THEY were a timely arrival--those new friends who had found Edith
Dunmore. She was no longer satisfied with the narrow world in which her
father had imprisoned her, and had begun to wander alone as if in quest
of a better one. That hour of revelation on the shore of Birch Cove led
quickly to others quite as wonderful.
She had no sooner reached home than she told her grandmother of the
young man and the children who had come with him to the shore of
Catamount and of a strange happiness in her heart. It was then that a
sense of duty in the old Scotchwoman broke away from promises to her son
which had long suppressed it.
As they sat alone, together, the old lady talked to her granddaughter of
the mysteries of life and love and death. Much in this talk the girl
had gathered for herself, by inference, out of books--mostly fairy tales
that her father had brought to her--and out of the evasions which had
greeted her questioning and out of her own heart.
Her queries followed one another fast and were answered freely. She
learned, among other things, a part of the reason for their lonely
life--that her father was not like other men, not even like himself;
that their isolation had been a wicked and foolish error; that men were
not, mostly, children of the devil seeking whom they might destroy, but
kindly, giving and desiring love; that she, Edith Dunmore, had a right
to live like the rest of God's children, and to love and be loved and
given in marriage and to have her part in the world's history.
All this and much good counsel besides the old lady gave to the girl who
sat a long time pondering after her grandmother had left her.
In the miracle of birth and the storied change that follows dissolution
she saw the magic of fairyland. To her Paristan had been much more real
than the republic in which she lived.
She longed for the hour to come when she should again see those
wonderful children and the still more wonderful being who had brought
them in his canoe.
Next morning she set out early in the trail to Catamount with her little
guide and companion. She had named him Roc, after the famous bird of
Oriental tradition. She arrived there long before the hour appointed.
Slowly she wandered to the trail over which Master and the children
would be sure to come. She approached the camp at Lost River and stood
peering through thickets of young fir, She saw the boy and girl at
play, and watched them. Soon Master came out of one of the cabins. Now,
somehow, she felt a greater fear of him than before, yet she longed to
look into his face--to feel the touch of his hand.
The crow had taken his perch in a small tree beside his mistress. He
seemed to be looking thoughtfully at the children, with now and then a
little croak of criticism or of amusement, ending frequently in a sound
like half-suppressed laughter. He raised a foot and slowly scratched his
head, a gaze of meditation deepening in his eyes. Suddenly his interest
seemed to grow keener. He moved a step aside, rose in the air, and
approached the children. Darting to the ground, he picked up a little
silver compass which, one of them had dropped, and quickly returned with
it. The children called to Master, and all three followed the crow. His
mistress, scarcely knowing why, had run up the trail, and Roc pursued
her with foot and wing, croaking urgently, as if his life and spoil
depended on their haste. Reaching a thicket beside the trail, she hid
under its sheltering cover and sat down to rest. The crow, following,
scrambled upon her shoulder and dropped the bit of silver into her lap.
She held his beak to keep him quiet when Master and the children came
near, but as the latter were passing they could hear the smothered
laughter of Roc.
In a moment Socky and Sue ran to their new friend, while Master waited
near them. The crow spread his wings and seemed to threaten with a
scolding chatter. The girl threw the bird in the air and took the hands
of the children and drew them to her breast. She held them close and
looked into their faces.
"Dear fairies!" said she, impulsively kissing them.
"Tell us where the cranes go with--with the young fairies," Sue managed
to say, her hands and voice trembling.
Miss Dunmore sat looking down sadly for a little before she answered.
Sue, curiously, felt "the lady's" cheeks that were now rose-red and
beautiful.
"I will tell you what my father says," the latter began. "The cranes
take them to Slum-bercity on a great marsh and put them in their nests.
The heads of the young fairies are bald and smooth and the cranes sit on
them as if they were eggs. By-and-by wonderful thoughts and dreams come
into them so that the fairies wake up and begin crying for they are
very hungry. They remember the spring of milk, but they are so young and
helpless they can only reach out their hands and cry for it. Some of the
cranes stand on one leg in the marsh and listen. The moment they hear
the young fairies crying they fly away to find mothers for them. The
unhappy little things are really not fairies any more--they are babies.
Some of the cranes come and dance around the nest to keep them quiet,
and the babies sit up and open their eyes and begin to laugh, it is so
very funny. And that night a big crane sits by the side of each baby and
the baby creeps on his back and rides away to his mother. And he is so
weary after his ride that he sleeps and is scarcely able to move, and
when he wakes and smiles and laughs, he remembers how the cranes danced
in the marsh."
Curiously, silently, the children looked into her face, while she, with
wonder equal to their own, put her arms around them.
"My father says that there are no people--that we are really nothing but
young fairies asleep and dreaming up in the tops of the trees, and that
the fairy heaven is not here."
She gazed into the eyes of the boy a moment, all unconscious of
his mental limitations. Then she added, "You're nothing but a big
fairy--you're so very young."
Socky drew away with a look of injury and threw out his chest.
"I'm six years old," he answered, with dignity. "In a little while I'll
be a man."
Miss Dunmore drew them close to her and said, "I wish I could take you
home with me."
"Have you any maple sugar there?" the little girl inquired.
"Yes, and a tame fox and a little fawn."
"But you'ain't got no Uncle Silas," said the boy, boastfully.
"Ner no Aunt Sinth," Sue ventured. Then, with her tiny fingers, she felt
the neck of "the beautiful lady" to see if there were a "mold" on it.
She was thinking of one of the chief attractions of her aunt. In a
moment she added, "Ner no Uncle Robert." They had begun to call him
Uncle Robert.
"Is he the man I saw?" the maiden asked.
Both children nodded affirmatively.
"Do you love him?"
"Yes; would you like to take him home with you, too?" Socky asked, with
a look of deep interest. If they were to go he would wish to have his
new uncle with them, and Sue saw the point.
"He can carry you on his back and growl jes' like a bear," she urged.
"He can put his mouth on your cheek and make such a funny noise."
Miss Dunmore looked away, blushing red. It was a curious kind of
love-making. She whispered in the ear of the little girl, "Would you let
me have him?"
Sue looked up into her eyes doubtfully.
"She wants our Uncle Robert," Socky guessed aloud.
"But not to keep?" Sue questioned, as if it were not to be thought of.
The eyes of the children were looking into those of "the beautiful
lady."
"I couldn't have him?" the latter asked.
"We'll give you our coon," Sue suggested, by way of compromise.
"I am sure he--your uncle--would not go with me," Miss Dunmore
suggested.
Socky seemed now to think that the time had come for authoritative
information. He broke away and called to his new uncle.
The maiden rose quickly, blushing with surprise. She turned away as
Robert Master came in sight, and stood for half a moment looking down.
Then, stooping, she picked a wild flower and timidly offered it. The act
was full of childish simplicity. It spoke for her as her tongue could
not. Knowledge acquired since she saw him last had possibly increased
her shyness.
"She wants you," said the boy, with vast innocence, while he looked up
at the young man.
"I wish I could believe it were true," said Master, as he came nearer by
a step to the daughter of the woodland.
She turned with a look of fear and said, "I must go," as she ran to the
trail, followed by Roc.
A little distance away she turned, looking back at the young man.
Something in her eyes told of a soul beneath them lovelier than its
nobly fashioned house. Moreover, they proclaimed the secret which she
would fain have kept.
"Shall we shake hands?" he asked.
She took a step towards him and stopped.
"No," she answered.
"I must see you again," said Master, with passionate eagerness, fearing
that she was about to leave.
She looked down but made no answer. The children put their arms about
her knees as if to detain her.
"You will not forget to come Thursday?" he added.
"The beautiful lady" stood looking at him, her left hand upon her chin,
her arms bare to the elbows. A smile, an almost imperceptible nod, and
the eloquence of her eyes were the only answer she gave him, but they
were enough.
"Will you not speak to me?" the young man urged, as he came nearer.
She stood looking, curiously, until he could almost have touched her.
Then, gently, she pushed the children away and fled up the trail, her
pet following. In a moment she had gone out of sight.
She was like the spirit of the woodland--wild, beautiful, silent.