"But a tin box, father—that will hold them safely!" I exclaimed, and he beamed tolerantly at my boyish eagerness.
"Yes; zey should be zere."
"You have not heard from Granny—and them?" I ventured, for the wish to see Celeste had grown within the last quarter of an hour into an irresistible force. I waited his reply with bated breath.
"No," he answered, almost at once. "Zey lef' w'ile I was gone. I have heard nuzzin'."
Once again I tried to speak my gratitude, but the gentle old man stopped me. This time he did not press me to stay, for he knew the magnet which was drawing me back to the hut on Bald Knob.
"I sink ze li'l wil' ma'm'selle will come soon," he said, as he held my hand at parting; "zen we tell her, an' she be made vair happy."
Forgotten was Buck and his fell purpose, forgotten was the lost Jeff Angel as, passing through Hebron at a swift walk, I presently broke into a run. Was this the same road, the same forest, the same sky, the same earth? Beautiful as it always had been, it was transfigured now. My Dryad! My lovely, innocent Dryad was free from the stigma which hypercritical moralists would have thrust upon her! I was hastening toward the proof with every breath I drew—toward the proof which had lain within reach of my hand all these weeks! My heart exulted with each onward spring, and I seemed light as air, so magically did my joy act upon me. Swiftly I ran, but the way had never been so long. I reached the Point. Scorning the bridge which heretofore had been a welcome aid in crossing the creek, I dashed into the water at a place where I knew it to be shallow, and a moment later was headed for the Dryad's Glade. Very soon thereafter I was kneeling before the rude hearth in the Lodge, gazing with flushed face and fascinated eyes at the front right-hand corner stone.
It differed in no way from all the others. A rough-surfaced, imperfect square with an average width of ten or twelve inches, the irregular interstices between it and its neighbors being filled with earth. It was on a level with the others. There was nothing to indicate that it hid a secret which meant so much. Now that I had come; now that any moment I could prove the truth or falsity of Hannibal Ellsworth's statement, I hesitated. Perhaps he had lied even at the last. A man capable of the fiendish act he had committed would likewise be capable of this sardonic jest. If this were true—if, when I lifted the stone, nothing was revealed, what then? This torturing thought decided me. I leaped up, took from the table the knife which Buck Steele had driven through my journal, and with its point began to pick away the dirt between the crevices. I worked feverishly, and presently, dropping the knife, I gripped the stone and heaved. It moved. Again I strained backward, and now the rock turned partly in its bed, where it had lain secure for a score of years. Regardless of the jagged edges, I forced my fingers down the rough sides through the loosened dirt, clawed and burrowed until I had secured another and a stronger hold. Again I tugged, and up came my burden bodily—up and out. I flung it rolling on the plank floor, and trembling with anxiety gazed into the cavity it had left. I saw nothing. Nothing but the brown earth sides and the brown earth bottom. I sank backward with a groan. Ah! Hannibal Ellsworth! If you were alive, and these hands were at your throat! You trickster even in death! You chosen of Satan! You——A new thought came. Seizing the knife, I plunged it desperately into the hole, just as I would have thrust it in the black heart of Hannibal Ellsworth had he stood before me then. The point met with partial resistance, then went on. I drew the knife out, and impaled upon it was a small tin box—a tobacco box, nothing more. It had been wrapped around and tied with a string of some kind, for the moldering remnants still clung to it. It opened at the end. Now I was shaking with the violence of one palsied, and presently the top fell down. I sat upon the floor, drew the box from the knife point, and thrust in my finger and thumb. Something was inside—something closely folded which so filled the small space that I could not grasp it. I desisted long enough to hold the opening to the light and peer within. I saw what appeared to be many folds of yellowish-white paper, fitting snugly in the narrow confines. A degree of calmness came now, and once more taking the knife, I managed to extract the contents of the box. What the priest in Notre Dame had written Father John was true. I held in my hand the attested certificate of the marriage of Hannibal Ellsworth and Araminta Kittredge, together with the license issued by the clerk of the county. The papers were dry and crackled in my grasp; they were disfigured by yellow splotches, and bore that peculiar odor which old parchments always acquire.
All afternoon I sat in the same spot, with those priceless documents before me. I read each of them an hundred times, and examined every letter of every written word. They were the passports of my wife to enter into my world. Only when it grew too dark to see did I put them back in the box, put the box in the hole, and replace the stone upon the treasure. It would be safer right there until I could take it away.
After supper I went out to one of the benches in front, and smoked. The moon came up soon; a great, big, yellow moon, hoisting itself majestically over the forest sea. It seemed as big as the end of a sugar barrel, and the face of the lady etched upon it was a cameo of Celeste Ellsworth. I wonder if any other man anywhere in the world has ever dared to imagine this moon-lady bore a resemblance to someone in whom he was interested? He was very silly and presumptuous if he did, for the profile of this lunar enchantress reflects line for line that of my Dryad!