"Juliet may have gone for a walk, Tante, I think I saw her a short time ago. I have not forgotten that you said you wished me to have her in mind," Sally remarked. In her speech, or in her manner there was nothing that was unusual, nevertheless both Dan and the Camp Fire guardian were aware of bewilderment.
"Do you mind walking about with me for a few moments and trying to find her? Of course I know you do mind, but will you in any case?" Mrs. Burton pleaded.
"I am a tiresome woman, Dan, to have interrupted your talk with Sally, but I will make it up to you some day. Sally is difficult, but worth the effort. You must promise me that you will say nothing to her and even feel nothing for the next few years, then I will be your warmest ally," Mrs. Burton whispered, walking close beside the tall fellow who towered nearly a foot above her, while Sally moved along the path in front of them, a figure of rose and silver.
Half an hour later the Camp Fire guardian was sitting in her room half reading, half listening to the music and voices in the house and garden beneath her open windows.
She was in her dressing gown and her hair was unbound. The big room was in shadow, save where the light fell about her reading-lamp. One could see the tall ceilings, the high windows, the few pieces of old English furniture, brought to America by the early Virginia settlers.
There was a faint noise of a door being softly pushed open in the adjoining room.
"Juliet, is that you?" Mrs. Burton inquired. "Are you tired of the dance and on your way to bed as I am? I looked for you before I came up and could not find you, I suppose you were somewhere in the grounds."
"Yes, I was. Is there anything I can do for you? Is your bed turned down?" the girl answered.
Mrs. Burton nodded.
"I believe so, but you must be more tired than I am, so please don't trouble about me to-night. You are too considerate of me altogether. There is some business in the morning I should like to have you help me with for an hour or more. My accounts seemed to have become tangled in the most absurd fashion and I should like to have them straightened out before Captain Burton joins us. You are a good mathematician, Juliet, and neither of us are. Now go to bed."
The girl lingered.
"I want to say something first, perhaps this is not the proper occasion, but it does not make much difference. Since I came to live with you, Mrs. Burton, I have tried to make myself useful, but I don't think I have ever spoken of the fact that I have grown to be very fond of you. Oh, I realize this is not an unusual experience so far as you are concerned, most of your friends and family seem to adore you, but it is unusual with me. I never have cared for any one, except my brother. I told you that he and I were orphans and that he was younger. Until he joined the army he gave me a good deal of trouble, but has been better since. I persuaded him to continue as an enlisted man and to try to pass the examinations for an appointment as an officer later."
"A wise idea, Juliet. Is there anything I can do to help you? I am not a very influential person, but would do anything possible."
"No, no, there is nothing," the girl returned hastily; "I am going to bed in a moment."
The older woman continued her reading, a little disturbed by the fact that her companion would not retire and leave her alone. She liked Juliet Temple and was grateful and appreciative, but never had felt for her the spontaneous affection she had for her group of Sunrise Camp Fire girls. This fact did not trouble her, she never had cared equally for all the girls associated with her in the most intimate fashion during the past few years. Human nature makes its inevitable selections. At the moment not wishing to be unsympathetic she was hoping that her companion would make no special demand upon her at this hour of the night when they were both weary. Sentimentality in their relations the Sunrise Camp Fire girls never had indulged in and she never had encouraged.
"Mrs. Burton, I hate to speak of this, but I must. Do you think you can give me a larger salary for the work I am doing for you. I need it a great deal."
A short silence, then Mrs. Burton laid down her book and flushed.
"Juliet, is this what you have been trying to say? I am glad you have been frank, even though I must refuse your request, Please don't think I am not sorry, but you understand Captain Burton's and my circumstances at present almost as well as we do. You know we are trying to pay a debt that we believe we owe. We enjoy having you live with us, you have been the greatest aid and pleasure, but the fact is that you really have been spoiling me, as it is not actually essential that I should have you. I could manage to keep house with dear old Elspeth, who came to New York to be with me from Half Moon Lake, and who could probably look after things as well as you or I. I can even attend to my tiresome letters and business if I must. I have told you several times, dear, that I thought you were being wasted upon me. When I go back to town I can find you a much better position with a good deal larger salary. I can do this at once if you like."
The girl shook her head.
"No, I told you I did not wish this, perhaps it does not matter, I may not need the money after all."
"Don't decide at once, Juliet. Good night. Are you having a happy time here? I wish you liked the Camp Fire girls better. You would be happier with more friends."
"Oh, the girls are agreeable enough, the fault is mine. Mrs. Burton, do you think it possible to be truly fond of any one and yet to do that person an unkindness, a serious unkindness, not a trivial one?"
Mrs. Burton closed her book.
"My dear Juliet, what are you talking about? Of course it is possible, almost anything is possible with human beings, yet it is scarcely the kind of affection one would care to receive. But now really I want to go to sleep, the music has ceased downstairs and I hear voices in farewell. The dance must be over."
CHAPTER XI
THE SAME EVENING
Reluctantly Mary Gilchrist had joined the house party at the "House by the Blue Lagoon".
After her arrival in New York for the first time in her life she had been ill, nothing serious at first, merely a languor and depression which she could not shake off, and then a fever which persisted for some time in spite of every care and devotion.
Never a day passed that she did not say either aloud or to herself that she would have felt scant interest in her own recovery had she not been living with the Camp Fire girls.
After her father's death she was almost entirely alone, with no relatives save distant cousins and separated from the friends of her youth by the years in France. Always she and her father had led a fairly isolated existence on their big thousand-acre wheat farm. Her own love of the outdoors, of boyish amusements and of the work of the estate, together with her father's companionship, had been sufficient.
Shut up in the small New York apartment, ill and grieving, notwithstanding, the affection and attention lavished upon her, for several months Gill had found life difficult.
With the arrival of the cold New York spring she approached a better frame of mind, but still was without desire to join in any gaiety.
Her one expressed wish was to be allowed to remain alone in the apartment while the other girls went for the visit to the "House by the Blue Lagoon".
This they positively refused to consider.
As she had been Sally's especial charge, Sally announced that she did not believe Gill sufficiently strong to make the journey or to be in the society of so many persons, so she had concluded to stay on in New York with her. Sally was not easily dissuaded from a decision, so partly to avoid this sacrifice, partly because she did not wish to be separated from her friends and was interested in Bettina Graham's home, Gill finally agreed to accompany them.
The stipulation was that she was to be allowed to be alone as much as she liked and to take no part in any of the entertainments, unless she felt the inclination. No one would try to persuade her to do anything against her wish.
On this evening of the dance, Gill had been undecided whether or not to leave her own room. At length the desire to see the beautiful old house lighted and filled with spring flowers and the girls in their party dresses brought her down to the drawing room. Here she was introduced to a number of the guests and enjoyed talking to them, but positively refused to dance. And no one insisted beyond the ordinary demands of courtesy, as her black dress offered a sufficient explanation.
Gill was not in deep mourning; her dress was of sheer black muslin, cut low in the neck, with a narrow edging of black net.
She no longer wore her hair bobbed in the old, half boyish fashion, but dressed as simply as possible in a knot at the back of her head.
The small claim she possessed to good looks, Gill believed had vanished altogether and for all times. Her color was gone and her animation and she had depended upon both.
Yet to Allan Drain, who found himself glancing toward her with interest several times during the evening, she possessed an attraction he had not been aware of in their acquaintance at Half Moon Lake. There was a softer and gentler atmosphere about her. Her pallor, in contrast with the red-brown hair and eyes, had its own beauty.
Toward the latter part of the evening, observing that Gill was so white that she appeared ill, Allan crossed the room to the chair where she was sitting alone at the moment.
"Won't you come out of doors with me for a little while, Miss Gilchrist. I believe you will like it better than indoors and I know I shall."
Then, as Gill hesitated.
"Please come, I have not had an opportunity to talk to you alone since our arrival. I want to tell you that I think I was a good deal of a boor in refusing to say I forgave you last winter when you confessed that by accident you had burned up the manuscripts of my poems. After I returned home I discovered copies of a number of them stored away in odd places. I am obliged to confess they seemed so utterly no account that you did me a favor by destroying them before they could be read by any one."
Gill shook her head.
"You are kind, but I don't in the least believe you. I told you then and I still feel that I would rather you would not forgive me. I have no idea of forgiving myself."
"Is it too far, shall we walk down to the lagoon? I have not seen it at night."
Allan picked up a white shawl which some one had left on the veranda.
"No, it is not far, but it is probably cold down there, so put this around you. Isn't this place a marvel? Any one who could not write poetry here, or at least dream it, could nowhere on earth. Do you know the story of the house and the island and the blue lagoon? I have made myself a nuisance trying to find out."
"No, not as much as I should like to hear," Gill answered, placing the shawl about her shoulders in an obedient fashion.
"Originally the island was given by a special grant from the British king to an Irishman named Bryan O'Bannon, who had fought gallantly in his service during one of the innumerable wars. He appears to have been unlike most Irishmen and a man of wealth, or else he married wealth, because his wife was one of the sisters of the great Lord Fairfax of Virginia.
"They built this place and lived here like royalty, with hundreds of colored servants I suppose. There is no special story of a tragedy until the civil war. Then one day a boatload of northern soldiers landed on the island and took possession. None of the men of the family were at home. It chanced, however, that a young Confederate officer was on leave of absence visiting the girl to whom he was engaged. When the northerners surrounded the house, she hid him in one of the secret passages. The story goes that she was insulted by one of the enemy and drowned herself in the blue lagoon. The young officer, waiting her return and not knowing how to escape, starved to death."
Gill shivered.
"Good gracious, what a tale on a night like this! No matter how beautiful a place is, nor how shut off from the world, it seems never able to escape sorrow."
Allan Drain looked more closely at his companion, whose expression was scarcely discernible in the flickering lights made by the Chinese lanterns, swinging like censers between the trees that led to the blue lagoon. The winter before she would not have been capable of a speech like this!
"I am sorry, perhaps I should not have told you so unhappy a story. I should have remembered that you have been ill and in trouble. I have not had an opportunity before to express my sympathy. I have been through such a lot of bad health myself, at least I appreciate what it means."
"You are all right now, or a great deal stronger? Certainly you look so. You are kind to be so good to me. I was so stupid and disagreeable when you were ill and lonely during the winter in the Adirondacks. I seem to be one of the persons who has to learn through experience. Until recently I have always been so well and I am afraid spoiled. I hope I shall never be so impossible again. Tell me do you feel more interested in your medical studies, or is writing still your one ambition?"
"I am ashamed to say that it is, ashamed because I seem to have so little talent to justify all the time and thought I give to it, when I should be hard at work trying to learn my profession. I often fear I am one of the people who shall fall between the two, a failure in both. I did not intend to be so dismal, but I have had a pretty severe disappointment of late."
"I am sorry, would you rather tell me of it, or not?"
By this time they had reached the edge of the lagoon and stood looking down at the water, so deep a blue it was nearly black under the night sky with the stars reflected in its surface.
There were few waves and only a light breeze; a small row-boat tied to a stake lapped gently to and fro.
"Would you like to go for a row? I am not a skillful oarsman, but I can manage. We need not be out long."
Gill hesitated.
"I would like it very much, but we must be sure to return before the dance is over. I won't be able to help with the rowing, I have never attempted it in my life. You know I am an inland person and never have spent any time near the sea until now. I never saw the ocean until we crossed to France."
With the boat untied, Allan helped his companion in and Gill sat down facing him.
Neither of them spoke until they were a few yards from the shore and moving toward the opening into the bay.
"Yes, I would like to tell you of my disappointment. I have not wished to speak of it to any one else, why you will understand when I explain the circumstances.
"Last winter in New York Mrs. Graham suggested that, when I came to make her a visit in the spring at the 'House by the Blue Lagoon', I might bring with me the manuscript of the play, which I have been at work upon for a year and that she would persuade Mrs. Burton to allow me to read it to her. Of course with this possibility I have worked doubly hard until there have been moments, not many I confess, when my play has not seemed altogether bad. I have had Mrs. Burton in mind as I wrote; I could not help this, she is the only great actress I have ever known personally and in some ways the greatest I have ever seen act. I don't believe I have been mad enough to dream that she would like my play well enough to appear in it, but I hoped that she might say a few words of encouragement, perhaps give me a letter of introduction to a manager who would read my play if she made the request."
"Well, what has happened?" Gill demanded, leaning forward with her lips slightly parted, her eyes large and interested fixed upon her companion's face.
"Only that Mrs. Burton declines to be annoyed. Mrs. Graham did not offer exactly this explanation, but what she said amounted to the same thing. Please don't think I am blaming Mrs. Burton, I understand her position. She sent word to me that she was very tired after a winter of hard work and that for the present wished to forget the stage altogether. She begged me to appreciate that she was not a producer of plays and that her opinion of what I have written would be of small value. In case she did not like my work she might disappoint me, when a manager might be delighted with what I have accomplished."
"Yes, that is true," Gill returned, "so why feel especially disappointed? I am sure Mrs. Burton will give you a letter to a manager, even if she prefers not to read your play."
With the peculiar despondency which is an attribute of the artistic temperament, Allan Drain shook his head.
"No, if Mrs. Burton is not interested, I do not care to interest any one else. With every line I have written I have thought and dreamed of her as my heroine. I don't want any one else to play it, at least this is the way I feel at present."
In several moments Gill did not speak, while Allan Drain pulled hard at his oars, wishing to conquer his discouragement through strenuous physical exercise.
He was surprised when his boat so soon shot out of the lagoon into the broader waters of the bay. The waves were not high and he rowed quietly and steadfastly, keeping close, as he believed to the shores of the small island.
Still Gill dreamed on, feeling wonderfully peaceful and happier than in many months. She never had forgiven herself for her carelessness in throwing the manuscript of Allan Drain's verses into the fire in their winter cabin at Half Moon Lake. Now it was a consolation to discover that Allan Drain really had forgiven her; there was no pretence in his words and friendliness to-night. If only she had possessed sufficient influence with their Camp Fire guardian to persuade her to do what he so greatly wished! After all it was not so tremendous a favor, in Gill's estimation. However, if Mrs. Burton had refused the request made by her hostess and most dearly loved friend, no one else would avail.
"I am so sorry, I do wish I could be of service," Gill murmured, speaking as much to herself as to her companion. "Don't you think perhaps we had better start home? I don't wish to, I did not realize that I was so tired watching the dancing and being in the midst of so many people until you brought me out into this beauty and quiet."
"Yes, well I'll go on only a few moments longer and then turn around. Once we are inside the lagoon we can reach our landing in a quarter of an hour."
When he spoke Allan was not aware that the wind was growing stronger and that the tide was turning and running out toward the sea. Neither did he realize the length of time he and Gill had been on the water, nor the distance they had gone, so swiftly and smoothly his oars worked, as the beat moved in unison with the tide.
Ten minutes after their brief conversation, in attempting to swing around, Allan discovered that he had a task ahead of him. To his surprise and consternation he also found that already he was fatigued. He had been out on the water only once since his arrival at the island and then in company with David Hale who was an excellent oarsman. It had not occurred to him that as he had rowed only two or three times in several years he was not in training.
Fortunately his companion was not aware of his difficulty and was remaining blessedly silent, so that he could give his entire attention to his rowing.
Allan strained and pulled, realizing that the wind was blowing him out of his course.
A half hour he kept on without faltering, always with the intention of reaching the shores of the island and skirting it until he could discover the lagoon. And always his companion continued silent.
When he had time to think, Allan concluded that she had fallen asleep and was grateful.
If he could not get in to shore he was managing not be driven far out of the course.
At midnight the small steamboat would call at the island to take the guests back to the mainland, who were not to spend the night, and with luck he might be able to signal them.
"Don't you think you had better rest for a few moments, Mr. Drain?" A quiet voice suggested. "Please don't be worried, I am not uneasy. At the worst, if we cannot reach the lagoon and no boat comes to our rescue, we shall only drift about until the tide turns. When daylight arrives we shall have no difficulty. I hate your wearing yourself out and wish I could help."
Gill laughed, a more courageous, gayer laugh than he had heard from her since their earlier acquaintance.
"Why, you did not think I was asleep? I am not so stupid as all that! I did not wish to trouble you by talking."
Compelled to follow Gill's advice, resting his oars, Allan allowed their boat to move with the tide. Another half hour went by; at length both of them appreciated that it must be well past midnight and there was little chance of rescue by their friends. The small steamboat crossed directly from the island to the mainland and made no circuit of the bay.
Without comment Allan picked up his oars again.
"I think I can manage to reach the island, even if we do not discover the lagoon before dawn. I have walked around the island several times and there are a number of places where one can land. We will be more comfortable than in this cramped little boat and warmer. Besides we are in some danger with the waves growing higher and stronger and the night darker. I am not going to attempt to disguise the fact from you, you are as courageous as I am, in truth you are more courageous as I remember you. If you wish to have the score settled with me in regard to the accidental burning of my manuscript, I have accomplished it with a vengeance to-night by bringing you out on the water and getting you into this difficulty. I only hope you may not be ill again as a result of my stupidity. But I must not talk, I have no breath to spare. Once we are safe and ashore I'll offer my apology."
"Don't worry about me. If it were not that the others may be troubled, and I trust Mrs. Graham and Mrs. Burton went to their rooms before anyone missed us, and if you were not wearing yourself out, do you know I could enjoy this experience. I am not in the slightest degree frightened, I suppose I am a kind of an adventurer."
A quarter of an hour after, Allan and Gill beheld a darker line of land and rowing closer their boat grounded in the sand amid shallow water.
"I'll carry you ashore, it will be simpler than trying to get in by any other method. Then I'll wade out and drag the boat after us."
"I can wade, please don't, I am far too heavy," Gill protested, remembering the character of illness from which Allan Drain had suffered at the time of their first meeting.
As he lifted her from her place and her arms closed about his throat, there was no sign of weakness in her companion.
Five minutes later she was seated on the dry sand, able to see the tall figure struggling in the darkness and drawing the heavy boat ashore.
"You should have allowed me to help, it was not fair," Gill argued almost angrily, as, panting for breath, he dropped down at her side with the boat only a few feet away.