The Lucky Piece Part 16

"Oh," she said, "I do not suppose--I know! I have known all the time. I have seen it in a hundred ways, only they were ways that one cannot put into words. But now something has happened that anybody can see, and that can be told--something _has_ been seen and told!"

She looked up at Frank--those deep, burning eyes of hers full of indignation. He said:

"Tell me just what you mean. What has happened, and who has seen it?"

"It was yesterday, in the woods--the woods between here and the camp on the Au Sable. They were sitting as we are, and he held her hand, and she had been crying. And when they parted he said to her, 'We must tell them. You must get Mrs. Deane's consent. I am sure Edith suspects something, and it isn't right to go on like this. We must tell them.'

Then--then he kissed her. That--of course----"

The girl's voice broke and she could not continue. Frank waited a moment, then he said:

"And who witnessed this scene?"

"Mrs. Kitcher."

"You mean the little woman who dresses in black?"

"Yes, that is the one."

"And you would believe that tale-bearing eavesdropper?"

"I must. I have seen so much myself."

"Then, let me say this. I believe that most of what she told you is false. She may have seen them together. She may have seen him take her hand. I know that Miss Deane told Robin something yesterday that related to his past life, and that it was a sad tale. It might easily bring the tears, and she would give him her hand as an old friend. There may have been something said about his telling you, for there is no reason why you should not know the story. It is merely of an old man who is dead, and who knew Robin's mother. So far as anything further, I believe that woman invented it purely to make mischief. One who will spy and listen will do more. I would not believe her on oath--nor must you, either."

But Edith still shook her head.

"Oh, you don't know!" she persisted. "There has been much besides. It is all a part of the rest. You have not a woman's intuition, and Robin has not a woman's skill in deceiving. There is something--I know there is something--I have seen it all along. And, oh, what should Robin keep from me?"

"Have you spoken to him of it?"

"Once--about the time you came--he laughed at me. I would hardly mention it again."

"Yet it seems to me that would be the thing to do," Frank reflected aloud. "At least, you can ask him about the story told him by Miss Deane. You--you may say I mentioned it."

Edith regarded him in amaze.

"And you think I could do that--that I could ask him of anything that he did not tell me of his own accord? Will you ask Miss Deane about that meeting in the woods?"

Frank shook his head.

"I do not need to do so. I know about it."

She looked at him quickly--puzzled for the moment as to his meaning--wondering if he, too, might be a part of a conspiracy against her happiness. Then she said, comprehending:

"No, you only believe. I have not your credulity and faith. I see things as they are, and it is not right that you should be blinded any longer.

I had to tell you."

She rose with quick suddenness as if to go.

"Wait," he said. "I am glad you told me. I believe everything is all right, whatever that woman saw. I believe she saw very little, and until you have seen and learned for yourself you must believe that, too.

Somehow, everything always comes out right. It must, you know, or the world is a failure. And this will come out right. Robin will tell you the story when he comes back, and explain everything. I am sure of it.

Don't let it trouble you for a single moment."

He put out his hand instinctively and she took it. Her eyes were full of hot tears. It came upon Frank in that instant that if Mrs. Kitcher were watching now she would probably see as much to arouse suspicion as she had seen the day before, and he said so without hesitation. Edith made a futile effort to reflect his smile.

"Yes," she agreed, "but, oh, that was different! There was more, and there has been so much--all along."

She left him then, followed by a parting word of rea.s.surance. When she had disappeared he dropped back on the stone seat and sat looking through the trees toward the little boat landing, revolving in his mind the scene just ended. From time to time he applied unpleasant names to the small woman in black, whose real name had proved to be Kitcher.

What, after all, had she really seen and heard? He believed, very little. Certainly not so much as she had told. But then, one by one, certain trifling incidents came back to him--a word here--a look there--the tender speaking of a name--even certain inflections and scarcely perceptible movements--the things which, as Edith had said, one cannot put into words. Reviewing the matter carefully, he became less certain in his faith. Perhaps, after all, Edith was right--perhaps there was something between those two; and troubling thoughts took the joy out of the sunlight and the brightness from the dancing waters.

The afternoon was already far gone, and during the rest of the day he sat in the little grove of birches above the landing, smoking and revolving many matters in his mind. For a time the unhappiness of Edith Morrison was his chief thought, and he resolved to go immediately to Constance and lay the circ.u.mstances fully before her, that she might clear up the misunderstanding and restore general happiness and good will. Twice, indeed, he rose to set out for the camp, but each time returned to the stone seat. What if it were really true that a great love had sprung up between Constance and Robin--a love which was at once a glory and a tragedy--such a love as had brightened and blotted the pages of history since the G.o.ds began their sports with humankind and joined them in battle on the plains of Troy? What if it were true after all? If it were true, then Constance and Robin would reveal it soon enough, of their own accord. If it were not true, then Edith Morrison's wild jealousy would seem absurd to Constance, and to Robin, who would be obliged to know. Frank argued that he had no right to risk for her such humiliation as would result to one of her temperament for having given way to groundless jealousy. These were the reasons he gave himself for not going with the matter to Constance. But the real reason was that he did not have the courage to approach her on the subject. For one thing, he would not know how to begin. For another--and this, after all, comprised everything--he was afraid it _might be true_.

So he lingered there on the stone seat while the September afternoon faded, the sun slipped down the west, and long, cool mountain shadows gathered in the little grove. If it were true, there was no use of further endeavor. It was for Constance, more than for any other soul, living or dead, that he had renewed his purpose in life, that he had recalled old ambitions, re-established old effort.

Without Constance, what was the use? n.o.body would care--he least of all.

If it were true, the few weeks of real life that had pa.s.sed since that day with her on the mountain, when they had been lost in the mist and found the hermitage together, would remain through the year to come a memory somewhat like that which the hermit had carried with him into the wilderness. Like Robin Gray, he, too, would become a hermit, though in that greater wilderness--the world of men. Yet he could be more than Robin Gray, for with means he could lend a hand. And then he remembered that such help would not be needed, and the thought made the picture in his mind seem more desolate--more hopeless.

But suddenly, from somewhere--out of the clear sky of a sub-conscious mind, perhaps--a thought, a resolve, clothed in words, fell upon his lips. "If it is true, and if I can win her love, I will marry Edith Morrison," he said.

CHAPTER XIV

WHAT MISS CARROWAY DID

The Circle of Industry had been minus an important member that afternoon. The small woman in black was there, and a reduced contingent of such auxiliary members as still remained in the wilds, but the chief director and center of affairs, Miss Carroway, was absent. She had set out immediately after luncheon, and Mrs. Kitcher had for once enjoyed the privilege of sowing discord, shedding gloom and retailing dark hints, unopposed and undismayed. Her opponent, for the time at least, had abandoned the field.

Miss Carroway had set out quietly enough, taking the path around the lake that on the other side joined the trail which led to the Deane camp. It was a rare afternoon, and the old lady, carefully dressed, primly curled, and with a bit of knitting in her hand, sauntered leisurely through the sunlit woods toward the West Branch. She was a peaceful note in the picture as she pa.s.sed among the tall spruces, or paused for a moment amid a little grove of maples that were turning red and gold, some of the leaves drifting to her feet. Perhaps she reflected that for them, as for her, the summer time was over--that their day of usefulness was nearly ended. Perhaps she recalled the days not long ago when the leaves had been fresh and fair with youth, and it may be that the thought brought back her own youth, when she had been a girl, climbing the hills back of Haverford--when there had been young men who had thought her as fresh and fair, and one who because of a misunderstanding had gone away to war without a good-bye, and had died at Wilson's Creek with a bullet through her picture on his heart.

As she lingered here and there in the light of these pleasant places, it would have been an easy task to reconstruct in that placid, faded face the beauty of forty years ago, to see in her again the strong, handsome girl who had put aside her own heritage of youth and motherhood to carry the burdens of an invalid sister, to adopt, finally, as her own, the last feeble, motherless infant, to devote her years and strength to him, to guide him step by step to a place of honor among his fellow-men.

Seeing her now, and knowing these things, it was not hard to accord her a former beauty--it was not difficult even to declare her beautiful still--for something of it all had come back, something of the old romance, of awakened purpose and the tender interest of love.

Where the trail crossed the Au Sable Falls, she paused and surveyed the place with approval.

"That would be a nice place for a weddin'," she reflected aloud.

"Charlie used to say a piece at school about 'The groves was G.o.d's first temples,' an' this makes me think of it."

Then she forgot her reflections, for a little way beyond the falls, a.s.sorting something from a basket, was the object of her visit, Constance Deane. She had spread some specimens on the gra.s.s and was comparing them with the pictures in the book beside her. As Miss Carroway approached, she greeted her cordially.

"Welcome to our camp," she said. "I have often wondered why you never came over this way. My parents will be so glad to see you. You must come right up to the house and have a cup of tea."

But Miss Carroway seated herself on the gra.s.s beside Constance, instead.

"I came over to see _you_," she said quietly, "just you alone. I had tea before I started. I want to talk about one or two things a little, an'

mebbe to give you some advice."

Constance smiled and looked down at the mushrooms on the gra.s.s.