Friendship

The first snow of the season was falling.

Outside the night was transcendently lovely, the hills covered with white blankets, the trees, surprised at the first winter breath, shaking crumpled leaves of faded gold or bronze to be buried under the snow. On the lake in front of Tahawus cabin there was a light covering of ice, making a bed for the snowflakes.

Overhead the moon shone down upon the winter silence of the woods.

Inside the large cabin the Camp Fire girls were seated about the fire in ceremonial fashion, the Council meeting having just ended. On the mantel the candles were dying, although there was no other light in the room save their flickering flames and the light of the fire.
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“Well, good-night, I’ll leave you to your final talk, not because I desire it, but because I seem to be under orders,” Mrs. Burton protested, rising from her usual position in the center of the circle.

A few feet away Mrs. Graham stood waiting for her, and a moment later they had disappeared arm in arm.

Afterwards there was a short silence broken at last by Sally Ashton.

“I wonder why our own Camp Fire club has never produced so devoted a friendship as Tante and Aunt Betty have enjoyed so many years.”

“Saul and Jonathan were lovely and pleasant in their lives,

And in their death they were not divided;

They were swifter than eagles,

They were stronger than lions.”

“Forgive my quoting,” Bettina Graham murmured, “but as we were to talk of friendship to-night after our regular meeting, those lines have been in my mind all day. I like Vera’s idea that we choose a subject of conversation at our Camp Fire meetings, once the actual business is over.”
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At this instant Vera Lageroff was glancing out the window; purposely the blinds had been left up so as not to shut out the beauty of the night.

She turned now and looked from one girl to the other.

“Is it true what Sally has just said?” she inquired. “Have we no friendships in our own Camp Fire circle as deep and ardent and with the promise of continuing as Mrs. Burton’s and Mrs. Graham’s has for so many years?”

“Oh, Sally is always making amazing speeches! I thought we were all extremely fond of one another. In fact, Vera, perhaps you and I have more things in common because of our work together in France. I don’t believe I shall ever be so content anywhere else,” Alice Ashton remonstrated.

At one of the outermost ends of the semicircle, close up to the fire, Sally was seated. At this moment she wore a frown between her level brows, but not because she objected to her sister’s statement, which she scarcely had heard, but because she was pursuing her own idea and her mind did not work swiftly.
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“Oh, of course I know we are friends after a fashion,” Sally returned, “but I suppose I was thinking of the David and Jonathan kind of friendship, something big and wonderful and everlasting. I know I have never had anything approaching a great intimacy with any one of you girls in the years we have been together in our Camp Fire club. Gerry and I were extremely friendly, nothing more. After she married Felix we soon ceased even writing to each other.”

A moment Sally leaned her chin in her hand.

“In spite of our Sunrise Camp Fire, I believe I have been more intimate with Dan Webster, and he has been a closer, warmer friend to me than any one of you girls. Yet I have not seen much of him since I was a small girl, save the summer in California and for a little while in Paris after the close of the war.”

“Well, I think I should not care to make such a confession, Sally Ashton. Our Camp Fire organization was created partly to teach us the value of friendship among girls, and not only friendship but the ability to live together and work together. I consider we have accomplished this with enough success to be proud,” Alice Ashton argued.
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The silence was half thoughtful, half antagonistic.

“I by no means agree with Sally. However, I can speak only for myself,” Bettina Graham interposed. “The friendships I have had in our Camp Fire club are the deepest in my life. I hardly dare allow myself to think of Peggy Webster’s marriage, which is not many months away. Besides, I do not wish to be personal, I suppose none of us do, yet, in spite of Sally’s unfaith, I am sure there are other intimate friendships among us. Moreover, what our ideal really should be, is not what Sally suggests, beautiful and inspiring as the story of David and Jonathan. Our intimacy should extend through all our Camp Fire club and we should care for one another almost equally.”

In the wide semi-circle, one of the girls had been unusually silent during the evening, indeed had never spoken unless a question were directly addressed to her.

At this instant she looked closely at Bettina Graham with a peculiar expression in which there was appeal and defiance.
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“You are an idealist, Bettina, and the type of idealist who demands the impossible. Human beings can not care for one another in the same degree. It is against the law of nature itself. We can be loyal and interested in every member of our Camp Fire group, yet we cannot care for each one alike. You yourself are unable to, for no one has taken Peggy Webster’s place with you, and perhaps no one of us ever shall.”

Half shyly the girls glanced from one to the other when Mary Gilchrist had ceased speaking. Gill dropped her eyes so that their gaze appeared concentrated upon her hands which she held folded together in her lap.

The fact that Gill for many months had made every effort to fill Peggy’s place in Bettina’s friendship was well known to every one of the other girls, except perchance to Bettina herself. Yet if at first Bettina had seemed to welcome the other girl’s admiration and in a measure to return her affection, of late she had kept apart from her as much as possible. Bettina was not unkind, only her manner was cold and reserved. More openly Mrs. Graham betrayed less liking for Mary Gilchrist than any one of the group of Camp Fire girls.
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However, as Marguerite Arnot had come from Paris to live for a time with Mrs. Graham and Bettina, it was but natural that at present they should show a special interest in her.

At this moment, as Bettina made no reply to Mary Gilchrist’s implied invitation, Sally interposed with characteristic coolness.

“Oh, I appreciate that I always have been more of an outsider than any other member of our Sunrise Camp Fire. Don’t think I am complaining; I realize that I am colder or more selfish and that I have fewer intimacies. But, Vera,” Sally’s large golden brown eyes caught those of the other girl, who plainly had been thinking of something else, “Vera, to-night, during our discussion of friendship, are you thinking of one of us, or of Billy Webster? Was he not more truly your friend than any member of our Camp Fire?”

“Sally!” came the shocked exclamation from several of the girls at the same instant.
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However, Vera Lagerloff’s long eyes, with their odd foreign look, met Sally’s bravely.

“There is no reason why Sally should not speak of Billy Webster. Please do not think I ever forget him. Yes, Sally, Billy was the best friend I ever had or hope to have. Yet his death in California[2] has not left me less ready to give my friendship to our Camp Fire. Indeed, I sometimes feel it is only through the Camp Fire and our work in France that I have been able to accept Billy’s passing away.”

“‘He that loseth his life shall gain it,’” Bettina quoted softly.

In the midst of the pause, feeling that her introduction of Billy Webster’s memory had made their discussion of friendship more sorrowful than she had intended, and conscious that Alice and Bettina were frowning upon her with varying degrees of severity, Sally turned her gaze from the firefight and her group of friends.

At the instant her attention was attracted by a whirr of snow against the window. It was as if an errant gust of wind had tossed great handfuls against the pane.
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There was a noise outside, a little scuffling, uncertain noise.

Sally looked more closely, and as she looked her eyes widened and her red lips parted. The color faded slowly from her fire-warmed cheeks.

The next instant she was on her feet.

“I saw a face outside the window,” she exclaimed. “And one I have seen before!”

Fifteen minutes later the big living-room in the winter cabin at Half Moon Lake was deserted, the discussion on friendship having ended abruptly before it was well begun.

On the mantel the candles representing work, health and love had ceased to glow. There were only a few sparks left to smoulder amid the ashes of the log fire.

No one of the other girls had seen a vision at the window save Sally Ashton, and therefore believed that she had been mistaken. Some animal may have wandered out of the deep woods because of the storm and been attracted by the lights inside the cabin.

Yet the spell was broken and bed appeared the happiest solution.