AT THE AUCTION.
"Assuredly the thing is to be sold."
Although the September days were warm, it was plain that summer was departing. The flutter of yellow butterflies along the road told it, so did the bursting pods of the milkweed, and the golden-rod and asters, wreathing the meadows in royal colors.
The potting of plants began in the gardens, housewifely minds turned to fall cleaning, the spicy odor of tomato catsup pervaded the atmosphere, and the sound of the school bell was heard in the land.
It was always so, Belle groaned. Just when out of doors grew most alluring, lessons put in their superior claim. To be sure, there were some free afternoons and always Saturdays, but one did not want to lose a moment of the fleeting beauty.
Rosalind missed somewhat the constant companionship of her friends. Mrs. Whittredge thought it hardly worth while to enter her in school for two months, but at the instigation of Miss Herbert some home instruction was begun. This Uncle Allan had no conscience about interrupting whenever he wanted Rosalind for a drive or walk. As yet he said nothing about leaving Friendship. A few brief sentences had been exchanged with his mother upon the subject that weighed most heavily on his mind.
"Has anything ever been done, any step taken, to correct the unfounded report which got out at the time of my father's death, in regard to Dr. Fair's treatment of the case?" he asked abruptly one evening.
The color rose in Mrs. Whittredge's face, and she looked up from her work. "I do not understand you. How do you know it was unfounded?"
"For one thing, because I have taken pains to investigate. I saw Dr. Bell in Baltimore."
"May I ask why this sudden zeal?" His mother went on taking careful stitches in a piece of linen.
"For the reason that until a few weeks ago I knew nothing about it. Now I cannot rest till the cruel wrong has been in some measure righted."
"And you conclude without question, at once, that all the wrong is on one side. But I should not be surprised. I have ever been the last to be considered by my children."
"You are not quite fair, mother," Allan answered gently, touched by the unhappy bit of truth in this remark; "but I'll not defend myself more than to say that I am not judging any one. I only wish the wrong on our side made right." And he added, what he realized afterward had the sound of a threat, "Unless it is done, I can never call Friendship my home."
Here it ended for the time.
And now, after a week of rain, October began with perfect weather, and from the strangers who flocked to the auction, attracted by reports of Lowestoft plates and Sheraton furniture, were heard many expressions of delight at the beauty of the old town.
For two hours before the sale began, a stream of people passed through the house, examining its contents, or wandered about the grounds, admiring the view and the fine beech trees. Friendship itself was well represented in the throng, but rather in the character of interested onlookers than probable purchasers.
Miss Betty was there to watch the fate of her silver, and Allan Whittredge had brought Rosalind, who was eager to see for herself what an auction was like. She hung entranced over Patricia's miniature, which with some other small things of value had been placed in a glass case in the library, until her uncle told her if she would select some article of furniture that particularly pleased her, he would try to get it for her. This delighted her beyond measure, and after much consideration she chose a chest of drawers, with a small mirror above it, swung between two sportive and graceful dolphins. "The little dolphin bureau," she called it.
"SHE CHOSE A CHEST OF DRAWERS."
The sale was to begin at eleven o'clock, and silverware and china were first to be disposed of. The long drawing-room was full of camp chairs, and the audience had begun to assemble when Rosalind entered and sat down in a corner to wait for her uncle, who was interviewing the auctioneer. Two rows in front of her she saw Miss Betty, with Mrs. Parton and Mrs. Molesworth.
"Do you expect to bid on your cream-jug and sugar-bowl when they are put up, Betty?" asked Mrs. Parton; adding, "How this chair squeaks! I wonder if it will hold me."
"I haven't made up my mind," was the answer. "It goes against the grain to give money for what is really mine already. I can't get over the impression that this is a funeral instead of a sale."
"I wonder if the Whittredges will buy anything. I saw Allan in the hall," said Mrs. Molesworth. She was a tall, angular person, with a severe manner, a marked contrast to Mrs. Parton, with her ample proportions and laughing face. "By the way, Betty," she continued, "what has become of the ring?"
"I know no more than you."
The entrance of several strangers and some confusion about seats, kept Rosalind from hearing any more of the conversation for a time. A portly man completely blocked the way, and she began to wonder if her uncle would be able to get to the chair she was keeping for him.
When things were quiet again, she heard Mrs. Molesworth say, leaning over Miss Betty and speaking to Mrs. Parton, "Why, she was an actress, wasn't she?"
"I don't see that that was such an insuperable objection," Mrs. Parton replied, "In point of family she was just as good as he, perhaps a little better. The colonel and I met a lady at Cape May who knew them well. This girl was left an orphan early, and through the rascality of her guardian found herself penniless at seventeen. She had inherited the artistic gift of her family, only in her it took the dramatic turn, and necessity and her surroundings all combined to lead her in that direction. Then just as she was making a success she gave it up to marry—" Another interruption, and Rosalind did not hear whom she married.
Her uncle now managed to join her by stepping over the backs of chairs, and it was not long before the sale began.
From the start it was evident the city people had not come to look on. Bidding was spirited, and Miss Betty's silver soon went "out of sight," as Mrs. Parton expressed it.
Rosalind was highly entertained, and whenever her uncle put in a quiet bid, as he did now and then, she held her breath, fairly, for fear he would not get what he wanted.
To Allan there was an unreality about it all. It seemed so short a time since he and Genevieve and Celia had been children together, taking tea with Cousin Thomas and Cousin Anne. What a strange household the two had constituted in this old mansion, where their whole lives had been spent. As he thought of it, he felt he had an inkling of why Thomas Gilpin had done as he did. Perhaps he had felt it would be better to have a clean sweep, and thus make possible for some one a fresh beginning in the old place. A fine substantial house it was, needing only a few improvements to make of it, with its spacious, high-ceiled rooms and wide hall, a most desirable residence.
Rosalind's voice recalled him. "May I come again this afternoon, Uncle Allan? They may begin on the furniture."
The auction continued for three or four days. Rosalind became the proud possessor of the dolphin bureau; and her uncle obtained also the miniature of Patricia, for what seemed indeed an extravagant sum, but he had given his promise to his sister.
At the close of the sale on the second day, Allan went into the library to examine some books. The throng of onlookers and buyers had dispersed; only the auctioneer's assistants remained at work in the hall. Purchases had been promptly removed, and the house already seemed dismantled and bare.
Absorbed in his search for a volume not on the catalogue, but which he felt sure was somewhere on the shelves, he became aware of Celia Fair's voice just outside the door. The next moment she entered the library and, going to the fireplace, stooped to examine the andirons. She had not observed him. Should he go quietly out, or make one more appeal to be heard? Allan hesitated.
With her hand on the high mantel-shelf and her head against her hand, Celia stood looking down on the vacant hearth. There was something of weariness in the attitude. What a delicate bit of porcelain she seemed! Allan had a sudden, illogical vision of a fire of blazing logs, and himself and Celia sitting before it.
He moved out of the shadow and she saw him; but though she stood erect and tense in a moment, she did not, as he expected, hasten from the room. Instead, she hesitated, and there was an appeal in her eyes very different from the defiance of a few weeks ago.
"I didn't know there was any one here," she said; adding, "Mr. Whittredge, I have wanted to have an opportunity to say that I regret my rudeness. I was unreasonable—I am sorry."
The childishness of the speech went to Allan's heart. He was conscious of keeping a very tight rein on himself as he answered, "Do not say that. I can understand a little of what you must feel. But does it mean that I may speak now and tell you that only a few weeks ago I first learned the cruel, the unwarranted, charge against your father? I had not understood before."
Celia lifted her hand as if to ward off a blow, but she did not speak.
Allan continued, "My silence must have seemed like a consent to it. And now, can we not meet, if only for a few minutes, on common ground? Must we be enemies because—"
"Not enemies—oh, no," Celia said, looking toward the door as if she wished to end the interview.
"Then—you will think me very insistent—but there is something I must explain to you. First, won't you let me give you a chair?"
"Thank you, I'll stand," Celia answered; she moved, however, to a table and leaned against it.
"It is about the ring. You perhaps remember the wording of the will? Before I left home to go abroad, so long ago, when I bade good-by to old Mr. Gilpin, he said to me, with that odd chuckle of his, 'Allan, I want Celia to have the ring when I die,' I replied that I hoped he would leave it to you in his will. Again, as I was leaving him, he called after me, 'Remember, Celia is to have the ring,' It escaped my mind until I heard of the will, then of course I remembered. I think he had a feeling that if he left it to anybody it should be to a member of our family, and yet he wished you to have it. Now we both know what the old man had in mind; but, although things have changed between us since then, the fact remains that the ring is yours." Allan took the little worn case from his breast pocket and held it out.
Celia looked at his extended hand, and shook her head. "I cannot take it," she said.
"But it does not belong to me; you must take it. You put me in an awkward position by refusing."
Celia's eyes flashed. "And how about my position if I should take it? Has not all Friendship been speculating about the meaning of the Gilpin will? Is not everybody wondering what you are going to do with it? What—" She paused, clearly unable to keep her voice steady.
She seemed about to hurry away when Allan intercepted her. "Forgive me—wait—just a moment. I see now. I was unpardonably stupid. I am not in the habit of considering what people say or may think, but I can see it would not do. I seem to be always annoying you," he concluded helplessly.
A faint smile dawned on Celia's face. "No one can help it; it is just an awkward situation," she said, and left him.