Mr. Pat's Little Girl Part 25

"But I wasn't doing anything wrong," replied Belle.

"Everything came true, Maurice," Rosalind said merrily. "First Belle found a ring, and then the imprisoned maiden was rescued; but her name wasn't Patricia, after all."

"I don't believe she wants to play the part again," said Celia.

"Indeed, I don't," answered Belle. "Here is the enchanted ring, Rosalind.

Ask the magician to break the spell."

"What children you are!" Celia laughed, and her face was full of brightness as she descended the stairs with Belle beside her, the others following. Three steps from the bottom she came face to face with Allan Whittredge and Katherine.

Celia hated herself for her burning cheeks as she bowed gravely. One hand held her work big, the other was on Belle's shoulder; and if, us for a fleeting instant she thought, Allan was about to hold out his hand, he changed his mind. His manner was calmly, unconcernedly polite as he spoke her name.

"Uncle Allan, what are you doing here?" called Rosalind.

Under the chorus of greetings and explanations Celia slipped away. Her thoughts were in a tumult as she hurried across the grounds to her own home.

Her mother was on the porch with a caller, and Celia took her seat there and went on with her sewing. The visitor remarked on her improved color, and Mrs. Fair looked at her daughter in some perplexity, Celia had been so pale of late.

All the evening she worked with feverish energy, writing labels for fruit jars and pasting them on, until no shadow of an excuse remained for not going to bed.

When at length she went to her room, it was to sit at the open window gazing blankly out into the darkness. She had been telling herself fiercely how silly and weak she was, but she had not succeeded in conquering her unhappiness. Now she resisted no longer.

She had not met Allan Whittredge face to face before for six years, although since his father's death he had been frequently in Friendship.

She had known it must happen sometime, and had schooled herself to think it would mean nothing to her, but instead it had brought back a host of vain regrets.

She had been happier of late. a.s.sociation with those light-hearted children had brought back something of her old hopefulness. That a chance meeting with Allan Whittredge could change all this, humiliated her.

"You haven't any pride, Celia Fair. It was your own doing."

"I had to do it; it was forced on me."

"And a fortunate thing it was. Do you suppose he would care now? These years which he has spent out in the world--what have they done for you?

They have turned a happy-hearted girl into a bitter, disappointed woman."

So she argued with herself.

Resting her head on the sill, she let her thoughts go where they would.

"You are sure you won't forget, Celia? It is going to be a long time,"

Allan had said. She was still a schoolgirl, and he just through college, and no one but her father knew about it. Dr. Fair had shaken his head, but he loved Allan almost as much as he loved Celia. Allan must do as his mother wished and go abroad. Time would show of what stuff their love was made, he said.

She had been so happy. She had been glad no one knew. Her happiness was all her own.

Then had come Judge Whittredge's illness, the trouble about the Gilpin will, and the cruel slander that had crushed her father. The brief letter with which she returned Allan's letters and ring, was the result of her bitter resentment and grief. In her sorrow over her father's death she told herself her love was dead, and for a time she believed it. Now she knew it was not so.

"At least, I will be honest with myself. I do care. Perhaps I shall always care. Oh, it is cruel to come so near happiness and miss it. But it is something to have come near it.

"O G.o.d, help me--" she prayed, "not to choose the desert way. I do not want to be bitter and hard."

As she lay back in her chair, too weary to think; through her mind floated Rosalind's words, "Things always come right in the Forest."

It was after dinner. The sun had set, leaving the sky full of opal tints.

The delicate leaves of the white birch barely moved, so still was the air.

The whir of the last locust had died away, and the soft splash of the fountain was the only sound, as Rosalind in her white dress flitted past the griffins and joined her uncle on the garden bench. He welcomed her with a smile, and smoked on in silence. They were too good comrades to need to talk.

After a while Rosalind spoke: "Uncle Allan, do you know Miss Celia Fair?"

"I used to."

Silence again.

"I like her very much. I think she is sweet, and she bears hard things bravely. Belle says, since her father died they haven't any money, so Miss Celia works, and the boys are troublesome, and her mother is ill a great deal."

Another silence.

"Uncle Allan, was it any harm for me to know her? Belle said there was a quarrel, and Aunt Genevieve said, 'We have nothing to do with the Fairs.'"

As he flicked the ash from his cigar, Allan smiled at Rosalind's unconscious imitation of Genevieve's tone.

"I see no reason why you should take up other people's quarrels," he said gravely.

Then Rosalind told him of her first meeting with Celia, and the incident of the rose. "But I think now I must have been mistaken," she added.

"Perhaps," said Allan, and again he smiled to himself in the twilight, so vividly did the story recall the occasional pa.s.sionate outbursts of the child Celia, usually so gentle, so timidly reserved.

That strange letter of hers had puzzled while it hurt. Far away from the scene of the trouble, he could not understand the bitterness of the strife. That for a village quarrel--some unkind words, perhaps--she could break the bond between them--was this the Celia he thought he knew so well?

The wound had rankled, but after a time he told himself it was for the best. Travel and study had broadened and matured him, and he could smile now as he recognized, what was unsuspected at the time, that his mother had planned these years of absence in the determination to cure him of a boyish fancy which her eyes had been keen enough to detect.

And yet--his thought would dwell upon her as she stood on the step, her arm around Belle, the laughter fading from her face. Not the little schoolgirl, but a woman, gracious and tender.

Rosalind danced away to join Maurice and Katherine, whose humble penitence had restored her to favor; and over the hedge came the sound of their voices singing an old tune. On the still night air, in their clear treble, the words carried distinctly:--

"Should auld acquaintance be forgot?"--

CHAPTER TWENTIETH.

THE SPINET.

"Thou art not for the fashion of these times."

"Where are you going to put it, Celia?" asked Mrs. Fair.

"In Saint Cecilia's room, I suppose," her daughter replied. Her father had given this name to the sitting room which was her own special property, and in which she would have nothing that was not a.s.sociated in some way with her great-grandmother.