpected telegram was brought out to the French farm house for Peggy Webster.

In the telegram Lieutenant Ralph Marshall of the United States Aviation Service in France stated that, having been slightly injured by a fall, he had secured a few day’s leave of absence. Would he be permitted to spend his leave with Mrs. Burton and the Camp Fire girls at their farm house on the Aisne?

To Peggy Webster there appeared to be but one possible answer to this amazing piece of good fortune, and fortunately she was able to persuade Aunt Patricia to the same point of view. Miss Patricia did not approve of young men, but she did approve of Peggy and understood the situation in regard to Ralph.

Therefore the return telegram read: “Yes.”

Except for brief intervals, Peggy and Ralph had seen but little of each other since their summer together in Arizona, a summer which had been fateful for them both. It had not occurred to Peggy that either she or Ralph would ever change their minds with regard to their future marriage, in spite of the fact that she was but eighteen years old and Ralph not much older. There remained only the question of persuading their two families to share their view.

In the last two years Ralph had been redeeming his former idleness. Having volunteered for aviation work before the entry of the United States into the world war, he had been able to secure a commission and already had been in France a number of months.

CHAPTER XIV

A WARNING

It was the morning after the departure of Mrs. Burton and her guests and three days before the arrival of Ralph. Marshall for his visit at the farm house on the Aisne.

Having completed her work downstairs, Sally Ashton had hurried up to her bedroom where at present she was making little nervous preparations as if intending to go outdoors and anxious not to be observed.

There was no reason why she should feel alarmed. So far as she knew, every member of her household was occupied with the day’s work. From the schoolroom below she could hear the voices of the children singing a little French chanson, and now and then one of the older girls either asking a question or reciting. Alice Ashton and Bettina Graham, Marta Clark and Yvonne Fleury were engaged with their pupils.

An hour before Peggy and Vera had driven off in the motor with Mary Gilchrist, since Mary had promised to transport a number of wounded soldiers from a train to a nearby convalescent hospital, and was uncertain whether she would find anyone at the railroad station to help. Therefore she had asked the two girls to accompany her. Peggy also desired to mail a letter to Ralph Marshall which might reach him before he started upon his journey.

Always Aunt Patricia was occupied outdoors from breakfast until lunch time. So in spite of the fact that Sally Ashton showed a degree of suppressed excitement both in her manner and appearance, there would seem to have been no apparent excuse. A certain timorousness once wholly unlike her, lately had appeared in Sally’s attitude.

She also had grown thinner and her big golden brown eyes had lost their sleepy expression and acquired an anxious appeal. The lines about her full, rather pouting lips were strained and apprehensive.

Having at the moment pulled a small traveling bag down from a shelf overhead and allowed it to fall on the floor, Sally did not hear the swift opening and closing of her bedroom door. Therefore, when she had secured her bag and was straightening up, she gave an exclamation of surprise on discovering her sister standing within a few feet of her.

Except that she was handsomer, Alice looked very like her mother, the Esther of the first Camp Fire days, yet she and Sally bore no possible resemblance to each other either in disposition or appearance.

Alice was tall and slender, with a grave, severe air. She wore her dark red hair parted and bound about the back of her head in a heavy braid. She was a little angular. There was a suggestion that unless life dealt generously with her, granting her the gifts which make for tenderness and softness in a woman’s nature, she might in time have the appearance one is supposed to associate with an old maid. However, old maids are as unlike as the rest of the human species.

Certainly at the present moment her expression was austere, although uneasy and distressed as well.

“What are you doing, Sally?” she inquired, her voice gentle and solicitous, yet observing that a wave of color had swept over Sally’s face even before she had spoken.

The next moment Sally flung her bag down on the floor again, answering petulantly:

“What am I doing? Well, really, Alice, I do not see what difference it makes to you, or why you should slip into our room so quietly that you frightened me. As a matter of fact, I got down my traveling bag to–to – ” Sally’s voice trailed off helplessly for an instant. The next instant, gathering force, she repeated: “I pulled down my bag because I wished to store away some odds and ends which I wish to keep safely.”

Then losing her temper in a most suspicious fashion, suddenly Sally stamped her foot as if she were an angry child and at the same time her eyes grew unexpectedly dark and lovely.

“That is not what you came into this room to announce to me, Alice. So please say whatever it is you wish and be through. I am going out for a little walk before lunch.” In any event Sally was no coward!

“Then sit down. You do not look very well and I am afraid you won’t like what I must say,” Alice returned. “Understand, it gives me no pleasure; instead, I am tremendously worried and unhappy. I suppose I should have talked the situation over with Tante before she went away, but I knew it would interfere with her trip and so avoided troubling her.”

In answer to her sister’s suggestion Sally seated herself upon a tall, old-fashioned wooden chair, so that only her toes were able to reach the ground. All at once she had felt as if she would be more comfortable seated. It was not because of Alice’s suggestion that she had agreed, but because of a sudden sensation of weariness, almost of physical weakness, although this last idea seemed absurd.

Yet somehow Sally appeared so like a tired and rebellious child that her sister found it difficult to continue their conversation. However, she must introduce the accusation she had been schooling herself to make before entering the room.

“Is there anything you would like to talk to me about, Sally? Outside our daily life and work here at the farm is there anything which has been interesting you recently and which you have preferred not to mention to anybody?” Alice inquired gently, her voice shaken by her effort to hide her concern, while a fine line appeared between her level brows.

Pretending to be bored rather than affected in any other fashion by her sister’s speech, first Sally shrugged her shoulders. Then making a pretence of yawning, she placed her fingers lightly over her lips.

“Really, Alice, what on earth is troubling you in connection with me? Have you had me on your conscience more than usual recently? Can’t you ever get over your unattractive habit of treating me as if I were a refractory pupil and you an offended schoolmarm? In spite of being born in New England, there is no reason to affect this pose, as it is unnecessary and I think most unbecoming.”

Sally’s manner was a little too self-assured, but otherwise she appeared as enigmatic as an accomplished actress. Gazing at her earnestly, there was nothing in her expression at present to suggest any emotion save a natural annoyance at being catechized.

But Alice was not deceived.

“Please don’t assume such an air of offended virtue, Sally. You are far too fond of employing it when anyone reproaches you,” Alice continued, but really too sincerely disturbed to feel angered by her sister’s behavior. “Evidently you do not wish to confide in me, so I suppose there is no use wasting either your time or mine. For the past two weeks–I don’t know the exact length of time, although you are aware of it, Sally–you have been disappearing from the farm almost every day. At first I did not notice. You seem to have been careful that neither Aunt Patricia, nor Tante, nor I should know. And you have been clever. But you could not escape everybody’s observation and the other Camp Fire girls have seen you and been puzzled and at last worried to guess what you could be doing. You need not ask who the girls were; I shall not tell you. But finally several of them felt compelled to speak to me and to suggest that I ask your confidence. Oh, don’t pretend you think you have been spied upon and badly treated. You know, Sally, that unless the girls cared for you they would not have troubled? But we have lived almost as one family and our interests are bound together. Do tell me what you have been doing, dear? What has taken you away from home so many times alone? I have been watching you myself recently. When I came into our room only a few minutes ago you were preparing to slip away.”

Sally was biting her lips and had lost her childish look.

“This is not a criminal court, Alice; neither are you the public prosecutor. As a matter of fact, I refuse to answer your questions or to gratify either your curiosity or the curiosity of the Camp Fire girls. What I have been doing has harmed no one; at least I do not think it has, and I have not always been alone. Old Jean has been with me much of the time and has helped in every way. But by the time Tante returns I think I shall be free to tell her everything. Can’t you trust me until then?”

Sally’s voice and manner had suddenly changed from bravado to pleading, but Alice was too angry and too frightened to be influenced. Moreover, she was suffering from a frequent elderly sister attitude. She felt herself called upon not only to examine Sally in regard to her proceedings but to condemn her without any real evidence.

“Very well, Sally, unless you decide to confide in me immediately I shall be obliged to speak to Aunt Patricia.”

At the conclusion of this speech Alice beheld in her sister’s face the expression of sheer unrelenting obstinacy in which Sally was an adept. It was a contradiction to her pretty softness, her indolent manner and even to the elusive dimple which recently had vanished.

“I also warn you, Sally, that I intend to watch you and find out your proceedings for myself. In truth, I am frightened about you. If only Tante were here she could influence you, but Aunt Patricia will only become bitterly angry. I confess I don’t know what she will say or do when she learns that I have no choice but to tell her.”

If Alice Ashton had one characteristic which predominated over all others, it was a fine sense of honor, a high ideal of personal integrity.

As a matter of fact, she had never demanded the same standards from Sally she had asked of herself. It was a family custom to regard her younger sister as a person chiefly to be gratified and adored. Yet it had never occurred to Alice that Sally could fail in any essential thing such as straightforwardness and sincerity.

“I don’t like to speak to you, Sally, or even to suggest the idea, but I am afraid a few of the girls may be criticizing what you are doing in a fashion you can scarcely imagine. They do not speak before me, but I can hardly fail to guess what they are thinking from their manner. Sally, can’t you realize that we are in a foreign country where the language, the customs, the ideas are not like ours? Even if what you are doing might not be considered wrong at home, can’t you see that here in France you may be misunderstood? Please confide in me dear. You promised – ”

But Sally’s soft shoulders stiffened in resistance.

“Evidently you do not trust me yourself, Alice, and naturally your opinion is more important to me than anyone’s else. Yet when one has lived with the same people a long time one does expect a certain amount of faith and understanding. I am sorry, for I cannot tell you what you wish to know at present. I may be able to in a very few days, if you will be good enough to wait and not speak to Aunt Patricia. It is hardly worth while to make a difficulty between us! Personally I am glad Tante is away; at least, I am glad she is away today, since it would have been more difficult to refuse my confidence to her than to any one else. But I shall regret it if I am able to make my confession before her return. She at least would have tried to believe I have not intended to do anything wrong. Now please leave me alone, Alice. You were right, I am going out on an important errand. You need not worry over my going alone this time, because old Jean has promised to go with me as soon as he is free and I shall wait for him.”

Then, although Alice lingered for several moments longer, when Sally would neither speak to her, nor look at her, she slowly left the room.

Afterwards when Alice had disappeared Sally’s pretence of courage vanished and she sat with her hands clasped tightly together while the tears ran down her face.

All very well to pretend to Alice that she was convinced she had been doing no wrong. But was this true? In the end would she not have to pay dearly in the continuing condemnation and distrust of her friends? When her confession was finally made, would they even then understand and forgive her?

CHAPTER XV

THE DISCOVERY

A little more than an hour later Sally and Jean started forth upon their mysterious pilgrimage.

To have been spared the ordeal of this morning’s visit to the French château Sally would have given a great deal. On other occasions she had been nervous and fearful, but never to the extent to which the recent conversation with her sister had reduced her.

More than once within the hour of waiting before she and Jean could slip away, Sally concluded to abandon her plan and never go near the château again, regardless of results. Then she remembered that she had given her word and that upon this visit many things were to be explained and arranged. Having endured so much of struggle, strain and suspicion, one must not fail in the end. And in spite of Sally’s apparent indolence and softness, failure had no part in her mental make-up.

Yet in being compelled to spend an hour of watching before daring to make her escape there was a sense of humiliation, almost of degradation. Nevertheless, what else could she do except wait until Alice was again absorbed in her teaching and until there was no one about the farm house or in the yard who would pay any especial attention to her actions?

Sally’s final misfortune was in encountering Yvonne as she passed through the hall downstairs.

It may have been her imagination, due to her conversation with her sister. Sally felt almost convinced that Yvonne shrank away from her as she passed, almost as if she were drawing her skirts aside. In return Sally suffered a wave of indignation and the conviction that she would never be able to forgive Yvonne. She even had an impulse some day to avenge the other girl’s injustice.

She and Jean did not immediately move off in the direction of the château. She and old Jean took an entirely opposite direction, until in a field about half a mile away, altering their course, they walked rapidly toward the château. Sally never ceased to gaze behind them every few moments, fearing they might be followed.

Small wonder that with the unaccustomed walks and the burden of a serious responsibility Sally Ashton had altered in the past few weeks!

Indeed, her only solace had been the loyal faith and allegiance which the old French peasant, Jean, had given to her cause and to her.

From the first day, when in halting and broken French she had begged him to accompany her to the château to assist in the care of a wounded soldier, he had not asked a question or refused his services.

When it was impossible for him to escape Miss Patricia’s vigilance at the hour Sally asked, she always found that he had managed to make the trip sometime later, during the day or night, and accomplished what was necessary. What he may have thought of the situation, what questions he may have asked himself behind the inscrutability of his weather-beaten countenance with its misty, coal-black eyes, Sally never inquired. There were enough problems to meet without this. The important fact was that Jean never failed her and that he made an otherwise impossible task possible.

After discovering the serious illness of the wounded soldier in hiding, Sally Ashton had continued the amazing task of caring for him at the château.

She did not come to this decision immediately; indeed, it had grown so slowly that at times it did not appear as a decision at all. Nor did Sally attempt to justify herself. She felt compelled to take a courageous attitude with her sister, but she never had been convinced of her own patriotism or good sense. Even up to the present time she was not sure of the nationality of her patient, although it had been a relief that during his delirium he had spoken occasionally in French.

The truth is that as the days passed on and Sally’s responsibility increased her attitude toward the soldier changed. At first she had been annoyed, bored with the entire adventure and with the circumstances resulting from it. But as the young man’s illness became more alarming and Sally’s anxiety increased, a new characteristic awoke in her. Sally Ashton belonged to the type of girl who is essentially maternal. She would be one of the large group of women who love, marry and bring up a family and are nearly always adored by their husbands, but feel no passionate affection until the coming of their children.

So unconsciously the wounded soldier’s dependence upon her for food and attention, for life itself, aroused Sally’s motherly instinct, although she did not dream of the fact and would have been angry at the suggestion.

One convincing proof. In the beginning she had been both physically and mentally repelled by the soiled and blood-stained soldier and by his confused confession. She had not surrendered him to justice because she did not feel called upon to appear as the arbiter of any human being’s fate and because she had not the dramatic instinct of most girls. But Sally had presumed the soldier would be arrested later and was not particularly concerned with his future one way or the other.

Now her point of view had completely altered. At first her idea was merely that the soldier should recover with no other nursing save that which she and old Jean could bestow upon him. But now that he was recovering, she was equally determined he should be saved from whatever enemy he had feared before being delivered into her hands.

Before parting on the previous afternoon Sally had agreed with her patient that they discuss his situation on her next visit to the château.

As the old man and girl crept cautiously inside the opening between the arch of walls, they could see their soldier lying asleep upon his mattress, but between clean sheets and covered with blankets which Sally had managed to secure from the supply at the farm.

The half-dismantled room was cold but fragrant with the odors of the woods and fields. Perhaps the fresh air which had at all times flooded the odd sick-room had been in a measure responsible for the ill man’s recovery, having taken the place of other comforts he had been obliged to forego.

He opened his eyes at the approach of his two friends and looked a little wistfully at Sally.

“You have come at last! I was afraid you would not be able to manage. How kind you have been!”

Sally made no reply except to offer him a glass of milk and to stand silently by until he had finished drinking it.

She looked very sweet. Today her walk and the excitement of her morning had tired her so that she was paler than usual; yet her lips were full and crimson and her brown hair had a charming fashion of curling in little brown rings on her forehead as if she were a tiny child.

The soldier no longer wore any look of mental confusion except that his expression was puzzled and questioning.

“You are much better. I am glad,” Sally said at last. “You see I do not know how often I can come to the château after today, unless you should become very ill again and then I would come in any case.”

Sally’s direct fashion of speaking had its value amid the complexities of human relations.

Old Jean had disappeared to bring fresh water and to accomplish other tasks so that Sally and the soldier were alone for a little time.

As a matter of fact, Jean’s had been the really difficult nursing. Night after night when the soldier’s condition had been most critical Jean had made no pretence of going to bed, but had hobbled over at bedtime to remain until dawn by the ill man’s side.

“Perhaps you will sit down for a little so that I can ask you a great many questions,” the soldier suggested. “Now that I am getting back my senses, you can scarcely imagine what a mystery my present situation is.”

Nodding agreement, Sally drew a beautiful French chair across the strange drawing-room and seated herself within a few feet of her patient’s bed. It was odd that she had never felt any fear of the old walls tumbling down upon her from the hour she had begun her nursing, although before that time she had believed nothing could force her to trust herself inside the ruins.

“I would like to ask you to begin at the beginning. In what condition and how long ago did you find me here? If I could only guess the time! But I am under the impression I have not been myself for several weeks until these last few days. Yet I have a vague recollection of finding my way to this old house and of seeing you standing one day framed in that open arch. After that I have no memory of anything else until I became conscious of your face and of old Jean’s bending over me and then of this extraordinary place. If I have been ill, why have I not been cared for in a hospital?