The most important aid to the convalescent’s recovery, undoubtedly, was the thought of being able to refill an empty pocketbook, for Mrs. Van Vorst, as soon as she learned that he was a proficient French scholar,—he had lived in France, his mother being a French woman,—and was graduated from Oxford, had immediately made the suggestion that he give Nita French lessons. With her usual tact the suggestion had been so delicately made, pleading it as a personal favor to her, so as not to offend the fine sensibilities of the young man, that it had been soon arranged.
The young soldier’s peculiar situation had been noised about, and general interest and sympathy being awakened, many of the guests from the near-by hotels had climbed the mountain trails, with offerings of fruit or some delicacy for the invalid.
When the fact became known that Nita was to take French lessons from him, other young ladies at the hotels were eager to be his pupils, among them Nathalie’s two New York schoolmates, who ardently sounded the praises of the handsome English soldier, whose refined scholarly face, tall, athletic figure, his romantic story, bade fair to make him a possible rival of the Count, who was considered the most eligible parti at the hotel. But the fact that the young man up in the cabin had played a soldier’s part in the present war, was an asset that carried more weight than mere wealth, in the minds of the ladies, particularly when it was fashionable to be patriotic.
Possibly Nathalie’s two friends seized upon this opportunity to make themselves one of a very happy party of young people, who somehow managed to have a most enjoyable time in ministering to their charge. As soon as the sick man was able, he was made comfortable in a hammock under the trees, on a clearing near the cabin, where each one vied with the other to cheer him.
Sometimes there would be a reading, then again just a merry chat, but as the meetings gained in numbers, stories became the vogue, the story-teller generally relating some tale about the mountains, or an Indian legend, while the listeners sat and knitted for the soldiers, as even Sheila and the boys,—all but poor Jean,—had become expert knitters, under Nathalie’s tutelage. As the patient had brightened so perceptibly at these little mountain-top gatherings, Nathalie had dubbed them Liberty Cheers.
When Blue Robin saw that her two schoolmates had foisted themselves upon the party, she felt indignantly grieved, as the snub they had administered to her still rankled. She had been on the point of revealing the incident to Nita, in one of their little confidential chats, when that young lady had remained at Seven Pillars over night, as she loved to do. But second thoughts stayed her, as she knew her friend’s loyal devotion to her, and her vehement way of disposing of people when they displeased her, the result of her spoiled childhood. Nathalie, also, was afraid to offend the two girls, for fear they would not continue to take lessons of Philip de Brie, and she knew that would mean a loss to him.
Van Darrell, the Camp Mills soldier, and Philip had fraternized as “mates”; for the latter, by his life on the battlefield, and in the trenches, and with his experiences in a German prison-camp, had a stock of information at his command that Van was greedy to devour. With the wholehearted patriotic enthusiasm of our young American boys when called to the colors, he was keen to be on the “firing-line,” so as to get a chance, as he expressed it, “to get a few jabs at the Big Willie gang.”
Philip’s deep appreciation of Nathalie’s kindness to him, and also that of her friends, was not only expressed in words, but by the warm, eloquent glances of his dark eyes. His deferential courtesy to all, his chivalrous manner towards her and Janet, and his kindly, winning way of making friends with the children, had won the girl’s admiration. Nevertheless she had noticed that it was Janet who had won his deepest regard. It was to her that he turned with questioning eyes when anything of moment came up, on her that his admiring, ardent glances fell when that young lady appeared in some simple, but fluffy, bewitching little costume, which she had taken to doing lately, somewhat to Nathalie’s surprise.
When he grew tired and showed a restlessness, a desire to be free of the merry-makers, a pleased look would dawn in his eyes when they left him to the ministrations of the head nurse. The somber shadows in his eyes would light with a strange glow as she hovered about him, trying to make him comfortable, or giving him the medicine that he probably would have forgotten if she had not been there to give it to him.
And Janet? Well, she had been, as it were, curiously transformed into a new creature, seemingly, by the sweet pity in her soft eyes, and the flush on her winsome face, as, with tireless patience and quiet diligence, she performed her duties. Evidently, for the nonce, her vocation of mingled pacifist, farmerette, and suffragette had been relegated to the past.