The Lucky Piece: A Tale of the North Woods

by Albert Bigelow Paine

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.