CHAPTER XII
CONSTANCE RETURNS AND HEARS A STORY
"I only told him," Frank wrote that night to Constance, "that thehermit's story had a part in his mother's life. I suppose I might havetold 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 heshould do so. Knowing Robin, as you have, from childhood, and the sorrowof 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 againto-morrow on a trip over Marcy (Tahawus, I mean, for I hate these modernnames), but will be back by the end of the week, by which time I hopeyou 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 loveletter now. In the first place, I would not disobey orders to thatdegree, and even if I did, I know that you would say that it was onlybecause poor old Robin Gray's story and his death, and all, and perhapswandering about in these woods alone, had made me a bit sentimental.Well, who knows just whence and how emotions come? Perhaps you would beright, but if I should tell you that, during the two weeks which havenearly slipped by since that day when we found our way through the mistto the hermit's cabin, my whole point of view has somehow changed, andthat, whatever the reasons, I see with different eyes--with a new heartand with an uplifted spirit--perhaps I should be right, too; and if fromsuch a consecration my soul should speak and say, 'Dear, my heart, Ilove you, and I will love you all my days!' it may be that you wouldbelieve and understand."
Whether it was this letter, or the news it contained, or whether Mrs.Deane's improved condition warranted--from whatever reason, Constanceand her mother two days later returned to the camp on the Au Sable. Theywere given a genuine ovation as they passed the Lodge, at which pointMr. Deane joined them. Frank found his heart in a very disturbingcondition indeed as he looked once more into Miss Deane's eyes and tookher hand in welcome. Later in the day, he deemed it necessary to take awalk in the direction of the camp to see if he could be of anyassistance in making the new arrivals comfortable. It was a matter ofcourse that he should remain for dinner, and whatever change may havetaken place in him, he certainly appeared on this occasion much like theold light-hearted youth, with little thought beyond the joy of the eventand the jest of the moment.
But that night, when he parted from Constance to take the dark trailhome, he did not find it easy to go, nor yet to make an excuse forlingering. The mantle of gayety had somehow slipped away, and as theystood there in the fragrance of the firs, with the sound of fallingwater coming through the trees, the words he had meant to utter did notcome.
He spoke at last of their day together on the mountain and of theirvisit to the hermit's cabin. To both of them it seemed something of avery long time ago. Then Frank recounted in detail all that had happenedthat quiet morning when he and Robin had visited the place, and spoke ofthe letter and last wishes of the dead man.
"You are sure you do not mind letting me tell Robin the story?" shesaid; "alone, I mean? I should like to do so, and I think he wouldprefer it."
Frank looked at her through the dusk.
"I want you to do it that way," he said earnestly. "I told you so in myletter. I have a feeling that any third person would be an intruder atsuch 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 alittle 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 madeno comment. His hand found hers in the dusk, and he held it for a momentat parting.
"That is a dark way I am going," he said, looking down the trail. "But Ishall 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, itseemed:
"By the way, I have a story to read to you--a manuscript. It was writtenby some one I know, who had a copy mailed me. It came this morning. I amsure the author, whose name is to be withheld for the present, wouldappreciate your opinion."
"And my judgment is to be final, of course. Very well; Minerva holds hercourt at ten to-morrow, at the top of yon small mountain, which on theone side slopes to the lake, and on the other overlooks the pleasantValley of Decision, which borders the West Branch."
"And do I meet Minerva on the mountain top, or do I call for her at theusual address--that is to say, here?"
"You may call for Minerva. After her recent period of inactivity she mayneed assistance over the hard places."
Frank did, in fact, arrive at the camp next morning almost in time forbreakfast. Perhaps the habit of early rising had grown upon him of late.Perhaps he only wished to assure himself that Constance had reallyreturned. Even a wish to hear her opinion of the manuscript may haveexerted a certain influence.
They set out presently, followed by numerous injunctions from Mrs.Deane concerning fogs and trails and an early return. Frank had neverascended this steep little mountain back of the camp, save once by atrail 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 earlyblaze of autumn begins to kindle along the hills, when there is just aspice of frost in the air, when the air and sunlight combine in a tonicthat lifts the heart, the soul, almost the body itself, from thematerial earth.
"If you are Minerva, then I am Mercury," Frank declared as they ascendedthe first rise. "I feel that my feet have wings."
Then suddenly he paused, for they had come to a little enclosure, wherethe bushes had been but recently cleared away. There was a gate, andwithin a small grave, evidently that of a child; also a headstone uponwhich was cut the single word, "CONSTANCE."
Frank started a little as he read the name, and regarded it wonderinglywithout speaking. Then he turned to his companion with inquiry in hisface.
"That was the first little Constance," she said. "I took her place andname. 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 onthe 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 yourparents had buried a little girl. Of course, she died before you wereborn."
"No," she said, "but her death was a fearful blow. Mamma can hardlyspeak of it even to-day. She could never confess that her little girlwas 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 tobe. 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 hereand there the red and gold were beginning to gleam. From it they couldlook across toward Algonquin, where they tried to locate the spot of thehermit's cabin, and down upon the lake and the Lodge, which seemed tolie almost at their feet.
At first they merely rested and drank in the glory of the view. Then atlast Frank drew from his pocket a folded typewritten paper.
"If the court of Minerva is convened, I will lay this matter beforeher," he said.
It was not a story of startling theme that he read to her--"The Victoryof 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 astory, that one listening forgot that it was not indeed a true relation,that the people were not living and loving and suffering toward asurrender which rose to triumph with the final page. Once only Constanceinterru
pted, to say:
"Your friend is fortunate to have so good a reader to interpret hisstory. I did not know you had that quality in your voice."
He did not reply, and when he had finished reading and laid themanuscript 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'sfeatures.
"And if it were written by a woman?" he said.
Constance did not reply, and the tender look in her face grew a littlecold. A tiny bit of something which she did not recognize suddenlygerminated in her heart. It was hardly envy--she would have scorned tocall it jealousy. She rose--rather hastily, it seemed.
"Which perhaps accounts for your having read it so well," she said. "Idid not realize, and--I suppose such a story might be written by almostany 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 amsure Mamma is worrying about us already."
The Lucky Piece: A Tale of the North Woods Page 13
