CHAPTER XVI
After Effects
One of the conspicuous characteristics of Mrs. Richard Burton was that she was at her best in emergencies. But, as she was a celebrated actress, it was of course easy to understand her appreciation of dramatic moments.
Before Mr. Simpson reached the top of the mesa she had awakened.
Something—a sound or an increasing heaviness in the atmosphere—had brought her slowly back to consciousness. Half a moment she lay wondering why she felt such a sense of impending calamity when, so far as she knew, everything about her was peaceful. Marie was breathing contentedly in her cot on the opposite side of the tent.
Getting up, Polly put on a heavy rose-colored silk dressing gown—the admiration of the Camp Fire girls—and walked to the opening of a tent.
The air was thick; the sense of calamity more convincing.
Going outdoors, Mrs. Burton looked up at the sky. The funnel-shaped, yellowish white cloud was coming closer, but not so close as the extraordinary pillar of sand. Then she saw Mr. Simpson and ran forward to meet him.
“Get the girls out of their tents quickly, or the tents will be down upon them.”
There was a great bell fastened to a post near one of the tents for use in emergencies, but Mrs. Burton could not have reached it in time. However, before she got there it had begun ringing and the girls had run quickly out in response.
Some instinct must have taught them the proper thing to do, for, in an instant, they had dropped flat down on the ground. There was no place nearby to take refuge—no cavern in the rocks—only the flat surface of the mesa.
It is extraordinary how few people show nervousness or cowardice in the face of unexpected danger.
Now, of the little Camp Fire party, none of whom knew anything before of the perils of an Arizona storm, and entirely unprotected as they were, only Gerry Williams and Marie were frightened.
When Gerry came out of her tent she was clad only in a thin little wrapper. As soon as she looked up at the sky and heard the muffled roar of the oncoming storm, which in a strange way seemed only to increase the stillness nearer by, quite senselessly she started running—running alone along the top of the mesa as if she meant to plunge over for safety.
Sally Ashton, who had followed nearest her, made no effort to stop her. Indeed, Sally flew straight to her sister Alice’s arms and they quietly lay down beside each other, covering their faces with their hands. For it is an odd thing how many differences members of a family may have and yet, in a moment of peril, they are reunited, deserting many an affection which had seemed a stronger tie than blood.
But, fortunately for Gerry Williams, Vera had seen her loss of judgment. Vera it was who had aroused soon after Polly had left her tent and, guessing at once what was about to take place, had rung the bell. For Vera had the gift for sudden, quick action without waiting for advice.
That instant she seized Gerry by the shoulders and, as she was much the stronger, threw her down in the sand, pinioning herself on top of her and holding her still. She was not a moment too soon, for almost at once the storm passed over them. And all this, of course, has taken longer in the telling than in the time of action.
The column of sand drew nearer, like a vast herald of disaster with the wind roaring behind it.
And in the face of the terrific sound, Marie began screaming.
It was so nonsensical and yet it set on edge the nerves of everybody who was close enough to hear her.
She was kneeling with her face buried in her hands, crying as loud as a frightened child, and occasionally murmuring a word or two of a Latin prayer, when she could gather sufficient self-control.
Mrs. Burton chanced not to be near enough to speak to her, but she did see Mr. Simpson go to Marie and sit down beside her. What he said must have had a somewhat soothing effect, for she did not cry quite so noisily, or it may have been that the storm was at the instant passing over them.
Any one who has ever experienced a western storm will tell you of having gone through almost the same physical experience. First, there is a terrible sense of oppression, then, a sound of a tremendous roaring in the ears and of heavy pressure, followed by a queer tingling and burning of the skin.
However, as a matter-of-fact, the Sunrise Camp Fire party did not meet the real force of the storm. In the eccentric fashion that a hurricane often shows, it turned as it neared their mesa and swerved toward the south. But they had at least a portion of it and were bathed in fine sand like a down-pouring of rain.
Yet the whole incident was over in such a little while! And the entire party got up almost simultaneously, as if they had been Mohammedans praying in the desert—the early morning prayer of every true follower of the Prophet. For it is the Mohammedan custom at a given moment at sunrise and at sunset to kneel and, burying the face in the hands, pray with the face turned toward Mecca. And, also, at a given moment, in Moslem countries the prayer is over with the ringing of a great muezzin bell.
Naturally, as Camp Fire guardian, Polly was most anxious to learn the effects of the past few moments upon the girls, whose welfare she took almost too seriously perhaps.
But as soon as she staggered up she heard a voice beside her saying quietly:
“Don’t try to talk for a moment, Mrs. Burton, please. The air is still bad. It may hurt your throat.”
And Polly saw that Ellen Deal had come directly to her. The next moment she had brought a camp chair and was gently forcing her into it.
Polly was pleased and touched. She had not devoted as much attention to Ellen as she had to some of her other guests. For one thing, Ellen was older and seemed to have one of the slight natures it is hard to be intimate with at first. However, she believed that Ellen must have fine qualities, else the severe Dr. Sylvia Wharton would never have been so anxious for her to be one of the party. And later, perhaps, she would have her chance.
“You are very good; there is nothing the matter with me,” Mrs. Burton murmured, and then frowned and smiled apologetically at the same time. For her voice apparently seemed to have departed and she was absurdly weak. But, then, she must remember that she had originally come to Arizona because this very trouble made her acting impossible.
However, the Camp Fire girls really appeared more entertained than frightened by what they had undergone.
“I feel rather like a kitten that has been left out over night,” Sally remarked. “My fur is all ruffled.” She sat blinking her big soft brown eyes and shaking her brown hair, which was in a mass of brown fluff over her shoulders. If Sally had dreamed how much she did make people think of a kitten, perhaps she would not have said this. Yet she did know, since “kitten” had been her father’s name for her ever since she was a tiny child.
At present Alice was entirely concerned with her younger sister.
“You are sure you are all right, dear? I was so worried about you. As the storm blew across us I was thankful to remember you had gained five pounds since we arrived at the Camp Fire,” Alice said, speaking with such an appearance of solemnity that it was difficult to decide whether she was joking. But, then, as growing too fat was Sally’s particular horror in life, she was of course teasing her in the usual elder sister fashion.
Sally pretended not to hear.
“Where is Gerry? Is she all right?” she demanded. “She was just in front of me before the storm broke. Here she comes, now.”
In fact, Gerry was at the moment only a few steps away, leaning on Vera’s arm and looking fragile and shaken.
“I am abominably afraid of storms; have been always,” she exclaimed petulantly. “So I suppose you were right not to let me run. Perhaps I might have been knocked down. Still, I think you were frightfully rough, Vera. Perhaps you can’t help it, having been brought up in the country.” And Gerry ended her speech with the fine scorn which one remembers the city mouse felt for the country mouse in the old fable.
“Yes, I am sorry if I hurt you,” Vera returned, quietly disengaging her arm from the other girl’s, now that she saw there was nothing the matter and knowing that she preferred being with Sally. She herself wished to learn how Peggy and Bettina and their Camp Fire guardian had passed through the storm.
It was now nearly daylight on the top of the mesa. The sun had not risen, but there was a kind of general grayness that preceded the approach of dawn. At least, it was possible for the girls to grope their way about and to recognize each other as they approached close by.
Vera now saw that Bettina had gone over toward Mrs. Burton and that Peggy, in her usual practical fashion, was wandering about trying to discover how much damage had been done. The Indian girl was with her.
It was a piece of good fortune, or perhaps what is usually the cause of good fortune—a piece of good sense—that the camp fire had been put out before the girls had retired for the night. In these dry months in Arizona, when there is ordinarily so little rainfall and living so near the great ranch fields of corn and alfalfa, Mr. Gardener had suggested that it was wiser to take every precaution. Now the ashes had blown in every direction and the three sticks, which usually stood like a tripod above the camp fire, had tumbled abjectly down. More important, the kitchen tent had collapsed.
When Vera reached Peggy she discovered that she was pulling at the tent ropes and trying to find out the extent of the damage.
“Do try to dig out a saucepan or a kettle or anything you can find, please, Vera,” Peggy suggested. “I am going to start a fire and make some coffee, if one of us can find the stuff. Nothing happened of any consequence and yet my knees are as shaky as if I had been through the war. And I’m afraid Tante will be ill. Mother wrote me not to forget—even if she never spoke of the fact—that she really is out here for her health. I don’t know whether being a Camp Fire guardian can be much of a health cure, but at least it is stimulating.” And Peggy laughed and set to working vigorously with Vera’s aid to search out what was needed. In the meantime, Dawapa kept fairly close beside her. For, apparently, she was less shy with her and liked her best.
Bettina had knelt down beside Polly.
“I hope you are all right,” she began, wishing that she did not always appear so cold and reserved before her mother’s best beloved friend, and that she could show the extent of the admiration and affection she felt for her.
“You are very good, ‘Little Princess,’ to think of me,” Polly said more lovingly than she usually spoke to any of the girls except Peggy and Gerry. “But I seem to be hoarse as a crow from the sand in my throat. Sit here beside me for a moment, won’t you? After a little we must all go back to bed. Ellen has gone to hunt up a blanket or something for me. Are you cold?”
Bettina shook her head “No,” but she sat down close to Polly, wishing that she could take her hand, or do one of the pretty things with her that came so easily to Gerry Williams or any of the girls even without the claim that she had upon her mother’s old friend.
A moment later she and Mrs. Burton were both laughing, in spite of the strangeness and discomfort of their situation.
Marie had found her mistress.
“We will go back to ceevelization today, nes pas. The West it is too terreeble. It will be ze death of madame.”
Marie was shaking her hands and rolling her eyes. Even in the semi-darkness one could guess her expression from the tones of her voice. “But for Meester Simpson, I should have been killed.”
“Oh, not so bad as that, Mam’selle,” Mr. Simpson added, for he had followed to see that all was well. “I’ll go now, Mrs. Burton, and see that the sleeping tents are steady, so that you may have a little rest tonight.”
“And you’ll find some wraps for the girls, please, Marie?” Polly added, knowing that the wisest way to quiet Marie’s excited nerves was to give her an occupation.
She then closed her eyes, it seemed to be for only two or three moments, but opened them in time to see the Indian, who had warned them earlier in the evening of the approach of the storm, coming toward her for the second time as she supposed. She had been foolish, perhaps, not to have heeded his information, but they could have done nothing, except perhaps to start out for the Gardener ranch. And more than possibly they would not have arrived in time. Then, as nothing had really happened of consequence, they must have had the long ride in vain. However, Mrs. Burton felt that she owed the Indian youth an apology for her careless disregard of his good intention.
She was opening her mouth to speak to him when she found that Tewa had apparently not even seen her.
He had dropped down on his knees before Bettina, and yet far enough away to be entirely respectful.
“You are not hurt; all is well with you, Anacoana? I have been waiting in a cave not far away, where I wished that all of you might take refuge,” he explained.
Bettina felt her cheeks crimson and a sensation more of surprise than anything else for the instant kept her silent.
She had told Tewa her Camp Fire name and he had used it several times. But that had not seemed remarkable. They were friends and she had found him unusually interesting. He had told her of the work he hoped to do for his people as a lawyer representing their claims before the great Government of the United States which so often had misunderstood the Indian. And Bettina, whose life had largely been spent in Washington among the lawmakers of the country, had found nothing ridiculous in this idea.
Tewa had even confessed the struggle he had always to make, not to return to the life and customs of his own people at each homecoming. And Bettina had urged him to follow his larger ideal.
Now, however, his use of her Camp Fire title—even his interest in her welfare—struck her as almost impertinent. Yet she did the Indian the justice to realize he had not meant this.
“We are all perfectly safe; the storm was not in the least serious,” Bettina replied coldly, although she could feel her voice suddenly shaking.
Although Mrs. Burton had not yet spoken, Bettina was aware that she had become deeply annoyed; that in some fashion she was entirely misunderstanding the situation. But how could she explain; what was there to say at the moment?
“Go to your tent, please, Bettina; I will speak to Tewa,” Polly said with a coldness of which she was always capable. The whole atmosphere had changed. Bettina felt humiliated and angry, but obedience was the only possible thing. Yet she had the sensation of not having been altogether fairly treated. Why was there no real sympathy and understanding between Mrs. Burton and her? She ought not to be made responsible for a situation she could not have avoided.
But Bettina did not see their Camp Fire guardian alone until late that coming afternoon.
On her dismissal she had found Peggy and Vera, and assisted them with the making and serving of the coffee. She had also scorched her cheeks, which were burning hot in any case, making a plate of toast. Then, after a frugal breakfast and just as the sun was rising over the new Sunrise Hill camp, the campers went back to bed.
And no one got up until about lunch time.
Polly did not come out of her tent all day.
However, just before dusk she sent for Bettina.
Sitting up in bed, Mrs. Richard Burton was looking rather more frail than the people who loved her would like to have seen. And Bettina was also worried by her appearance, although she did not know just what to say.
Of course, the fact of the matter was that Polly had been uncomfortable all day over what she thought was Bettina’s too intimate friendship with the young Indian, in whom she herself was interested. She knew that she did not understand Bettina’s disposition, and that she did not have her confidence. She was also afraid of her own ability as a satisfactory Camp Fire guardian. All this, beside the experience of the night, had made her ill and undeniably cross.
“In future, as a favor, Bettina, I must ask you to have nothing more to do with Tewa. The young man comes here to camp as a teacher—not to be a cavalier to any one of you girls. You are to have nothing more to do with him.”
Polly Burton spoke in the domineering tone which she often used when she was cross. She had been doing this ever since her girlhood and always in the old days it had offended Betty Aston, who was now Betty Graham and Bettina’s mother. It offended Bettina at the moment. No one had ever really ordered her to do this or that in her life—this was neither her mother nor her father’s method.
Besides, it struck Bettina as unfair to her and to the young man who had befriended her.
Tewa had been invited to camp by their guardian and had been treated as a friend. He was educated and courteous, and Bettina did not wish to appear unkind or ungrateful. Besides, by this time it struck her as absurd to have paid any attention to the young Indian’s use of her Camp Fire name.
But Tante was looking at her and waiting for an answer. And evidently she had no idea that the answer could be of but one kind.
“Very well; I shall do what you wish, of course,” Bettina replied, but speaking with a dignity and a hauteur which had partly helped to earn for her the once childish title of “Little Princess.” “But really, Tante, I do not see why you are suddenly taking this attitude; nor what Tewa has done that we should not be friendly with him. I do not see why, because he is an Indian, we should be less courteous to him than he has been to us. I am sorry that he called me by my Camp Fire title tonight, but I can’t see that it makes a great difference.”
“I prefer not to discuss the subject, Bettina,” Polly answered decisively. Nor did she show the least sign of relenting at Bettina’s acquiescence.