How Ethel Hollister Became a Campfire Girl
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Irene Elliott Benson >> How Ethel Hollister Became a Campfire Girl
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As they were nearing their destination many of her townspeople passed
through the train. They greeted her most heartily with: "Well, well,
Mrs. Carpenter, we have missed you. Had a pleasant time?"
"How's my boy?" she asked of one man.
"My, but he's fine," rejoined the man,--"won a big case the other day.
Haven't you heard about it? Sears, the automobile man--someone accused
him of infringing on his patent, and he--Sears--sued him. Tom won the
suit. Everyone is congratulating him," etc.
Each person had some report of Tom.
"They seem to love Aunt Susan," thought Ethel. "It only goes to show how
much people think of money. Perhaps were she poor they wouldn't notice
her." But wasn't her own mother a money-worshipper, and didn't she
herself care for people who had it? "I suppose it's the way of the
world," she thought.
The train slowed into the depot. A tall broad-shouldered athletic
looking fellow entered the car and grasped Aunt Susan by the waist, and
as he lifted her almost from the floor he kissed her affectionately
saying: "Oh, my! but Aunt Susan I've missed you," and his voice rang
manly and true.
Ethel liked his face. He had keen but pleasant grey eyes, a square jaw,
large mouth and fine teeth. "But alas!" she thought, "how terribly he
dresses, with his loosely tied black cravat, a slouch hat, low collar
and wide trousers--like types of eccentric literary men seen on the
stage and in pictures."
He was absolutely devoid of style, yet everyone seemed to look up to him
and lots of pretty girls blushed unconsciously as he returned their
bows. Aunt Susan must have spoken to everyone who passed. They all
seemed to know her well.
As they drove up and alighted at the door of a small plain house she
must have noticed a disappointed look in her niece's eyes, for she said:
"Your Grandmother and I were born here, my dear. That large house on the
hill once belonged to me, but I disposed of it and moved here. I love
the associations. Although it is very primitive. I trust you may be
happy in it while visiting under its roof."
And indeed it was primitive with its wooden shutters and piazza with a
stone floor made of pieces of flagging. The rooms were low-ceilinged
with windows of tiny panes, whose white muslin curtains were trimmed
with ball fringe made by Aunt Susan. There were ingrain carpets on the
floor and old-fashioned mahogany furniture--the real thing, not
reproductions. It was massive and handsome with exquisite hand carving.
Ethel's floor was covered with the old-fashioned rag carpeting and rugs
to match. Vases of roses were on the bureau and stand, evidently put
there by "Mr. Thomas" as she called him.
CHAPTER XI
THE NEXT DAY
She slept as she had never before slept and was awakened in the morning
by the robins that sang in the white blossomed cherry trees. It was so
lovely that she lay quite still to listen. Then she arose, but before
dressing she gazed out of the window. They were over a mile from the
town. The path up from the gate was bordered on either side by spring
flowers. Immense trees hid the road from view but she could hear the
toot of the motors in passing and it all seemed strange, for the house
was over one hundred years old, and everything, even to the pump in the
yard, was so old-fashioned.
Ethel looked sideways at the house on the hill in which Aunt Susan told
her she had once lived. It was immense,--more like an Institution.
Probably it had been sold and remodeled, and perhaps was something of
the sort now, thought Ethel.
She dressed and went down stairs. Aunt Susan must have been up some
time, for the house looked so clean, and the odor of roses was
everywhere,--roses on the old-fashioned piano, on the mantel, and on the
breakfast table.
Ethel ate heartily, everything tasted so good. Old Jane, the maid of all
work, had been with her Aunt Susan ever since her father's death many
years before, and she was a woman who cooked most deliciously. Ethel
wondered why Aunt Susan kept but one maid, although she ceased to wonder
at anything after Aunt Susan had finished breakfast.
"Tom lives in Akron at the hotel," said she. "He has many clients, some
of whom can only consult him in the evening, and that's why he cannot
stay here with me. But until I left for New York," she continued, "I had
the village school teacher for company. You see, although this place
belongs to Akron, there are many children who cannot journey back and
forth to school, so we have a little schoolhouse near. The teacher
usually boards with me, and with Jane in the kitchen I am well
protected."
Ethel pondered. She had solved the mystery. Aunt Susan was a miser, of
that there was no doubt. Imagine a woman of her immense wealth taking a
boarder and living as she did. Ethel wondered if at night when everyone
was sound asleep she counted her money as misers do; and perhaps it was
on this very mahogany table that she emptied the bags before counting.
"What they had to eat was of the best and she enjoyed the ham and eggs
and freshly churned butter. After a while she started up stairs, but
Aunt Susan was ahead of her.
"Oh, Auntie, I wanted to make my own bed."
"Well, dear, you may after today, if you will. Jane is pretty old to go
up and down stairs."
The change was so complete that Ethel felt like a new girl.
"I don't care if she is a miser," she thought, "she's just lovely and so
like Grandmother; and I'll have a happy time, I know."
CHAPTER XII
ETHEL LEARNS TO COOK
Here is a page from her letter to her grandmother:
"Oh! my dear Grandmamma, you don't know how happy I am--not being
away from those I love, but things are so different. I get up early
and after breakfast I help Aunt Susan with the housework, for her
maid is too old to go up and down stairs. I have learned to
churn--to make butter and pot cheese as well. I dust, make my bed,
and sweep my room. (Don't let mother see this. She may consider
that I am doing a servant's work).
"I am invited everywhere and lovely people call, but that is
because I am the niece of a wealthy woman. And yet people's love
for Aunt Susan seems so genuine--not as though they were toadying
to her for her money. And Grandmamma, 'Mr. Tom,' as I call
him,--Tom Harper--is the finest man I ever met. He is a man--not a
man like Harvey Bigelow, mind you,--and people respect him and look
up to him. He comes here every other night. He has a buckboard and
on Sundays he takes me for long drives. Doesn't he love Aunt Susan
though? He told me that there never lived such a good and unselfish
woman, and then he told me of all that she had done.
"His brother and he were left orphans without a penny. His father
was a clergyman and his mother and Aunt Susan had been friends for
years; in fact, he says, 'My mother had been one of Aunt Susan's
pupils.' I must have shown surprise for he answered when I said
'What?'--'Yes, before her father died she taught in the High
School.' Did you know it, Grandmamma? Well, she did. She's awfully
intelligent and now I know the cause of it. Why, she's like a
walking dictionary.
"Mr. Tom said that his father and mother died inside of a month,
and he and his little brother Fred were left alone. Then brave Aunt
Susan, who had loved his parents, came forward and legally adopted
them. Think, Grandmamma,--but for her they might have had to go to
the Orphan Asylum and wear blue gingham uniforms.
"Then Aunt Susan sent them each to college. Poor Fred contracted
typhoid fever and died during his third year. Mr. Tom and Aunt
Susan say he was lovely--so gentle and sweet. It is sad to die so
young, isn't it? But Mr. Tom graduated from college and studied law
with Ex-Judge Green, and if you will believe it, all of the Judge's
practice came to him at his death--Judge Green's death I mean--and
he told me that he could never repay dear Aunt Susan for her
goodness to him and to his brother. It was more than that of a
mother, for they were not of her blood.
"I'll close now, for Mr. Tom has come to take me for a long drive.
I hope the girls get in to see you often. What do they think of
Mamma's giving me permission to join Cousin Kate's Camp Fire Girls?
Isn't it great?
"With love and lots of kisses to all,
Your affectionate grandchild,
Ethel."
CHAPTER XIII
A LITTLE DRIVE
That afternoon when Tom took Ethel for a drive he asked: "Do you see
that large house on the hill?"
"Yes," replied the girl. "It used to belong to Aunt Susan, didn't it?"
"It did," replied the man, "and she presented it to the town of Akron
for an asylum for partially insane people--men and women who have
hallucinations only--so that by gentle and humane treatment they may be
helped if not permanently cured, for she believes that many who might
gain their reason are made hopelessly insane by ill usage. She not only
gave the house and land but she added to it a couple of wings, and she
has created of it a most charming Sanitarium. I'll take you there
tomorrow. You see, Aunt Susan gave it out that if the prominent business
men of Akron could raise fifty thousand dollars she would give fifty
more, making the sum total of one hundred thousand dollars as a fund for
the future support of the Asylum, and by George!" said the young man,
"they raised it. So you see so far as money is concerned they are
independent. The capital is invested in bonds and stock, and the Asylum
is run with the dividends, and is well run, too. Aunt Susan is the
head--the President--and at any moment she may surprise them and walk
in. The patients are treated with courtesy and a great many are
discharged cured; in fact, nearly all. It accommodates only fifty
patients--twenty-five of each sex. There's a continuous waiting list and
it's seldom that one isn't greatly benefited after having gone there."
No wonder Aunt Susan was beloved by the inhabitants, for Tom told Ethel
that she was invariably the first to help anyone in distress.
"So she wasn't a miser, after all," thought the girl--"She gives away
everything in charity and she saves her money to do so."
Ethel couldn't fail to observe that Aunt Susan was growing fond of her
and her conscience smote her. She felt that she was a hypocrite. Even as
she pondered she held in her hand a letter received from her mother
which advised her to be tactful and make herself agreeable and
invaluable to the old lady,--alter her gowns and make and trim her hats,
etc. "You're clever, and from helping me sew you have become proficient
and have acquired considerable knowledge of dressmaking. If she's
miserly and won't buy new, my child, you can flatter her by remodeling
her old gowns, etc. Then she'll grow to depend on you. She'll consider
you a good manager and feel that her money will not be wasted by you.
Then, when you marry we'll go abroad to associate with peers and
duchesses and members of the nobility. You'll feel that your period of
imprisonment with Aunt Susan has brought forth fruit."
With a flushed face Ethel read and reread her mother's letter. She
blushed with shame. Already she had remodeled some of Aunt Susan's
gowns. She was glad that she had done so before the letter came. From
an old silk tissue skirt she had fashioned her a lovely neckpiece with
long ends. She had also made her a dainty hat of fine straw and lace.
She had persuaded her to allow her to dress her hair which grew quite
thick on her head. First, as her hair had originally been black, she
washed and _blued_ it, making it like silver. Then, parting it in front,
she waved it either side and coiled it loosely in the back, and really
Aunt Susan looked like another woman,--most lovely and aristocratic. Tom
was delighted with the metamorphosis and insisted upon Ethel's taking
twenty dollars from him to buy her aunt a new stylish wrap.
"Oh, I'm so glad it all happened before I received this," she said to
herself, tearing up the letter. "At least I'm not so contemptible as I
might have been had I done as Mamma suggested, for gain only."
CHAPTER XIV
SOME CONFIDENCES
Aunt Susan now looked up-to-date, younger and happier, and she was most
grateful for everything that Ethel had done for her. They all went to
theaters, moving picture shows, and twice a week Tom would hire a motor
and they'd take long drives far into the country.
Ethel now knew why Aunt Susan loved the man so dearly. She praised him
constantly and the girl thought: "Well, if as Dorothy Kip expresses it
he's doing these kind acts to 'build character' with Aunt Susan, at
least he's an excellent actor."
They visited the Insane Asylum. It was like a lovely summer hotel and
the nurses were most solicitous and polite to the patients. Ethel could
understand how they might be cured,--how their poor tired and sick
brains were rested and strengthened by humane treatment. It was a
wonderful revelation to the young girl--this charity of Aunt Susan's.
What a good, worthy woman, and after her death what a reward awaited her
if we are to be rewarded according to our good deeds.
Ethel was changing. She had lost a good deal of her worldly pride.
Cousin Kate was expected the following week and she was looking forward
to trying on her Camp Fire costume, and to the happy days that were to
come.
One morning Aunt Susan sat by the window sewing. She looked actually
lovely, or at least Ethel thought so, and longed for Grandmamma to see
the change that she had wrought. As she gazed upon the old lady she said
to herself: "Perhaps, it is because I'm growing so fond of her."
Aunt Susan had on a white silk sacque that Ethel had made, trimmed with
rare old lace ruffles at the wrist and collar, while her hair was very
white and pretty. There was a gentle breeze blowing in at the window,
and little curly locks fell upon her forehead.
Ethel was knitting a sweater. She had learned the stitch in the town
where she had bought her wool, and she was making one for her mother.
In after years she never knitted that she didn't think of the
conversation that took place between Aunt Susan and herself. The ground
was covered with white petals of apple and cherry blossoms and it was as
though the snow had fallen in May. She remembered everything connected
with that conversation, and later in life she could close her eyes and
hear the robins calling and see the butterflies flitting among the
bushes, for that morning was the turning point in her life.
"Aunt Susan," began the girl, knitting very rapidly, "Mr. Tom tells me
that his mother was your pupil. Did you teach very long?"
"Yes, Ethel," she replied, "I taught for years. Father, although a rich
man, expected his girls to do something, and there he was wise. He
always said that a girl should have some occupation the same as a boy;
then, when ship-wrecks came, they'd know how to swim. In other words,
when one's money was taken away there would be something to fall back
upon. Your grandmother took music lessons and taught for a while, but
she was pretty and during her first visit to New York, Archie Hollister
fell desperately in love and married her. Tom's mother was a fine
character and my favorite pupil. In so many ways Tom resembles her. She
was clever and bright, and so is Tom. Why, Ethel, he has more than paid
me for what I have done for him and Freddie. Today he's not twenty-five
and he's one of our cleverest lawyers. I shouldn't be surprised if some
day Ohio would send him to Congress. You know some of our cleverest men
come from this state,--presidents and statesmen--and Aunt Susan's
cheeks grew pink with excitement.
"And dear little Fred," she continued--"he was more like a baby. He sort
of clung to me; but, Ethel, they were like my own children, and you've
no idea how happy they made me."
"Aunt Susan," said Ethel, with her cheeks aflame, "don't think me
impertinent but you seem different from an----"
"An old maid," laughed Aunt Susan, "that's what you dared not say."
Ethel nodded and continued: "From the different photographs I have seen
of you, you must have been lovely. Why have you never married?"
Aunt Susan blushed and said in a low voice: "Ethel, I have been
married."
The girl started.
"Haven't you noticed that people call me _Mrs._ Carpenter?"
"Yes," replied the girl, drawing nearer with wonder in her eyes, "but I
know several maiden ladies who are called 'Mrs.' Mamma has a second
cousin--she's dead now, I mean--but I remember her. She speculated in
Wall Street and had an office, and she insisted upon being called Mrs."
"Yes, I've heard of women like her," replied Aunt Susan, "but I married
a man by the same name, although no relation. Has your grandmother never
spoken of him?"
"Never," replied the girl.
"Well, Alice has always hidden the family skeleton, but I will tell you
all about it.
"When I was about thirty-six years of age I married Robert Carpenter. I
was alone and wealthy. I loved him and tried to make his life happy,
but he drank. He had inherited that habit from his father, and drinking
led to gambling. He grew worse and worse. One night under the influence
of drink he came home and seemed determined to pick a quarrel. Seeing
that he was irresponsible I made no reply to his very insulting remarks.
That angered him beyond endurance. He struck and threw me across the
room. Then he left the house.
"Over on the hill by the Asylum is the grave of my little son who was
born and died that night."
Ethel started.
"Yes, my dear, I have been a wife and mother. Of course, I knew nothing
until the next day. I recovered consciousness but Robert had gone. He
had taken all of my money that he could find in the house and he had not
gone alone. His companion was a disreputable woman from the town."
Aunt Susan paused and looked over toward the little grave on the
hillside.
"It seemed," she continued, "as though God, who knew my sorrow at losing
my little one, sent me my two dear boys--Tom and Fred. They came into my
life when I most needed them and were my greatest comfort, for I was a
lonely woman, my dear. One day I received a letter written in a strange
hand saying that my husband was ill and not likely to live--that he
wished for me, to ask my forgiveness, and he begged me for God's sake to
go to him. I went. He was in Detroit in a squalid boarding house. I was
shocked at the change. I had not realized that a man could so lose his
good looks as he had done. I took him to a clean place kept by a woman
who had been highly recommended. Upon my arrival he wept bitterly and
begged my pardon. Then I was glad that I had never divorced him as my
friends had advised, for the poor man had been deserted by his companion
when the money had gone. He had kept on sinking lower and lower, ashamed
to appeal to me until when what he thought to be his last illness came
upon him he sent for me to ask my forgiveness."
"Did you give it?" asked the girl.
"Yes, Ethel, I did, and I gave it freely, because for the year past he
had been stone blind. I was so glad that I could cheer him up and make
the few remaining days of his life liveable."
"Did you ask him of his companion?" asked Ethel.
"No, he never spoke of her, nor did I. Had he wished to have told me he
would have done so. Robert had many loveable traits--yes, many noble
traits--but it was drink that ruined him. He was not mercenary. I had
money, but until he began to drink he was too proud to take it from me.
He was truly fond of me and would have married me had I been poor, but
of course after he had started the downward course he lost his pride.
"Well, I joined him in Detroit and stayed until after he died. His sight
never returned, but I read to him and cheered him up, and I had the
satisfaction of knowing that I made the last part of his life happier.
That's all, my dear. It is almost too sad to tell to a young girl."
Ethel sat and gazed upon her,--the woman who had shown such mercy to a
brute,--a wife deserted by her husband,--a mother never able to feel the
hand of her little child upon her cheek,--a woman whose life had been
spent in helping others, with no thought of self. The tears came into
the girl's eyes. She seemed to behold a bright halo about Aunt Susan's
head, and it filled her with awe. Suddenly she saw herself as she really
was,--the daughter of a selfish, mercenary mother, whose sole ambition
was for her future position in life. And this was her mission--to visit
this noble woman with a view to ingratiating herself and becoming her
heiress,--to make her think she loved her,--to make herself
indispensable to her. Yes, those were her mother's words. She had
destroyed the letter lest it should be seen, but she knew it by heart.
The young girl saw it all. Her lips quivered and she felt so utterly
unworthy that she fell on her knees and buried her face in Aunt Susan's
lap, sobbing bitterly.
CHAPTER XV
A NEW ETHEL
"Oh! Aunt Susan, you don't understand and I am afraid to tell you, but I
am such a wicked girl--such a hypocrite, and so unworthy of your
relationship and love. I am a cheater and a waster. My life is all lies
and sham. It always has been lies and sham. I wish to tell you
everything so that you may see me as I am.
"I came here to get into your good graces--to win your love that thereby
I might gain your fortune and marry into one of our old families--a man
of great social prominence--and I've been trying to make you like me and
make myself necessary to you. I've tried to give you the impression that
I was clever so that in case you wished to make me your heiress you
would not hesitate for fear that I might be extravagant and a
spendthrift. I can't tell you how bad I am. I've been ashamed of being
seen with you on account of the queer way you dressed. I'm not fit to
put my head in your lap--no, I'm not fit to stay under your roof any
longer," and Ethel's sobs were pitiful to hear. She became hysterical.
Then Aunt Susan took her in her arms.
"Child," she began, "don't cry. You have told me nothing new. I
understood from the first why you came home with me. You have many noble
traits of character. Your grandmother and I thought that under different
influences you might become a splendid woman. It was she who suggested
my inviting you. You are a good girl, Ethel, and above all you have a
kind and tender heart. You are a Carpenter in spite of your mother, and
anyone bearing my father's name can not go far from right. You have
shown that this morning. Now, my dear, in this world environments have
much to do with one's character, and you have never had a chance, my
poor little girl," and Aunt Susan kissed and soothed her as a mother
might have done. "Now forget it all, my dear child, just as I shall
forget. Let us begin anew from this morning."
"But, Aunt Susan," sobbed the girl, "I feel so unworthy, and you are so
sweet to forgive me. I should think you'd hate me and want me to leave
your house. But, believe me, I do love you--I love you as dearly as I
love Grandmamma and Papa. Excepting in books I never knew that any one
woman could be so good and self-sacrificing as you are. Oh, will you
believe that I don't want your money, and that I only care for your
respect and forgiveness, and your love, if you can give it?"
"Yes, my dear, I believe every word that you say. I believe in you from
now on," and Ethel threw her arms around Aunt Susan's neck and wept for
joy.
CHAPTER XVI
AUNT SUSAN'S TRIALS
"And now sit down, my dear, and I will tell you something. First you can
never be my heiress, for I have no money to give away or leave to
anyone. Tom supports me entirely. You look surprised and I don't wonder.
I never told your grandmother. She is old and, owning the house in New
York as she does, would probably insist upon my living with her; and
until a year ago I had hopes of recovering some of my property that I
had been cheated out of, but I have given it up. I love pretty gowns and
pretty things as well as anyone, but I am saving the money that Tom
insists upon giving me to spend on myself for him. I wish to leave him
something at my death. Now I will tell you about it and how I lost my
fortune.
"At the time I adopted the boys I was a very wealthy woman. Previous to
that year I had given away a great deal for charity, but I had a hobby
and that hobby was to establish a humane Insane Asylum. I had seen so
much cruelty practiced in different institutions where I happened to
know some of the inmates, and I had heard of such shocking treatment
received by patients, that I resolved to establish a reform. I gave my
handsome home for the Asylum. I spent large sums in fitting it up, so
that it might seem like a beautiful resort to the poor souls, and as Tom
told you, I succeeded in what I undertook. The boys went through school
and college,--or Tom did, and poor Fred would have graduated had he
lived a year longer. It was sad that he had to die, and so young, too."
Aunt Susan wept as she told of his death.
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