CONSTANCE RETURNS AND HEARS A STORY
"I only told him," Frank wrote that night to Constance, "that the
hermit's story had a part in his mother's life. I suppose I might have
told him more, but he seemed quite willing to wait and hear it from you,
as suggested by the hermit's letter, and I was only too willing that he
should do so. Knowing Robin, as you have, from childhood, and the sorrow
of his early days and all, you are much better fitted to tell the story,
and you will tell it much better than I. Robin is to leave again
to-morrow on a trip over Marcy (Tahawus, I mean, for I hate these modern
names), but will be back by the end of the week, by which time I hope
you also will once more make glad these lonesome forest glades.
Seriously, Conny, I long for you much more than perhaps you realize or,
I am sure, would permit me to say. And I don't mean to write a love
letter now. In the first place, I would not disobey orders to that
degree, and even if I did, I know that you would say that it was only
because poor old Robin Gray's story and his death, and all, and perhaps
wandering about in these woods alone, had made me a bit sentimental.
Well, who knows just whence and how emotions come? Perhaps you would be
right, but if I should tell you that, during the two weeks which have
nearly slipped by since that day when we found our way through the mist
to the hermit's cabin, my whole point of view has somehow changed, and
that, whatever the reasons, I see with different eyes--with a new heart
and with an uplifted spirit--perhaps I should be right, too; and if from
such a consecration my soul should speak and say, 'Dear, my heart, I
love you, and I will love you all my days!' it may be that you would
believe and understand."
Whether it was this letter, or the news it contained, or whether Mrs.
Deane's improved condition warranted--from whatever reason, Constance
and her mother two days later returned to the camp on the Au Sable. They
were given a genuine ovation as they passed the Lodge, at which point
Mr. Deane joined them. Frank found his heart in a very disturbing
condition indeed as he looked once more into Miss Deane's eyes and took
her hand in welcome. Later in the day, he deemed it necessary to take a
walk in the direction of the camp to see if he could be of any
assistance in making the new arrivals comfortable. It was a matter of
course that he should remain for dinner, and whatever change may have
taken place in him, he certainly appeared on this occasion much like the
old light-hearted youth, with little thought beyond the joy of the event
and the jest of the moment.
But that night, when he parted from Constance to take the dark trail
home, he did not find it easy to go, nor yet to make an excuse for
lingering. The mantle of gayety had somehow slipped away, and as they
stood there in the fragrance of the firs, with the sound of falling
water coming through the trees, the words he had meant to utter did not
come.
He spoke at last of their day together on the mountain and of their
visit to the hermit's cabin. To both of them it seemed something of a
very long time ago. Then Frank recounted in detail all that had happened
that quiet morning when he and Robin had visited the place, and spoke of
the letter and last wishes of the dead man.
"You are sure you do not mind letting me tell Robin the story?" she
said; "alone, I mean? I should like to do so, and I think he would
prefer it."
Frank looked at her through the dusk.
"I want you to do it that way," he said earnestly. "I told you so in my
letter. I have a feeling that any third person would be an intruder at
such a time. It seems to me that you are the only one to tell him."
"Yes," she agreed, after a pause, "I am. I--knew Robin's mother. I was a
little girl, but I remember. Oh, you will understand it all, some day."
Frank may have wondered vaguely why she put it in that way, but he made
no comment. His hand found hers in the dusk, and he held it for a moment
at parting.
"That is a dark way I am going," he said, looking down the trail. "But I
shall not even remember the darkness, now that you are here again."
Constance laughed softly.
"Perhaps it is my halo that makes the difference."
A moment later he had turned to go, but paused to say--casually, it
seemed:
"By the way, I have a story to read to you--a manuscript. It was written
by some one I know, who had a copy mailed me. It came this morning. I am
sure the author, whose name is to be withheld for the present, would
appreciate your opinion."
"And my judgment is to be final, of course. Very well; Minerva holds her
court at ten to-morrow, at the top of yon small mountain, which on the
one side slopes to the lake, and on the other overlooks the pleasant
Valley of Decision, which borders the West Branch."
"And do I meet Minerva on the mountain top, or do I call for her at the
usual address--that is to say, here?"
"You may call for Minerva. After her recent period of inactivity she may
need assistance over the hard places."
Frank did, in fact, arrive at the camp next morning almost in time for
breakfast. Perhaps the habit of early rising had grown upon him of late.
Perhaps he only wished to assure himself that Constance had really
returned. Even a wish to hear her opinion of the manuscript may have
exerted a certain influence.
They set out presently, followed by numerous injunctions from Mrs.
Deane concerning fogs and trails and an early return. Frank had never
ascended this steep little mountain back of the camp, save once by a
trail that started from near the Lodge. He let Constance take the lead.
It was a rare morning--one of the first September days, when the early
blaze of autumn begins to kindle along the hills, when there is just a
spice of frost in the air, when the air and sunlight combine in a tonic
that lifts the heart, the soul, almost the body itself, from the
material earth.
"If you are Minerva, then I am Mercury," Frank declared as they ascended
the first rise. "I feel that my feet have wings."
Then suddenly he paused, for they had come to a little enclosure, where
the bushes had been but recently cleared away. There was a gate, and
within a small grave, evidently that of a child; also a headstone upon
which was cut the single word, "CONSTANCE."
Frank started a little as he read the name, and regarded it wonderingly
without speaking. Then he turned to his companion with inquiry in his
face.
"That was the first little Constance," she said. "I took her place and
name. She always loved this spot, so when she died they laid her here.
They expected to come back sooner. Her mother wanted just the name on
the stone."
Frank had a strange feeling as he regarded the little grave.
"I never knew that you had lost a sister," he said. "I mean that your
parents had buried a little girl. Of course, she died before you were
born."
"No," she said, "but her death was a fearful blow. Mamma can hardly
speak of it even to-day. She could never confess that her little girl
was dead, so they called me by her name. I cannot explain it all now."
Frank said musingly:
"I remember your saying once that you were not even what you seemed to
be. Is this what you meant?"
She nodded.
"Yes; that is what I meant."
They pushed on up the hill, without many words.
The little enclosure and the graven stone had made them thoughtful.
Arriving at the peak they found, at the brow of a cliff, a broad,
shelving stone which hung out over a deep, wooded hollow, where here
and there the red and gold were beginning to gleam. From it they could
look across toward Algonquin, where they tried to locate the spot of the
hermit's cabin, and down upon the lake and the Lodge, which seemed to
lie almost at their feet.
At first they merely rested and drank in the glory of the view. Then at
last Frank drew from his pocket a folded typewritten paper.
"If the court of Minerva is convened, I will lay this matter before
her," he said.
It was not a story of startling theme that he read to her--"The Victory
of Defeat"; it was only a tale of a man's love, devotion and sacrifice,
but it was told so simply, with so little attempt to make it seem a
story, that one listening forgot that it was not indeed a true relation,
that the people were not living and loving and suffering toward a
surrender which rose to triumph with the final page. Once only Constance
interrupted, to say:
"Your friend is fortunate to have so good a reader to interpret his
story. I did not know you had that quality in your voice."
He did not reply, and when he had finished reading and laid the
manuscript down he waited for her comment. It was rather unexpected.
"You must be very fond of the one who wrote that," she said.
He looked at her quickly, hardly sure of her meaning. Then he smiled.
"I am. Almost too much so, perhaps."
"But why? I think I could love the man who did that story."
An expression half quizzical, half gratified, flitted across Frank's
features.
"And if it were written by a woman?" he said.
Constance did not reply, and the tender look in her face grew a little
cold. A tiny bit of something which she did not recognize suddenly
germinated in her heart. It was hardly envy--she would have scorned to
call it jealousy. She rose--rather hastily, it seemed.
"Which perhaps accounts for your having read it so well," she said. "I
did not realize, and--I suppose such a story might be written by almost
any woman except myself."
Frank caught up the manuscript and poised it like a missile.
"Another word and it goes over the cliff," he threatened.
She caught back his arm, laughing naturally enough.
"It is ourselves that must be going over the cliff," she declared. "I am
sure Mamma is worrying about us already."