“A Man for a’ That.”

Several days later Mary Gilchrist was again in the living-room in the early afternoon, but on this occasion she was alone.

At the piano in the corner of the room she was practising a number of new Camp Fire songs. During their shut-in winter in the mountains, music promised to be one of the principal relaxations, and, although not so good a pianist as Bettina Graham, Gill felt it her duty to regain a little of her lost skill, due to the failure to work at her music during the years spent abroad.

At present she was attempting a more ambitious effort, trying to capture and repeat the odd, musical notes that poured forth so spontaneously from the youngest of the Camp Fire girls. Meeting with scant success, she was so intent upon her effort that she was not aroused until the living room door opened and an unexpected guest entered.
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As he did not glance in her direction, at the same instant Mary Gilchrist slipped from the piano stool and at once concealed herself behind a tall fire screen that had been placed near the wall. Her action was involuntary, since she scarcely had time for thought; nevertheless, once in her place of hiding, deliberately Gill made up her mind to remain where she was until she might escape without detection.

The visitor who had come into the living-room was Allan Drain.

They had not seen each other since their original meeting and Gill wished for no other. Not liking her present position, yet it appeared impossible to make her escape without being discovered and so obliged to speak with him alone.

Between a tiny opening in the screen she could behold a tall figure moving up and down before the fire, and afterwards quietly gazing into its depths. He looked older than she recalled and yet Gill felt that she disliked his appearance. The thin figure seemed theatrical and self-conscious and in a way effeminate, but then the type of youth she admired had great physical strength and courage, and Gill was convinced that the present unconscious actor was possessed of neither.
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She was aroused from her reflections by a second opening of the door and the appearance of Mrs. Graham in the same room.

Dressed in a simple, dark blue serge, nevertheless she gave an effect of social elegance and grace. A remarkably pretty girl as Betty Ashton, as Mrs. Anthony Graham, the wife of a distinguished United States senator, her beauty and poise had increased with added years and opportunities.

Her abundant auburn hair had the lovely sheen which comes from careful attention, there were a few lines about her eyes, but except for these her skin was firm and clear with a bright rose color in her cheeks, her nose short and straight, her lips full and deeply curved.

Not able to catch her expression as she moved swiftly across the room and held out her hand to their guest, Gill was able to hear her first words and to wish that she had faced the situation in the beginning rather than place herself in her present position. No one in their household would be more vexed than Mrs. Graham to discover her in hiding.
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Brought up by her father on their large wheat farm in the middle west, Mary Gilchrist had lived an outdoor life, and without a mother had been taught few of the social amenities. During the years abroad, her strength and endurance, her skill as a motorist, her somewhat boyish abilities had proved so useful that it had not occurred to Mary Gilchrist until her return to the United States that she was without the social knowledge and education that girls of her age and position should possess. Before her visit home, during the few weeks in New York City, she had been conscious of her own awkwardness, particularly appreciating the difference between her own manners and Bettina Graham’s. For this reason, as well as others, she was pleased over the Camp Fire’s choice of the Adirondack forest for their winter home. In a wide, free, outdoor atmosphere she would be once more at ease and undisturbed by her want of social knowledge.
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Then, unexpectedly, Bettina’s mother, Mrs. Graham, had chosen to spend the winter with them and from the first moment of their introduction Gill had been able to understand why Bettina Graham had acquired a poise and graciousness no one of the other Sunrise Camp Fire girls possessed.

Moreover, what Bettina had in slight measure her mother possessed in fuller degree. Indeed, not alone to Mary Gilchrist’s untrained judgment, but among persons with the widest social acquaintance, Betty Graham was famous for her charm of manner and her gift for attracting men and women.

“I wrote to ask you to come to see me to-day for a special reason, Mr. Drain. But because I am sorrier than I can say I am going to explain to you at once and have the ordeal past. I shall not ask you to forgive me, only to appreciate my regret. Suppose we both sit down.”

Instinctively disliking Allan Drain, yet Mary Gilchrist realized that he also had a gracious and cultivated manner when he chose to employ it, as he did with Mrs. Graham. From her vantage point, Gill watched him draw a chair closer to the fire and wait until Mrs. Graham was seated, before seating himself near her.
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“I cannot imagine why you should be asking my pardon for a mistake or a fault, but of course you know that I freely forgive you. The apology should come from me. I appreciated later that I ought not to have thrust my poor verses upon you to bore you and absorb your time when I knew you so slightly. The truth is I am lonely this winter and my scribbling means more to me than it warrants. My family are not in sympathy with my versifying or any of my views of life. There are no women among us, there is only my father, two older brothers and myself. They have worked very hard and are not prosperous and feel I ought to be grateful to my uncle for offering me the education they were not able to have.”
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“Then it is all the more difficult for me to tell you, Mr. Drain, that the manuscripts of your poems which you entrusted to me have by some extraordinary chance vanished. I did not wish to tell you of this and so for days I have made inquiries and every member of our household has searched for the verses. Now I cannot conceive of what actually has become of them, and yet I am afraid I am beginning to lose hope of their being discovered. It is all the more mysterious because we have no maids, no one who could have thrown the papers away from sheer carelessness and then be unwilling to confess. Nevertheless, I do feel so guilty and responsible, for if I had locked the manuscript away instead of placing it on a small table in my bed-room along with some books and papers, this probably would not have occurred.”

Mrs. Graham leaned over and laid her hand lightly upon her companion’s.

“Do reproach me, please do not look so white and wretched. I know the loss of your verses means many days of your time. But if you will give me the privilege, in order to show you have in a measure forgiven me, I shall send for some one to come to you and do the typewriting for you a second time, or if you will permit Bettina to copy the poems, I am sure she will do her best.”
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“But, Mrs. Graham, I have no other copies of my poems, except three or four which I have had the good luck to have published in second-class magazines. Two days before I brought my manuscript to you I got them all into shape and burned up and threw away the odd bits of paper upon which they had been written. The afternoon I met your daughter and her friends in the woods I had gone for a walk to celebrate the fact that my task was accomplished. As I was thinking more of my verses than the landmarks, I lost my way. But please, please don’t be so unhappy on my account. The fault was mine, not yours. I should not have troubled you. You’ll allow me to say good-by and come to see you another day. No use pretending, Mrs. Graham, that I am not a good deal cut up and that I don’t feel that fate has been pretty hard. You are sure that you have looked everywhere and that the manuscript has not merely been misplaced.”

“I’m afraid not. But really I don’t feel that I can accept the idea that your verses are lost forever. Surely you must recall some of them, or will find stray copies here and there!” There were tears in Mrs. Graham’s voice as well as in her eyes.
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“Don’t stay any longer than you wish, if it only makes things harder for you. One would rather, I know, face disappointment alone. And don’t try to fight your resentment, I shall feel better the angrier you are with me.”

Allan Drain and Mrs. Graham arose at the same time, and Mary Gilchrist, scarcely realizing what she was doing, half followed their example, so that she was enabled to see the two figures over the top of her screen.

Mrs. Graham’s back was turned to her, but she could catch a glimpse of her companion’s face. He was painfully white, yet his lips were firmly closed and his expression showed less of the self pity than she anticipated.

“You are very brave, braver than I could possibly be in your place,” Mrs. Graham murmured. “If there was only something I could do, some possible way to make up to you I should not feel so unhappy. Yet for the loss of creative work there is no recompense.”
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“Oh, but my work was not so valuable as all that, Mrs. Graham, you are mistaken. Most of my poetry was the veriest trash. Editors and friends were of the same opinion. Good-by, I will come in again in a day or so, if you will allow me.”

The following instant the young man was gone.

Startled and troubled by his swift departure, making an unexpected movement behind her screen, Gill beheld the screen pitch forward and stood facing Mrs. Graham, who had swung around at the unexpected sound.

“You have been in hiding and listening to what Mr. Drain and I were saying to each other, one of the Sunrise Camp Fire girls! I am afraid I do not understand. There was nothing in our conversation you might not have heard openly, had you cared to join us.”

There was more surprise than reproach in Mrs. Graham’s manner and voice.

Blushing hotly, Mary Gilchrist felt unable to offer a defense. What defense had she to offer?
 

“I had no thought of listening, not at first, Mrs. Graham. In order not to be seen I hid myself for a moment and then when you came into the room I did not wish to interrupt you.”

Even to her own ears Gill did not feel that her explanation really explained. Therefore she could scarcely resent the slight look of disdain on her companion’s face, as she answered:

“You are not a child and under the circumstances I think might have met the situation in a less undignified fashion. As Mrs. Burton is not well I shall not trouble her by speaking of this because I am afraid she would be a good deal displeased.”