UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE.
"Must you then be proud and pitiless?"
The book containing the constitution of the Arden Foresters lay on the garden bench. The Foresters themselves were spending the afternoon at the creek at the foot of Red Hill. All was quiet in the neighborhood. The bank doors had closed two hours ago, and Friendship seemed to have retired for its afternoon nap.
Allan Whittredge unfolded the County News and glanced over it, then laid it on his knee and gazed across the lawn with a thoughtful frown. The County News presented no problems, but life in this quiet village of Friendship did. His talk with Miss Betty had brought him face to face with them. He was conscious now that his attitude had been one of complacent superiority. He had held himself above the pettiness of village life only to discover, as he admitted frankly, that he had been a conceited fool.
His own indignation helped him to realize something of what Celia must have felt at the cruel affront to her father. And his silence all this while made him seem a party to it. It was an intolerable thought, but Allan was not one to brood over difficulties; a gleam of what Miss Betty called the Barnwell stubbornness shone in his eyes as he made an inward vow to find some way to convince Celia of his ignorance of much which had happened at the time of his father's death, and to gain from his mother an admission of her mistake. The question how to accomplish this, filled him with a helpless impatience.
He took up the book that lay beside him and opened it. "The secret of the Forest: Good in everything," he read. "To remember the secret of the Forest, to bear hard things bravely—" He turned the leaves and saw under Morgan's straggling characters the once familiar writing of Celia Fair,—the firm, delicate backhand, so suggestive, to one who knew her, of the determination that lay beneath her gentleness. Did Celia believe there was good in everything? Surely not in all this trouble. Yet she was bearing hard things bravely, if all he heard were true. It hurt him to think of her carrying a load of responsibility and care. His own life seemed tame from its very lack of care.
He closed the book with decision. His task was to unravel these twisted threads of hatred and misunderstanding, and he would do it.
Meanwhile, he found time for other things. He began to cultivate the society of the Arden Foresters, and to be a boy again in earnest.
Boating on the picturesque little river was one of the pleasures of Friendship. Jack Parton and his brothers owned a boat, the Mermaid; and Allan now provided himself with one, which he delighted Rosalind by naming for her. After this the Mermaid and the Rosalind might frequently be seen following the narrow stream in its winding course, making their way among water lilies and yellow and purple spatter-dock, between banks fringed with willows and wild oats and here and there a dump of cat-tails. What pleasanter way than this of spending the early summer mornings? And then to find some shady anchorage, where lunch could be eaten and the hours fleeted away merrily until the cool of the afternoon.
With only three in each boat, it was light work for the oarsman; and as rowing was something Maurice could do, and as the girls liked to take their turn, it often happened that Mr. Whittredge had nothing to do but enjoy himself.
Allan smiled sometimes to think how much pleasure he found in the society of these young people. He usually carried a book or magazine, but as often as not it was unopened.
"I suppose the real Arden Foresters did not read books," he remarked one day as, after glancing through the pages of a late novel, he tossed it disrespectfully into the empty lunch basket.
They had eaten their picnic dinner and were resting in easy attitudes on the grass,—Miss Betty not being present to mention spines,—in sight of their boats, swinging gently at anchor.
"Not any?" exclaimed Rosalind, to whom the idea of no books was a dreadful one.
"But they were in a story and were having lots of fun," said Belle.
"And they found their books in brooks, didn't they?" added Maurice.
"When you are having fun, you don't read so much, that is true," Rosalind said, burying her hands in the mass of clover blooms Katherine tossed into her lap. "We'll make a long, long chain, Katherine, and let it trail behind us as we go home."
"Give me your experience," said Allan, stretched at lazy length, with his arms under his head. "Have you found that there is good in things invariably?"
"I like Mr. Allan because he talks to us as if we were grown up," Belle whispered to Rosalind.
"There is more than you would think, till you try." Maurice answered.
"I think so. Uncle Allan," said Rosalind. "I shouldn't have had this good time and learned to know all of you, if father had not gone with Cousin Louis. He said if I stayed in the Forest of Arden, I was sure to meet pleasant people, and I have." Rosalind looked at her companions with a soft light in her gray eyes.
"If it were not for you, we shouldn't be having half so much fun," said Belle, promptly.
"I think you would always have a good time, Belle," answered Rosalind; "but I'm afraid if I hadn't come to know all of you, I couldn't have stayed in the Forest much longer, though the magician did cheer me up."
"Then the idea is, that it is only when you stay in the Forest that you find the good in things?" said Allan.
"That was the way in the story. Everything came right in the Forest," Rosalind answered.
"I believe," said Allan, "I should like to be an Arden Forester."
This announcement was received with enthusiasm.
"That is, if I understand it. 'To remember the Forest secret, to bear hard things bravely—'"
"And if you are an honorary member, like Miss Celia and Morgan, you won't have to search for the ring," put in Belle.
"The ring is found, and is waiting till the magician breaks the spell. You know, Uncle Allan, he has hung it on a nail in his shop, by the door, just as if he were trying really," Rosalind explained.
"I think I shall ask to be taken on probation," Mr. Whittredge continued.
"On trial. I might not do you credit, you know."
The Arden Foresters refused to admit the possibility of this, and Belle and Rosalind began delightedly to enumerate their members.
They rowed homeward slowly, for it was up stream, and as they went they unwound the clover chain, and let it trail far behind them until it caught among the reeds and was broken.
When they passed the Gilpin place, on their way from the landing, a stop was made for a fresh supply of oak leaves from their favorite tree, and Rosalind pinned one on her uncle's coat.
"I invite the Arden Foresters to meet with me to-morrow under the greenwood tree," said Mr. Whittredge, surveying his badge.
"That's poetry, go on," said Jack.
"I'll have to fall back into prose to finish. At the foot of Red Hill, at half-past seven P.M."
"What tree does he mean?" asked Katherine.
"Under the greenwood tree is a poetical figure," Mr. Whittredge explained.
"It will be dark at half-past seven," said Jack.
"Of course it will be, and that's going to be the fun," cried Belle.
"There will be a moon," added Maurice, who was wise in such matters.
"And what are we to do there?" asked Rosalind.
"That remains to be seen," was all the satisfaction her uncle would give her.
Anticipation was the order of the next day, and the hours of the afternoon rather dragged. At dinner Rosalind could not keep her eyes from the clock, while her uncle ate in his usual leisurely manner, smiling at her quizzically now and then.
"It will not take more than twenty minutes to walk out," he remarked, at length, when the hands pointed to seven o'clock.
Mrs. Whittredge looked inquiring.
"We are to have a little moonlight party at the creek to-night. We shall not be late, Rosalind and I," Allan added.
"You are making a new departure, are you not? A picnic yesterday, another to-night. You are really falling into the ways of Friendship."
"I am only beginning again where I left off years ago, Rosalind is showing me how," Allan smiled across the table, this time a smile of good-fellowship.
The August nights were cool, and Rosalind carried her cape with its pointed hood, when, the long ten minutes having passed, they set out. Maurice and Katherine were watching for them, and farther down the street the Partons joined them.
Under the trees that grew so thick, it was already dim twilight, but when they reached the more open country react there was still a glow in the sky, and over Red Hill floated the golden moon, attended by a single star. On the little sandy beach beneath the bridge, where the water rippled so pleasantly over the stones, a fire was burning, and before it on a log, with Curly Q. by his side, sat the magician, whittling.
"Is this the party? How lovely! What fun!" they cried, running down to join Morgan and be received by Curly Q. with ecstatic barks.
The magician was evidently expecting them, for he at once began distributing pointed sticks.
"What are they for?" asked Belle.
This was soon explained. Mr. Whittredge produced a tin box from somewhere and proceeded to open it, and Katherine, who was next him, said, "Marshmallows."
"Yes, this is a marshmallow roast," he replied; and fixing one of the white drops on the pointed stick, he held it toward the glowing embers.
The others followed his lead without loss of time,—the magician and all; and Curly Q. sat erect and eager, giving an occasional muffled "woof" to remind them that he liked marshmallows too.
The rose tints faded from the sky; the moon sailed higher; and the glow of the fire grew deeper. The Arden Foresters toasted and talked, and ate their marshmallows, not forgetting Curly Q., and were as merry as the crickets that chirped around them,—as merry, at least, as those insects are said to be.
When it was really impossible to eat another one, they built up the fire for the pleasure of watching it, and sang songs and told stories, the magician, with his elbows on his knees, looking from one to another and laughing as if he understood all the fun.
The glow of their fire and the sound of their voices could be seen and heard far up on Red Hill; so Celia Fair told them, emerging suddenly out of the darkness into the firelight. In her white dress, with something fleecy about her head and shoulders, she suggested a piece of thistledown.
The children gave her a rapturous welcome and proffered marshmallows; the magician looked on smiling. Allan had gone in search of firewood. Celia had been up the hill to visit an old servant who was ill, and returning, with Bob for guard, had seen the fire and heard the voices.
"At first I thought of gypsies, and then Rosalind's pointed hood suggested witches, and it was only when I reached the bridge that I recognized you," she said; adding, "No, I can't stay. Bob is taking me home."
"Do stay; I'll take you home, Miss Celia," said Jack, as Rosalind bestowed marshmallows on the grinning Bob.
Celia hesitated, then turned, as if about to dismiss her escort, when Allan Whittredge stepped into the circle and cast an armful of wood on the fire. Celia retreated into the shadow. "I must go, dear," she whispered to Belle's urging.
A chorus of protest followed her as she hurried up the bank. She had hardly reached the road when she heard her name spoken quietly, and turning, she faced Allan Whittredge in the moonlight.
There was some hesitation in his manner as he said, "I can understand your wish to avoid me, and yet I am anxious to have a few moments' talk with you, now or at any time that may suit you." As he spoke, a sense of the absurdity of this formality between old playmates swept over him, almost bringing a smile to his lips.
Celia spoke gently. "I think not. I mean I can imagine no reason for it—no good it could do."
"But you can't judge of that until you know what I have to say. Something I did not understand has recently been made clear to me and—it is of that I wish to speak."
"If it has anything to do with the—the difference between your family and mine, it is needless—useless. I cannot listen, I can only try to forget." On the last word Celia's voice broke a little.
Allan took a step forward; "I do not think you have a right to refuse. You should grant me the privilege of defending myself against—"
Celia interposed, "I have not accused you, Mr. Whittredge; there is no occasion for defence, I must say good night."
Nothing could have been more final than her manner as she moved away toward Bob, who waited at a discreet distance. There was no uncertainty in her voice now, nor in the poise of her head.
Allan stood in the road, looking after her retreating figure. He had bungled. If he had begun in the right way, she would have been compelled to listen. What could he do to obtain a hearing? After two years of silence he could not wonder at her refusal to listen to him now.