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."