CHAPTER XIV
WHAT MISS CARROWAY DID
The Circle of Industry had been minus an important member thatafternoon. The small woman in black was there, and a reduced contingentof such auxiliary members as still remained in the wilds, but the chiefdirector and center of affairs, Miss Carroway, was absent. She had setout immediately after luncheon, and Mrs. Kitcher had for once enjoyedthe privilege of sowing discord, shedding gloom and retailing darkhints, unopposed and undismayed. Her opponent, for the time at least,had abandoned the field.
Miss Carroway had set out quietly enough, taking the path around thelake that on the other side joined the trail which led to the Deanecamp. It was a rare afternoon, and the old lady, carefully dressed,primly curled, and with a bit of knitting in her hand, saunteredleisurely through the sunlit woods toward the West Branch. She was apeaceful note in the picture as she passed among the tall spruces, orpaused for a moment amid a little grove of maples that were turning redand gold, some of the leaves drifting to her feet. Perhaps she reflectedthat for them, as for her, the summer time was over--that their day ofusefulness was nearly ended. Perhaps she recalled the days not long agowhen the leaves had been fresh and fair with youth, and it may be thatthe thought brought back her own youth, when she had been a girl,climbing the hills back of Haverford--when there had been young men whohad thought her as fresh and fair, and one who because of amisunderstanding had gone away to war without a good-bye, and had diedat Wilson's Creek with a bullet through her picture on his heart.
As she lingered here and there in the light of these pleasant places, itwould have been an easy task to reconstruct in that placid, faded facethe beauty of forty years ago, to see in her again the strong, handsomegirl who had put aside her own heritage of youth and motherhood to carrythe burdens of an invalid sister, to adopt, finally, as her own, thelast feeble, motherless infant, to devote her years and strength to him,to guide him step by step to a place of honor among his fellow-men.Seeing her now, and knowing these things, it was not hard to accord hera former beauty--it was not difficult even to declare her beautifulstill--for something of it all had come back, something of the oldromance, of awakened purpose and the tender interest of love.
Where the trail crossed the Au Sable Falls, she paused and surveyed theplace with approval.
"That would be a nice place for a weddin'," she reflected aloud."Charlie used to say a piece at school about 'The groves was God's firsttemples,' an' this makes me think of it."
Then she forgot her reflections, for a little way beyond the falls,assorting something from a basket, was the object of her visit,Constance Deane. She had spread some specimens on the grass and wascomparing them with the pictures in the book beside her. As MissCarroway approached, she greeted her cordially.
"Welcome to our camp," she said. "I have often wondered why you nevercame over this way. My parents will be so glad to see you. You must comeright up to the house and have a cup of tea."
But Miss Carroway seated herself on the grass beside Constance,instead.
"I came over to see _you_," she said quietly, "just you alone. I had teabefore I started. I want to talk about one or two things a little, an'mebbe to give you some advice."
Constance smiled and looked down at the mushrooms on the grass.
"About those, you mean," she said. "Well, I suppose I need it. I find Iknow less than I thought I did in the beginning."
Miss Carroway shook her head.
"No," she admitted; "I've give up that question. I guess the books knowmore than I do. You ain't dead yet, an' if they was pizen you would 'a'been by this time. It's somethin' else I want to talk about--somethin'that's made a good many people unhappy, includin' me. That was a longtime ago, but I s'pose I ain't quite got over it yet."
A good deal of the September afternoon slipped away as the two womentalked there in the sunshine by the Au Sable Falls. When at last MissCarroway rose to go, Constance rose, too, and, taking her hand, kissedthe old lady on the cheek.
"You are sweet and good," she said, "and I wish I could do as much foryou as you have done, and are willing to do for me. If I have notconfided in you, it is only because I cannot--to-day. But I shall tellyou all that there is to tell as soon--almost as soon--as I tell anyone. It may be to-morrow, and I promise you that there shall be nounhappiness that I can help."
"Things never can be set straight too soon," said the old lady. "I'vehad a long time to think of that."
Miss Deane's eyes grew moist.
"Oh, I thank you for telling me your story!" she said. "It is beautiful,and you have lived a noble life."
The shadows had grown deeper in the woods as Miss Carroway followed apath back to the lake, and so around to the Lodge. The sun had vanishedfrom the tree tops, and some of the light and reflex of youth had fadedfrom the old lady's face.
Perhaps she was a little weary with her walk, and it may be a littledisappointed at what she had heard, or rather what she had not heard, inher talk with Constance Deane. At the end of the lake she followed thepath through the little birch grove and came upon Frank Weatherby, wherehe mused, on the stone seat.
Miss Carroway paused as he rose and greeted her.
"I just come from a good walk," she said peacefully. "I've been over tothe Deanes' camp. It's a pretty place."
Frank nodded.
"I suppose you saw the family," he said.
"No; only Miss Deane. She was studyin' tudstools, but I guess theywa'n't pizen. I guess she knows 'em."
Frank made no comment on this remark, and the old lady looked out on thelake a moment and added, as one reflecting aloud on a matter quite apartfrom the subject in hand:
"If I was a young man and had anything on my mind, I'd go to the one itwas about and get it off as quick as I could."
Then she started on up the path, Frank stepping aside to let her pass.As he did so, he lifted his hat and said:
"I think that is good advice, Miss Carroway, and I thank you for it."
But he dropped back on the seat when she was gone, and sat staring outon the water, that caught and gave back the colors of the fading sky.Certainly it was good advice, and he would act on it--to-morrow,perhaps--not to-day. Then he smiled, rather quaintly.
"I wonder who will be next on the scene," he thought. "First, theinjured girl. Then the good old busybody, whose mission it is to helpthings along. It would seem about time for the chief characters toappear."
Once the sun is gone, twilight gathers quickly in the hills. The colorblended out of the woods, the mountains around the lake faded into wallsof tone, a tide of dusk crept out of the deeper forest and enclosed thebirches. Only the highest mountain peaks, Algonquin and Tahawus, caughtthe gold and amethyst of day's final tokens of good-bye. Then thatfaded, and only the sky told the story to the lake, that repeated it inits heart.
From among the shadows on the farther side a boat drifted into theevening light. It came noiselessly. Frank's eye did not catch it untilit neared the center of the lake. Then presently he recognized thesilhoueted figures, holding his breath a little as he watched them tomake sure. Evidently Robin had returned with his party and stopped bythe Deane camp. Frank's anticipation was to be realized. The chiefcharacters in the drama were about to appear.
Propelled by Robin's strong arms, the Adirondack canoe shot quickly tothe little dock. A moment later the guide took a basket handed to himand assisted his two passengers, Constance and Mrs. Deane, to land. Asthey stood on the dock they were in the half dusk, yet clearly outlinedagainst the pale-green water behind. Frank wondered what had broughtMrs. Deane to the Lodge. Probably the walk and row through the perfectevening.
The little group was but a few yards distant, but it never occurred toFrank that he could become an eavesdropper. The presence of Mrs. Deanewould have dispelled any such idea, even had it presented itself. Hewatched them without curiosity, deciding that when they passed the groveof birches he would step out and greet them. For the moment, at least,most of his recent doubts were put aside.
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But all at once he saw Constance turn to her mother and take her hands.
"You are sure you are willing that we should make it known to-night?"she said.
And quite distinctly on that still air came the answer:
"Yes, dear. I have kept you and Robin waiting long enough. After all,Robin is more to you than I am," and the elder woman held out her handto Robin Farnham, who, taking it, drew closer to the two.
Then the girl's arms were about her mother's neck, but a moment latershe had turned to Robin.
"After to-night we belong to each other," she said. "How it willsurprise everybody," and she kissed him fairly on the lips.
It had all happened so quickly--so unexpectedly--they had been sonear--that Frank could hardly have chosen other than to see and hear. Hesat as one stupefied while they ascended the path, passing within a fewfeet of the stone seat. He was overcome by the suddenness of therevelation, even though the fact had been the possibility in hisafternoon's brooding. Also, he was overwhelmed with shame andmortification that he should have heard and seen that which had beenintended for no ears and eyes but their own.
How fiercely he had condemned Mrs. Kitcher, who, it would seem, had beentruthful, after all, and doubtless even less culpable in hereavesdropping. He told himself that he should have turned away upon thefirst word spoken by Constance to her mother. Then he might not haveheard and seen until the moment when they had intended that therevelation should be made. That was why Mrs. Deane had come--to givedignity and an official air to the news.
He wondered if he and Edith were to be told privately, or if the banswere to be announced to a gathered company, as in the old days when theywere published to church congregations. And Edith--what would it mean toher--what would she do? Oh, there was something horrible about itall--something impossible--something that the brain refused tounderstand. He did not see or hear the figure that silently--as silentlyas an Indian--from the other end of the grove stole up the inclinetoward the Lodge, avoiding the group, making its way to the rear byanother path. He only sat there, stunned and hopeless, in the shadows.
The night air became chill and he was growing numb and stiff fromsitting in one position. Still he did not move. He was trying to think.He would not go to the Lodge. He would not be a spectacle. He would notlook upon, or listen to, their happiness. He would go away at once,to-night. He would leave everything behind and, following the road toLake Placid, would catch an early train.
Then he remembered that he had said he would marry Edith Morrison if hecould win her love. But the idea had suddenly grown impossible.Edith--why, Edith would be crushed in the dust--killed. No, oh, no, thatwas impossible--that could not happen--not now--not yet.
He recalled, too, what he had resolved concerning a life apart, such alife as the hermit had led among the hills, and he thought his own lotthe more bitter, for at least the hermit's love had been returned and itwas only fate that had come between. Yet he would be as generous. Theywould not need his help, but through the years he would wish themwell--yes, he could do that--and he would watch from a distance andguard their welfare if ever time of need should come.
Long through the dark he sat there, unheeding the time, caring nothingthat the sky had become no longer pale but a deep, dusky blue, while thelake carried the stars in its bosom.