"And there begins my sadness."
Allan Whittredge, strolling up the hill toward the Gilpin place late in
the afternoon, became aware of a dejected figure approaching, which
presently resolved itself into Katherine Roberts, who paused every few
minutes to press her handkerchief to her eyes.
"Why, Katherine, what is the trouble?" he asked, when he reached her side.
She stood still, not answering, and with her eyes covered. No one was in
sight up or down the street. Allan drew her toward a convenient carriage
block and, sitting beside her, asked his question again. His manner was
winning, and Katherine, in great need of sympathy, sobbed, "They won't
like me any more."
"Who won't?"
"Jack or Rosalind, or any of them," came in quivering tones.
"Why, what have you done that is so terrible? I thought quarrels were
unknown in the Forest."
Katherine shook her head. "It wasn't a quarrel. I was afraid because it
was dark,--and Jack said I was a coward. He told Maurice and Miss Celia
so." The confession ended in more tears.
Patiently Allan questioned and listened until he had a fairly clear idea
of the situation. Then he spoke with cheerfulness.
"You all ought to be dealt with for getting into such mischief," he said.
"And now don't cry any more. Many a soldier has run away from his first
battle-field. If I were you, I'd own up I had been a coward and say I was
sorry. Do you want to come back with me, and see the end of this
adventure?"
Greatly comforted, Katherine dried her eyes and decided to go with Mr.
Whittredge. Jack might not be so hard on her when he saw her under such
protection.
By this time Jack had found Morgan and brought him to the Gilpin house,
where Celia and Maurice were waiting; and at Celia's suggestion he went
in and opened the side door, thus making entrance easy for the others.
"How silly not to have thought of letting Maurice in this way before," he
exclaimed.
The old house, a moment before so ghostly, now rang with the sound of
voices as Rosalind, leaning over the stair rail, joyfully welcomed the
rescuers.
The magician had some tools with him, but be seemed puzzled at first as to
what the trouble could be, when Celia said, "I know what the matter is.
Belle, isn't there a little catch at the side of the lock that moves up
and down? Try."
"Yes," answered Belle, after a moment's investigation.
"Then push it up," said Celia, but before the words were out of her mouth
Belle had the door open and was being as warmly welcomed by Rosalind as if
they had been separated for years instead of minutes.
Belle was really pale from the trying experience, and had to wink rapidly
to keep the tears of relief out of her eyes, while Celia explained the
accident.
"You see, when Jack banged the door the catch fell and kept the knob from
turning. We have one that has given us a good deal of trouble." Then she
put her arm around Belle and reminded her that the way of transgressors is
hard.
"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. Association 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 God, 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.