THE ENCHANTED FOREST
Far up in the hills the Beautiful Lady went daily to the post-office for
her mail.
It was a long walk, and the path skirted the edge of the forest. Leaving
the path one entered upon a world of dim green light, a world of soft
whispering sounds, a world of enchantment; and it was into this world
that Diana's feet strayed as she came and went. It was here she spent
most of her mornings; it was here she found the solitude she craved.
The guests at the mountain house called the Beautiful Lady exclusive;
but it was an exclusiveness which matched her air of remoteness, and
since such friendships as she encouraged were with those who were lonely
and tired and sick, she made no enemies by her withdrawal from the
conventional life of the place.
The lazy folk on the porch who were content to wait for the mail bag
which came at noon by carrier always watched with curiosity the
departure and return of the stately woman who was said to be wealthy
and of great social eminence. She went alone and came back just in time
for lunch, having loitered on the way to read her letters.
The letters, however, were not always satisfying. They brought such
meager news of that which lay so near her heart! Sophie kept
persistently away from topics which might be disturbing; Bettina's
girlish epistles really told nothing--and Anthony wrote not at all.
Yet such scraps as she could glean formed the excitement of Diana's day,
and always she had a vague and formless hope--a hope for which she
reproached herself. Always she hoped for a letter from Anthony.
She knew that he ought not to write. She knew that if he did write she
would not answer--but the longing of her heart would not be stilled.
As far as possible she forced her mind to thoughts of the future, and it
was thus she had evolved the plan which she had written to Sophie. It
was the only way in which her life could be linked with Anthony's; they
would thus share in a work which might continue in interest to the end
of their days.
There were times, however, when all of her optimism, all of her
philosophy failed, and when her whole nature cried out for reality--not
for dreams.
It was on one of these days of depression that she left behind her the
hotel piazza with its chattering crowd, and drifted somewhat languidly
across the lawn, past the tennis courts, and out into the mountain path.
In her modish frock of gray linen, with a parasol of leaf green, she
seemed to merge gradually into the grayness and greenness of the forest
beyond. She might have been a dryad returning to her tree, or as an
artist in the group on the porch remarked, "a nymph in a Corot setting."
How still it was in the forest! Even the birds seemed to respect the
silences, and slipped from branch to branch like shadows. The squirrels,
flattened heads downward against gray tree trunks, whisked up and out of
sight as the intruder advanced. A strayed butterfly went by in a
wavering flight, seeking the sunshine and the flowers of the open
fields.
Diana loved the forest, but more than all she loved the sea. She missed
the wild music of the waves and wind. The hills seemed to shut her in;
she wanted the wide spaces, the limitless expanse of blue--she wanted
the harbor with its many lights.
Yet if Anthony married Betty it would be years before she would dare go
back. His work was there, and he must stay; she would be exiled from the
place she loved.
Her steps quickened as if she would fly from the thought. She passed
again beyond the edge of the arching trees, and came upon a winding
road. Its last curve brought her to a little settlement of which the
store, which was also the post-office, was the most imposing building.
The postmistress knew her and had the package ready. "Lots of letters,
two papers and a half dozen magazines," she said, cheerily. "I don't see
how you find time to read so many."
"I have nothing to do but read. I am not a lucky busy person like
yourself." Diana was smiling as she turned up the corners of each letter
to glance at the one beneath.
On top was Sophie's daily budget, black-edged and bulky. Bettina's
showed a faddish slender monogram. Following was Justin's--she knew that
boyish scrawl; a business letter or two, a bill, an advertisement, and
then--her heart leaped. On the flap of a great square envelope blazed
the seal which Anthony had chosen for his house of healing--a lighthouse
flashing its beacon over stormy waters.
The little postmistress wondered at the radiance which illumined the
face of the lovely lady. Diana, in saying a hurried farewell, sparkled
like a girl.
"You've given me such wonderful letters this morning," she said,
breathlessly. "I must run away and read them."
And she did run, literally, when she had passed beyond the limits of the
village. Holding up her narrow skirt, her parasol under her arm, her
precious burden of mail hugged tightly, she left the path, and again
entered upon the enchanted forest.
She knew of a place where she would read Anthony's letter, a warm little
hollow, with a still silver pool beyond, a pool which, with its
upstanding reeds and rushes, was merged at its farthest edge into a
blurred purple background.
Safe at last in her retreat she opened Anthony's letter, forgetting the
others in her eagerness, seeing only the firm, simple script which
crowded a dozen pages.
He began quietly, but evidently, as he wrote, Anthony had been swayed by
emotions which had mastered him, and he had written with fire and
intensity, and, as she read, her heart responded tremulously:
"DEAR DIANA:
"Sophie has told me of your plan--your wonderful plan which has to do
with my work and with me, and which shall link our futures in an
interest which shall be above reproach.
"It was like you to think of it, and I shall not try to thank you.
Indeed you will not want my thanks. You and I are beyond conventional
concealments, and you know, as I know, that the thing which you are
doing is for your own happiness as well as for mine, and I am glad
that it is so, because your happiness is the thing which I most
desire.
"I have not wanted to think of you up there in the hills. You belong
to the sea, dear girl, and I know you are missing it, as we are
missing you. I know, too, that, as you read this, you will say: 'He is
overstepping bounds. He must not write these things to me.' But I am
going to write them, Diana, for the time has come when we must face
the big truths, and let the half-truths go.
"The big truth is this--that you and I love each other. The half-truth
is--that Bettina loves me, and that I must not break her heart.
"I am troubled about Bettina. Certainly the child is not happy. All of
her brightness has left her. She is pale and thin, and I am too wise a
physician of bodies not to know something, too, of hearts. You may say
that my attitude has affected her; that she had felt instinctively the
difference in me. But it is not that. I am sure it is not that. When
I asked her to-night if there was anything between us, she faltered
that she had something to tell me that she would write.
"Perhaps I should wait until her letter comes, but I cannot wait. You
are so vividly with me at this moment, Diana, that I can almost hear
your voice calling above the noise of the wind and waves. I can see
you as I like you best--all in white. I can feel your presence as I
felt it that night in the empty house as you stood on the threshold of
that moonlighted room.
"Oh, dear girl, come back to me. I must have you in my life. Otherwise
it will be a thwarted life--and a lonely one. For whether you marry me
or not, I will not marry Betty. I do not love her, and she shall not
spend her days as the unloved wife of one whose thoughts are all with
a wonder-woman up in the hills.
"Can't you see it as I do? We must not so profane marriage, Betty and
I. There is no idea of honor so false as that which holds a man or a
woman to a promise which has ceased to have a vital and a vivid
meaning.
"No man has a right to plan for a home unless Love is to be the
corner-stone. These things are sacred, and not to be spoken of except
to those who understand. But my love for you and your love for me
would form a barrier against all the sweet and tender meanings for
Betty of wifehood and motherhood.
"That's the plain truth of it. I'm a blunt man, and I've said it as it
has come to me after days of pondering.
"I am not saying these things that I may marry you. I am saying them
because they are true. Surely we can find a way to make Bettina happy.
Her youth and loveliness must always win love. The hearts of the boys
at the club are all under her little feet, and Justin--oh, if I only
dared hope that she could care for Justin----
"But marry her I will not, even if I go alone through life.
"For me you are the One Woman, Diana. In these days of separation from
you I have thought of many things, but of none more than this: that we
men, having loved one woman, deceive ourselves, when we lose her, with
the thought that another like her may be found--but she is never
found, and so we go through life half-men, unsatisfied, with hungry
hearts.
"There's a big storm coming. I wish you might go down to the beach and
walk with me in the wind. How often we have walked together in beating
storms, Diana, and have gloried in them--so we would face the storms
of life together; so I cannot face them with any other--or alone.
"Oh, girl, come back to me. I need you. I must have you. I _will_ have
you. You are mine.
"ANTHONY."
The letter dropped from her fingers. She hid her face in her hands. His
call echoed thunderingly in her ears. But she must not listen; she must
not.
She yielded for the moment, however, to the sweetness of his insistent
demand. Curled up in the warm little hollow she dreamed of the things
which might be--putting off, as long as possible, the moment of
decision.
The other letters lay unheeded at her feet. All friendship seemed futile
at such a time. What could Sophie, or Bettina or Justin say which could
match those burning words of her lover?
[Illustration: THE OTHER LETTERS LAY UNHEEDED]
The sun, rising higher, filtered through the branches and fell like
golden rain upon the surface of the pool--the purple shadows gave way to
emerald vistas; a trail of honey-bees traveled unerringly toward a
hidden honey store. It was high noon in the forest!
Diana, waking to the fact that the hours had flown, gathered up her
other letters, and opened the one on top of the pile. It was Justin's.
What could he have to say to her, this boy who lived his life so
lightly?
But when she had read the scrawled words she sat staring at them, hardly
believing the things which had been written.
"DEAR LADY:
"Betty Dolce told me last night of her engagement to Anthony. But it
was too late. You see it has come to this: that there isn't any one
in the world for me but Betty--she's so little and young and sweet,
and she has waked up the man in me, and that's what no other girl has
ever done.
"But she won't break her promise, and last night I left her crying,
and I can't stand the thought of it. I just can't stand it. When it
was only I who suffered, I could get along, but now--why, it's Betty's
happiness against all the rest.
"Am I doing a dishonorable thing, Diana, when I ask her to tell
Anthony the truth?
"You shall decide for us. I cannot think clearly; I love her too much.
"JUSTIN."
What had inspired Justin to write to her like that? Did Betty know? Did
Sophie? She went to the reading of the other letters eagerly, and when
at last they lay before her, and the whole pitiful little story was
revealed, the tears were running down her cheeks. Oh, the unhappiness of
the dear young hearts--and the happiness which was to come!
Those who had assembled on the porch of the hotel in the before-luncheon
hour were struck by something unusual in the bearing of the Beautiful
Lady as she came toward them. All the listlessness of the morning had
gone. Her head was up and she walked swiftly, lightly.
"She makes me think of the 'Winged Victory,'" was the comment of the
observant artist. "She gives the same impression of triumphant motion."
At other times Diana had rather resented the inspection of the people on
the porch. But to-day all of the faces looked friendly--she felt that
she would like to say to them all, "I am going home to be happy." But
what she really did was to bow somewhat shyly, and to go on with flaming
cheeks.
The artist looked after her. "I wonder if she knows that she belongs to
the goddess type of the Golden Age," he said, and sighed.
It was just at dusk that Diana stepped once more within the borders of
the enchanted forest, and sought the warm little hollow beside the pool.
In her filmy gown of midnight blue she moved like a shadow among deeper
shadows--her neck and shoulders gleaming white.
* * * * *
About her were all the eerie noises of the dark, the little, little
sounds of little, little things.
"Good-bye," Diana whispered, "good-bye--dear forest."
The sounds seemed to swell triumphantly into a love song--the weird and
wonderful song of the night. From bush and branch call answered call,
mate invited mate; all the wild things of the wood were voicing their
need, each of the other.
So the Beautiful Lady left behind her the sheltered hollow in the wood,
and turned her face toward the sea with its beating storms, and she
turned with gladness.
It was late the next afternoon when she came at last to her home on the
harbor.
Sophie, warned by a telegram, was waiting for her.
"Oh, dearest dear," she said, as they embraced each other in the garden,
"you beauty! Why, Diana, you don't look a day over twenty."
"I'm so happy, Sophie. Happy women are always young. Oh, I've so much to
tell you. Your letter came with all the other letters. How silly we have
been! That's the way with half the troubles in life. How easy it would
be to be happy if only we could look into the minds of other people."
Peter Pan, hearing Diana's voice, came to them, tumultuously, leaping
above the nasturtium borders and the brilliant flower beds.
Diana picked him up. "Think of it, Peter," she said, in her thrilling
voice; "you're going to live up the road with me for all the rest of
your life--in Anthony's house, and I am going to live there, too."
Sophie gasped. "Oh, has it come to that?"
"It has come to everything that means happiness," Diana answered. "Let's
go up-stairs, Sophie, where we can talk."
As they entered the house Delia came to meet them. Her face lacked its
usual beaming welcome. "Oh, my dear," she said, "I'm glad to see you so
much better, but it is a sad errand which has brought you."
"Sad--what do you mean, Delia?"
The two women exchanged glances, and Sophie faltered, "Didn't you get my
telegram, Diana?"
"Telegram--no, I've heard nothing."
"It's Justin. He's dreadfully hurt. His air-ship fell, and Anthony has
him at Harbor Light."
She sketched the details. "Betty is there. Anthony won't let any one see
him. But he thinks Betty should be within call."
"Oh, Sophie, is it as bad as that----?"
"It is about as bad as it can be, Diana."
When they had talked it over, it was decided that Diana should call up
Anthony and ask to see Betty at Harbor Light; when she had given the
telephone number she found herself shivering with expectation. In a
moment she would hear his voice!
She was told, however, that Dr. Blake was out on an important case; that
he would not be back until late.
"Perhaps I'd better wait until he returns before I make any plans,"
Diana told Sophie, and then Sara came in--a subdued Sara, with much of
her sharpness modified, and they had dinner together, and were served by
the adoring Delia.
After dinner Diana grew restless, and, wandering alone in the garden,
found her feet straying in the direction of Anthony's house on the
rocks.
Peter Pan followed her, and waited for her when she went in, having
learned caution from his last imprisonment.
Diana knew where the key was kept, and felt for it behind a cornice. She
let herself in and shut the door behind her. The lights from the street
lamps showed that some pieces of furniture had been placed since her
last visit. There were rugs beneath her feet. On the table in the hall
was the end of a candle in a quaint silver holder, and a cup contained
matches.
She lighted the candle, and made a tour of the lower floor. In the
living-room she set two big chairs side by side on the hearth and
laughed a little, fancying her head and Anthony's close together. In the
dining-room were treasures of china--the White Canton in unchipped
dozens. She set two places on the polished table, and drank Anthony's
health in a mystical cup of tea.
She ascended the stairs. There were massive beds and massive highboys
and lowboys and tables and chairs everywhere, but in the room to which
she had brought the lilacs there was nothing but a little old-fashioned
piano, and the gray pottery bowl which had held her flowers. Evidently
Anthony had changed his plans, and this place which he had dedicated to
her was to be used simply as a sitting-room or music room for Bettina.
The candle flared and went out. Diana sat down on the old-fashioned
round stool in front of the little piano. Anthony's mother had played on
that little piano. It had been his father's gift to his bride.
With her hands resting on the keys she sat and looked out over her
beloved harbor.
There was a little silver moon--Diana's moon, the crescent of the
huntress.
Well, it was Diana's night! Her fingers struck softly the chords of the
music she had created.
[Illustration: Music score]
On the other side of the street, a tired man, coming out of a house
where a sick woman had needed his services, halted and held up his head.
He crossed the road and entered the house.
The rugs deadened the sound of his steps. He stopped on the threshold of
that upper room. He could see the faint outlines of the tall white
figure; he knew the voice, the song.
"Diana, my dear girl!"
She turned and stood up.
"Anthony--oh, Anthony, I have come back--to you."