WHAT THE SMALL WOMAN IN BLACK SAW
With September the hurry at the Lodge subsided. Vacations were beginning
to be over--mountain climbers and wood rangers were returning to office,
studio and classroom. Those who remained were chiefly men and women
bound to no regular occupations, caring more for the woods when the
crowds of summer had departed and the red and gold of autumn were
marching down the mountain side.
It had been a busy season at the Lodge, and Edith Morrison's face told
the tale. The constant responsibility, and the effort to maintain the
standard of entertainment, had left a worn look in her eyes and taken
the color from her cheeks. The burden had lain chiefly on her young
shoulders. Her father was invaluable as an entertainer and had a fund of
information, but he was without practical resources, and the strain upon
Edith had told. If for another reason a cloud had settled on her brow
and a shadow had gathered in her heart, she had uttered no word, but had
gone on, day by day, early and late, devising means and supervising
methods--doing whatever was necessary to the management of a big
household through all those busy weeks.
Little more than the others had she seen Robin during those last August
days. He had been absent almost constantly. When he returned it was
usually late, and such was the demand upon this most popular of
Adirondack guides that in nearly every case he found a party waiting for
early departure. If Edith suspected that there were times when he might
have returned sooner, when she believed that he had paused at the camp
on the west branch of the Au Sable, she still spoke no word and made no
definite outward sign. Whatever she brooded in her heart was in that
secret and silence which may have come down to her, with those black
eyes and that glossy hair, from some old ancestor who silently in his
wigwam pointed his arrows and cuddled his resentment to keep it warm. It
had happened that during the days when Constance had been absent with
her mother Robin had twice returned at an earlier hour, and this could
hardly fail to strengthen any suspicion that might already exist of his
fidelity, especially as the little woman in black had commented on the
matter in Edith's presence, as well as upon the fact that immediately
after the return of the absent ones he failed to reach the Lodge by
daylight. It is a fact well established that once we begin to look for
heartache we always find it--and, as well, some one to aid us in the
search.
Not that Edith had made a confidante of the sinister-clad little woman.
On the whole, she disliked her and was much more drawn toward the
good-natured but garrulous old optimist, Miss Carroway, who saw with
clear undistorted vision, and never failed to say a word--a great many
words, in fact--that carried comfort because they constituted a plea for
the creed of general happiness and the scheme of universal good. Had
Edith sought a confidante merely for the sake of easing her heart, it is
likely that it was to this good old spinster that she would have turned.
But a nature such as hers does not confide its soul-hurt merely for the
sake of consolation. In the beginning, when she had hinted something of
it to Robin, he had laughed her fears away. Then, a little later, she
had spoken to Frank Weatherby, for his sake as well as for her own. He
had not laughed, but had listened and reflected, for the time at least;
and his manner and his manhood, and that which she considered a bond of
sympathy between them, made him the one to whom she must turn, now when
the time had come to speak again.
There came a day when Robin did not go to the woods. In the morning he
had been about the Lodge and the guides' cabin, of which he was now the
sole occupant, greeting Edith in his old manner and suggesting a walk
later in the day. But the girl pleaded a number of household duties, and
presently Robin disappeared to return no more until late in the
afternoon. When he did appear he seemed abstracted and grave, and went
to the cabin to prepare for a trip next morning. Frank Weatherby, who
had been putting in most of the day over some papers in his room, now
returning from a run up the hillside to a point where he could watch the
sunset, paused to look in, in passing.
"Miss Deane has been telling me the hermit's story," Robin said, as he
saw who it was. "It seems to me one of the saddest stories I ever heard.
My regret is that he did not tell it to me himself, years ago. Poor old
fellow! As if I would have let it make any difference!"
"But he could not be sure," said Frank. "You were all in the world to
him, and he could not afford to take the chance of losing you."
"And to think that all those years he lived up there, watching our
struggle. And what a hard struggle it was! Poor mother--I wish she might
have known he was there!"
Neither spoke for a time. Then they reviewed their visit to the
hermitage together, when they had performed the last sad offices for its
lonely occupant. Next morning Robin was away with his party and Frank
wandered over to the camp, but found no one there besides the servants.
He surmised that Constance and her parents had gone to visit the little
grave on the hillside, and followed in that direction, thinking to meet
them. He was nearing the spot when, at a turn in the path, he saw them.
He was unobserved, and he saw that Constance had her arms about Mrs.
Deane, who was weeping. He withdrew silently and walked slowly back to
the Lodge, where he spent the rest of the morning over a writing table
in his room, while on the veranda the Circle of Industry--still active,
though much reduced as to numbers--discussed the fact that of late Mr.
Weatherby was seen oftener at the Lodge, while, on the other hand,
Constance had scarcely been seen there since her return. The little
woman in black shook her head ominously and hinted that she might tell a
good deal if she would, an attitude which Miss Carroway promptly
resented, declaring that she had thus far never known her to keep back
anything that was worth telling.
It was during the afternoon that Frank, loitering through a little grove
of birches near the boat landing, came face to face with Edith Morrison.
He saw in an instant that she had something to say to him. She was as
white as the birches about her, while in her eyes there was the bright,
burning look he had seen there once before, now more fierce and
intensified. She paused by a mossy-covered bowlder called the "stone
seat," and rested her hand upon it. Frank saw that she was trembling
violently. He started to speak, but she forestalled him.
"I have something to tell you," she began, with hurried eagerness. "I
spoke of it once before, when I only suspected. Now I know. I don't
think you believed me then, and I doubted, sometimes, myself. But I do
not doubt any longer. We have been fools all along, you and I. They have
never cared for us since she came, but only for each other. And instead
of telling us, as brave people would, they have let us go on--blinding
us so they could blind others, or perhaps thinking we do not matter
enough for them to care. Oh, you are kind and good, and willing to
believe in them, but they shall not deceive you any longer. I know the
truth, and I mean that you shall know it, too."
Out of the varying emotions with which the young man listened to the
rapid torrent of words, there came the conviction that without doubt the
girl, to have been stirred so deeply, must have seen or heard something
which she regarded as definite. He believed that she was mistaken, but
it was necessary that he should hear her, in order, if possible to
convince her of her error. He motioned her into the seat formed by the
bowlder, for she seemed weak from over-excitement. Leaning against it,
he looked down into her dark, striking face, startled to see how worn
and frail she seemed.
"Miss Morrison," he began gently, "you are overwrought. You have had a
hard summer, with many cares. Perhaps you have not been able to see
quite clearly--perhaps things are not as you suppose--perhaps----"
She interrupted him.
"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 reassurance. 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 circumstances 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 gods 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? Nobody would care--he least of all.
If it were true, the few weeks of real life that had passed 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.