| "Take upon command what we have, |
| That to your wanting may be ministered." |
"Celia Fair, do you realize what you have done?"
It was Celia who asked herself the question. She was suffering, as reserved people must, from the reaction that follows an unusual outburst of feeling. That had been a happy morning in the arbor; she had let herself go, had listened to her heart and forgotten her pride, and in the company of the merry Arden Foresters, the old joy of youth had asserted itself. The brightness had stayed with her for days; she had dreamed she could make a fairy tale of life, spending her hours in an enchanted forest, and now had come the awakening.
It seemed destined from the beginning to be a day of misfortunes. She woke with a dull, listless feeling, and the first thing to greet her eyes when she went downstairs was the woolly head of Bob, the grandson of her sole dependence, Aunt Sally, waiting on the doorstep to impart the cheering information that granny had the "misery" in her side mighty bad, and couldn't come to-day.
At another time it might not have mattered so much, for the boys were away from home, and breakfast for two did not offer any insuperable difficulties to Celia, but there were currants and raspberries waiting to be made into jelly and preserves. To complicate matters, Mrs. Fair had one of her severe headaches.
The fruit would not keep another day, and Celia couldn't leave the house to go down the hill in search of help, even if she had known just where to seek it. After making her mother as comfortable as possible, she began on the currants with sombre energy.
"May I come in, Miss Celia? Will you lend me a cup?" It was Jack who stood in the door.
"Help yourself," she replied, "I am too busy to stop."
"We want to get some water from the spring," he explained. "Aren't you coming over to-day?"
Celia shook her head.
Jack surveyed the piles of fruit. "Jiminy! have you all this to do?"
"Yes; Aunt Sally is sick this morning, and it can't wait."
Jack disappeared, leaving Celia to her gloomy thoughts, but ten minutes had not passed before he was back again, accompanied by the other Arden Foresters.
"We have come to help," they announced.
For a moment Celia was annoyed. She had made up her mind to be a martyr and did not care to be disturbed.
"Indeed, you can't," she said. "I am very much obliged, but you would stain yourselves, and—"
"Give us some aprons," interrupted Belle. "Mother lets us help her."
Maurice added, "It is reciprocity, Miss Celia."
Celia's ill temper wavered and went down before the row of bright faces. "Well, perhaps you may help if you really want to, but it is tiresome work."
They did not seem to find it so, as they sat around the table on the porch, carefully done up in checked aprons, three of them at work on the raspberries, and two helping Celia with the currants.
Each wore a fresh oak leaf, and nothing would do but Rosalind must run back to get one for Miss Celia; and there must have been magic in it, so suddenly did Celia's courage revive.
"I feel better," she said, stopping to turn the leaves of the cook-book. "Let me see,—'boil several hours till the juice is well out of the fruit,'—Sally always lets it drip over night into the big stone jar. I shall have these currants out of the way by dinner-time. You are really a great help. I wish there was something I could do for you."
"Tell us a story, Miss Celia," Belle suggested promptly.
"I don't know any."
"Something about when you were a little girl," said Katherine.
Celia hesitated. "The only story I know is about a magician and a tiger, Rosalind's calling Morgan 'the magician' reminded me of it."
"I love magicians and tigers," Rosalind remarked. "Do you remember the picture I told you about, Maurice? Do tell it to us, Miss Celia."
Celia wondered afterward how she could have done it, but now she thought of nothing but her desire to please the children, so she began:—
"Once there was a little girl who loved fairy tales and believed with all her heart in fairies, magicians, and ogres. In the town where she had recently come to live she had a playmate, a boy, who laughed at her for thinking there were such creatures in the world, and the two often argued the matter.
"One day this little girl was sitting on the fence looking up at the sky and wishing something would happen, when she heard the boy calling her. She answered, and he came running across the grass and climbed up beside her, and with an air of great mystery told her he knew a secret. Of course the little girl was anxious to hear it, and of course the boy tried to tease her by refusing to tell. But by and by he could keep it no longer, and in tones of awe he whispered that he knew a magician who lived in their very town.
"The little girl clapped her hands; for if her playmate believed in magicians, he must surely come to believe in fairies too.
"The boy went on to explain that this magician appeared exactly like other men, so that few guessed his mysterious power. He lived in a house quite like other houses except that its door was painted black; but behind this door lay a tiger, always ready to spring upon any one who tried to enter. On this great tiger in some way depended the magician's power.
"There had been a fire in the village recently, which, the boy said, had been caused by the magician, as well as certain other calamities, such as scarlet-fever and measles, and the time had come when this must be stopped. The boy claimed to have discovered—he did not say how—that the magician's tiger had three white whiskers, all the rest being black, and in these white whiskers resided all his power. If in any way they could be removed, he and his master would be harmless forevermore.
"But how was this to be done? the little girl wanted to know, feeling deeply impressed meanwhile by the tragedy of the situation.
"The only way, the boy replied, was to catch the tiger while he slept, and then—a snip of the scissors, and he could do no more harm. The little girl had some round-pointed scissors hanging from a ribbon around her neck, for she was fond of cutting things; she took them in her hand now and looked at them with a shiver as the boy added in a tragic whisper, 'We must do it!'
"Although she was very much afraid, she never thought of objecting. It was her duty, and she had great confidence in her companion. He could do many things she couldn't do, and he was ten and she only six; so when he examined the scissors and said they would answer, without a word of objection she slipped down from the fence and trotted beside him.
"It seemed quite natural that the way should be over fences and through back yards instead of along the street. They climbed rails and squeezed through hedges until the little girl was breathless and had not the least idea where she was, when she found herself in a narrow garden-path, on either side of which grew hollyhocks and sunflowers.
"'There is the door,' the boy whispered; and—yes—at the end of the path she saw the black door.
"'This is the hour when he sleeps,' the boy said, in thrilling tones, looking at an imaginary watch. 'We have timed it well. I will open the door softly, and you have your scissors ready; I will hold him while you cut off the whiskers.' The little girl's heart almost stopped beating, but she had no thought of running away.
"They reached the door; the boy had his hand on the knob. He was opening it very gently—when something happened! He stumbled, or his hand slipped. It flew open and there before them stood the magician, brandishing a glittering sword, and beside him were the gleaming eyes of a tiger.
"With a cry of terror the little girl fell all in a heap, grasping her scissors, shutting her eyes tight till all should be over. Then some one picked her up and asked if she was hurt, and slowly gaining courage she opened her eyes and looked into the kind face of Morgan, the cabinet-maker. At his side was Tiger, the great striped cat, and on the work-bench lay his shining saw. The boy stood by, laughing."
"I thought he must be fooling her," remarked Katherine, in a tone of relief.
"You don't mean it!" said Maurice, with fine sarcasm.
"But finish, Miss Celia," begged Rosalind. "What did the little girl think?"
"I believe for a long time she was greatly puzzled. There seemed to have been magic somewhere. She examined Tiger's whiskers and found them all black, and this made her think it possible that some one else had cut out the white ones, and thus turned him into a harmless cat. She felt a little uneasy at times, for fear the cabinet-maker would turn again into the wicked magician, but it never happened."
"And did she go on believing in fairies?" Rosalind asked.
"Oh, yes, for a while. I am not sure she doesn't yet."
"Cousin Louis says that is one of the advantages of the 'Forest of Arden,' you can believe in all those delightful things."
"Were there fairies there?" asked Belle. "I don't remember any."
"There would have been if occasion had called for them," Celia answered.
"But you don't want to believe things if they aren't true, do you?" Katherine looked puzzled. "I wish there were fairies now, but I know there aren't."
"You can't prove there aren't," asserted Jack, mischievously.
"Why, Jack, you know there aren't any fairies really."
"I said you couldn't prove it."
"How can you say they do not exist unless you have seen one not existing? Isn't that the argument in 'Water Babies'?" laughed Celia, as she carried the currants into the kitchen. "It is the difference between fact and fancy, Katherine," she said, coming back.
"I love to pretend things," said Rosalind.
"So do I," echoed Belle.
"Fancy does more than that, it really makes things beautiful. For instance, it makes the difference between a plain, straight letter such as you see in the newspaper and such a letter as I was embroidering yesterday. Some one's fancy saw the plain S ornamented with curving lines and sprays of flowers, and so it came to be made so."
"That makes me think of those beautiful books the monks used to make," said Maurice.
"The illuminated manuscripts, you mean? That word expresses what fancy does for us,—it illuminates the plain facts, and fills them with beauty."
"Oh, Miss Celia, that is a lovely idea," cried Rosalind. "I must remember it to tell Cousin Louis."
"I fear be wouldn't find it very new," Celia answered, smiling.
By noon the fruit was all picked over, and as Celia stood at the gate watching her helpers out of sight, old Sally came laboring up the walk.
"Law, honey, look like I couldn't rest from studyin' how you was gwine to git them berries done, an' I 'lowed, misery or no misery, I was comin' to help you," she announced.
CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH.
A NEW COMRADE.
"I know you are a gentleman of good conceit."
Rosalind and Maurice sat on the garden bench discussing "The Young Marooners," one of the story books found in the garret.
"I shouldn't like to be carried off by a big fish as they were, but I do think some sort of an adventure would be interesting. Don't you?" asked Rosalind.
"We'll have to do something," Maurice agreed, "Don't you wish we could get inside the Gilpin house? Mr. Wells, the teller in our bank, sleeps there. I wish he would drop the key."
"Grandmamma says it will be open for people to go through before the sale, but then it will be too late to look for the ring. Belle is so good at thinking of things, I wish she would find a way for us to get in," Rosalind added.
A bell was heard ringing on the other side of the hedge, and Maurice rose. "Dinner is ready," he said.
Rosalind walked to the gate with him. "Uncle Allan is coming to-morrow," she remarked, "and I just wonder what he is like."
Turning toward the house again, she became aware of a stranger standing beside the griffins. He was not waiting to get in, for the door was open behind him, and furthermore he had the air of being at home. Something in his height and the breadth of his shoulders suggested her father, and as she drew nearer a certain resemblance to Aunt Genevieve developed.
He watched her approach with a look of puzzled interest. "Surely, this isn't Rosalind," he said.
Rosalind paused on the bottom step. "Why, yes, it is. Are you Uncle Allan?"
"A great tall girl like you my niece? Pat's daughter? Impossible!" There was a twinkle in his eye. Clearly, Uncle Allan was a tease.
"I suppose I shall have to be identified," said Rosalind, merrily.
"I begin to see a look of Pat about you." He came down the steps now and took her hand. "Let's sit here and get acquainted," he said, leading the way to the bench under the birch tree.
Two pairs of eyes, the brown and the gray, looked into each other steadily and soberly for a few seconds, then a dimple began to make itself visible in Rosalind's check, whereat the brown eyes twinkled again. "Well, what do you think of me?" they asked.
"You aren't much like Great-uncle Allan," said Rosalind, laughing.
"Heavens! was that your idea of me? And I expected you to be a child of tender age, although I should have known better. It is nearly fourteen years since Pat went away."
"Uncle Allan, did you know my mother?" It was the first time Rosalind had mentioned her mother since she had been in Friendship. She could not have explained her silence any more than she could this sudden question.
"I did not know her, Rosalind. I wish I might have. I saw her once, and I have never forgotten her face."
"I can remember her just a little, but father and Cousin Louis have told me about her, and I have her picture."
"I think," said Uncle Allan, confidently, "that we are going to be friends. Tell me how you like Friendship."
"I like it now. I was dreadfully lonely at first, till things began to happen. Then there was Cousin Betty's tea party, where I met Belle and Jack and the rest, and now—oh, I like it very much! It is a funny place. Aunt Genevieve says you don't like it any better than she does." Rosalind's tone was questioning.
"I believe it does seem rather a stupid old town," he acknowledged. "What do you find interesting about it?"
"There is the magician and his shop; and the out of doors is so beautiful—almost like the country; and the houses are different from those in the city; and there is the will, and the lost ring." Rosalind suddenly remembered her uncle's connection with the ring.
He did not seem to understand, for he asked, "What ring?" then added, "Oh, you mean the Gilpin will. Who has told you about that?"
"Cousin Betty; and she told us the story of Patricia's ring, Uncle Allan, don't you wish we could find it?"
Allan Whittredge smiled at the eager face. "I can't say I care much about it," he replied; then seeing her disappointment, he added, "It was a handsome old ring. Should you like to have it?"
"I'd like to see it; but of course it wasn't meant for me. Cousin Betty said—" Rosalind paused, for the expression on her uncle's face was more than ever like Aunt Genevieve, and he exclaimed impatiently, "Stuff!"
She felt rather hurt. She had expected him to be as interested in the ring as she was. What did he mean by "stuff"? And why didn't he like Friendship? Rosalind fell to pondering all this, sitting in the corner of the bench, looking down at her hands, crossed in her lap.
After some minutes' silence she felt her chin lifted until her eyes met the gaze of the merriest brown ones, from which all trace of disdain or impatience was gone.
"What are you thinking about so soberly? Are you disappointed in me, after all?"
Rosalind laughed. "I am just sorry you don't like Friendship."
"Perhaps it is because I have been away so long. I used to like it when I was a boy."
"Can't you turn into a boy again?"
"Perhaps I might, if you will show me how."
Rosalind clapped her hands. "I don't think I am a bit disappointed in you, and I am almost sure you will like the Forest."
"What forest?"
"I'll show you the book and tell you about it sometime; and then maybe you will join our society."
"This sounds interesting; I believe I shall like Friendship."
Rosalind surveyed him thoughtfully. "I think I'll begin by taking you to see the magician," she said.
By what witchery did she divine that the shortest path to his boyhood was by way of the magician's?
"The magician? Oh, that is Morgan, I suppose." Allan's eyes rested absently on the drooping hydrangea a few feet away.
Presently a soft hand stole beneath his chin, and Rosalind demanded merrily, as she tried to turn his face to hers, "What are you thinking about? Are you disappointed in me?"
"Not terribly," her uncle replied, and seizing the hand he drew her to him and gave her the kiss of friendship and good-fellowship.
Rosalind was fastidious about kisses. She reserved them for those she loved, and received them shrinkingly from those she did not care for; but in this short interview she had found a friend, and she returned the caress with an ardor of affection pretty to see.
Martin, announcing lunch, interrupted their talk, and, hand in hand, Rosalind and her new comrade walked to the house. In the exuberance of her content, she patted one of the griffins as she passed. Her uncle observed it.
"Have you ever noticed the resemblance between Uncle Allan Barnwell and the griffins?" he asked.
The idea amused Rosalind greatly, and as she took her seat at the table, the sight of the haughtily poised head and eagle eyes of the portrait made her laugh. Things were indeed taking a turn when that stern face caused amusement.
With Uncle Allan at the foot of the table, luncheon was transformed into a festive occasion. Masculine tones were almost startling from their novelty; Rosalind found herself forgetting to eat. Grandmamma was wonderfully bright, and Aunt Genevieve showed a languid animation most unusual.
"It was like you, Allan, after putting us off so long, to end by surprising us," his sister said.
"I trust you intend to stay for a while," his mother added, almost wistfully.
Genevieve laughed half scornfully, as if she considered this a forlorn hope.
Allan looked at her a moment before he replied, "I don't know; I shall probably be here some time." He had more than half promised his friend Blanchard to join him in a trip over the Canadian Pacific in August. At present he felt inclined to give it up and remain in Friendship. He would not commit himself.
He thought it over lazily after lunch, resting in the sleepy-hollow chair by the east window in the room that had been his ever since he graduated from the nursery. All about him were devices for comfort and adornment that spoke of his mother's hand. She knew the sort of thing he liked,—his handsome, unhappy mother. It was a shame to leave her so much alone; yet she never complained, but seemed always self-sufficient and independent.
And then Allan began to reflect on the singular fact that he was seldom quite at ease with his mother, although he admired her, and at one time had been very much under her influence. If he had ceased to care for his home, it was her fault for sending him away for so long. "Poor mother!" he thought. "We have all disappointed her; but she was never quite fair to any of us. She wanted us to go her way, and, being her children, we preferred our own."
The sound of Rosalind's voice floated in at the window. He looked out. She was crossing the lawn, after an interview with Katherine through the hedge.
"When are we to begin?" he called.
"Whenever you like," she answered.
He went down and joined her in the garden, thinking what a difference she made in the place. He had not supposed a girl of twelve could be so charming; but then, she was his brother's daughter, with something of her father about her, and he had felt a little boy's admiration for this older brother.
Rosalind told him it was almost like having father or Cousin Louis to talk to; and as they wandered about the garden Allan found himself feeling flattered at her evident pleasure in his society.
She brought out her treasured book to show him, and explained about the Forest; and Allan listened absently, noting the soft curve of her cheek and the length of the dark lashes, his memory going back to that one occasion when he had seen the gentle and lovely girl who was afterward his brother's wife.
"And now we must go to the magician's," said Rosalind.
Not many of the inhabitants of Friendship were abroad in the middle of a summer afternoon, and they had the street almost to themselves when they set out. The quiet, the bowed shutters, the deserted porches, suggested a universal nap. Allan looked up at the tall maples, whose branches met across the road just as they had done in his childhood. Truly, there was a charm about the old town, with its homelike dwellings and generous gardens, he acknowledged to himself. "I believe we are the only people awake," he remarked.
"The magician will be awake," Rosalind replied; and so he was, rubbing down the clock case to-day, but by no means too much occupied for company, and he welcomed his visitors cordially, saying Allan was one of his boys.
Rosalind was amazed at the ease and rapidity with which her uncle talked with the cabinet-maker.
"Have you come home to stay this time, Mr. Allan?" Morgan asked.
Allan laughed, and said he did not know about that.
"Two—four—eight years—" the magician told them off on his fingers, shaking his head. "Too long. Take root somewhere, Mr. Allan; too much travel spoils you. Your father loved Friendship."
"Yes," said Allan, gravely.
"You make him join the society," Morgan said, turning to Rosalind.
"He means our secret society," she explained. "He belongs, and he has our motto on the wall," and she drew her uncle to the door of the back room and pointed it out.
"Oh, I remember Morgan's motto, 'Good in everything.' Does one have to subscribe to that in order to join this society?"
"That is one thing."
"If there are many such requirements, I fear I shall prove not eligible."
"Does that mean you can't join?" Rosalind asked, looking disappointed.
"Well, I'll consider it. I'll try to be broad-minded and practise believing impossible things, like Alice."
"'Six impossible things before breakfast,'" quoted Rosalind. "I am so glad you know Alice; but it was the White Queen, wasn't it?"
"I shouldn't wonder if it was," Allan answered, laughing.
They went out to the little garden to see the sweet peas and nasturtiums, and the magician insisted upon gathering some. While they waited Rosalind told her uncle about the time she took tea with him.
When at last they left the shop, Miss Betty was standing in her door, and they crossed over to speak to her.
"THEY CROSSED OVER TO SPEAK TO HER."
"Well, Allan, I am glad to see you at last," she said, coming down the walk to meet them.
"You do not appear to have pined away in my absence," he replied, shaking hands.
Miss Betty shrugged her shoulders. "I was never much on pining, but my curiosity has been sadly strained."
"What about?"
"You know very well. That ring."
"Now, if that isn't like Friendship," said Allan, laughing, as he followed her to the porch and made himself comfortable in one of the big rocking chairs. Rosalind sat on the step arranging her flowers and listening.
"I would have you know I have something else to think about besides foolish and unreasonable wills and lost jewels," Allan continued. "I regret I cannot relieve the strain, but so far as I know, the ring has not been heard of and is not likely to be."
"But if it should be found?" said Miss Betty. "Stranger things have happened."
"Yes," said Allan.
"Then the question is, do you know what you are going to do with it?"
"That is a question with which I shall not trouble myself until it is found. I am a lazy person, as you know, Cousin Betty."
"I know nothing of the sort, Allan. Now, there is one thing you might tell me. Do you know what Cousin Thomas meant, or was it one of his jokes? Yes or no."
"No," answered Allan, promptly.
Miss Betty looked puzzled; then she laughed. "It is like playing tit, tat, toe, to talk to you," she exclaimed. "I might have known you'd get ahead of me."
"I have answered your question as you desired; now let's change the subject," he suggested gravely.
Rosalind gave a gentle little chuckle. Miss Betty looked at her. "What do you think of your uncle, Rosalind?" she asked.
"You certainly have the gift for asking pointed questions," Allan remarked, before Rosalind could speak. "I can tell you what she expected. She had an idea that I resembled Uncle Allan Barnwell."
"Gracious! You must be relieved. I could have told you better than that."
"I didn't really think it; I only wondered," said Rosalind.
Miss Betty laughed in a reminiscent sort of way. "Do you remember him, Allan? But no, I fancy you were too little. He used to visit at our house when I was a child, and I was never so afraid of any one. I suppose you have heard the story of his wedding?"
"I have a dim recollection of the story. Tell it to Rosalind."
"Well," she began, "Uncle Allan was a minister, you know. A Presbyterian of the sternest stuff, rich in eloquence and power of argument, but poor in this world's goods. However, he judiciously fell in love with Matilda Greene, the only daughter of a wealthy Baltimore merchant. As was natural, Matilda chose for her wedding-gown a gorgeous robe of white satin, and all the preparations for the event were on a lavish scale. When the day came and the guests had assembled, and the bride in her beautiful gown and lace veil appeared before the eyes of the bridegroom, Uncle Allan created a sensation by sternly declaring that such a dress was inappropriate for the bride of a humble minister of the Gospel.
"And the meek Matilda, instead of telling him he could marry her as she was or not at all, took off her satin, put on a simple muslin, and the ceremony was performed. Uncle Allan always referred to his wife as 'My Matilda'; and if the truth were known, I fancy she couldn't call her soul her own."
"I remember the story," said Allan, laughing. "We come of a stubborn family. What would have happened if Matilda had asserted herself?"
"He had her at a disadvantage,—the guests waiting,—but she missed the chance of a lifetime," said Miss Betty.
"Was Matilda fond of him?" asked Rosalind.
"Let us hope so; at any rate she always spoke of him as 'My Allan.'"
CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH.
AN IMPRISONED MAIDEN.
| "The house doth keep itself, |
| There's none within." |
It was plain to Rosalind that for some reason her uncle did not wish to discuss the ring; nor did he seem to care whether or not it was found. It was also plain that he did not agree with his mother and sister on the question of the will.
On one occasion when Genevieve made some scornful reference to the probable motives of those who upheld the later one, Allan exclaimed in a tone of irritation, "It is beyond my comprehension how you can have so much feeling in the matter. I have seen no reason to suppose the old man incapable of making a will. The testimony seemed to point the other way; and as nobody except the hospital had anything to gain by this last win, it strikes me as worse than absurd to impute motives of jealousy to people who were only giving their honest opinion."
"It must be because we are not blest with your truly amiable disposition," Genevieve observed languidly.
A smile flitted across Rosalind's face; her uncle had spoken with a good deal of heat. Allan himself laughed. His fits of irritation usually ended in this way.
"Well, it is all over now, and we may as well make the best of it. You shall have Patricia's miniature if I can get it for you."
"Thank you," said Genevieve, really gratified. "I fear you do not know what you are promising."
Rosalind wondered how her uncle felt in regard to the Fairs, and she once or twice mentioned Celia, watching him furtively meanwhile. There was, however, no shadow of a change in his expression, and he made no comment.
A vast difference was made in the house by Allan's return. He stood in no awe of Miss Herbert, had no qualms about disturbing the drawing-room blinds or leaving the front door open from morning till night,—a Friendship custom which did not recommend itself to the housekeeper. A high cart and a swift-footed mare made their appearance, and Rosalind was often her uncle's companion on his visits to the farms belonging to the estate.
Allan was continually expecting his interest in Friendship to languish, but it did not, and after a few weeks he gave up all thought of the western trip.
The middle of July saw Genevieve on her way to the North, and a little later Miss Herbert went home on a holiday. After their departure peace settled down upon the house behind the griffins.
The Arden Foresters found the summer days none too long. They still met Celia in the arbor now and then; and it was her stories of the Gilpin house, of the ring and the spinet, together with the constant sight of the closed shutters and doors, that led to an adventure one warm August day.
"Important meeting at the oak tree this afternoon,—a discovery!" was the startling announcement Rosalind found within the grass-tied missive on the cedar when she returned from a drive with her uncle one morning. She could hardly eat her luncheon for eagerness to know what the discovery might be, and the sound of Maurice's low whistle further upset her.
Mrs. Whittredge was rigid where table manners were concerned. Rosalind might not be excused until every one had finished; and to-day Uncle Allan dallied over his dessert, discussing business and the new mills with his mother, while Rosalind's impatience grew.
She looked up despairingly at the stern countenance of Great-uncle Allan, and then at the placid smile of his Matilda, which seemed a rebuke to her restlessness. "I wonder what you did with your satin dress?" she suddenly remarked aloud.
Grandmamma turned toward her in surprise, and Allan, deep in a description of the manufacture of a new kind of paper, looked at her blankly.
"Do you think it is polite to interrupt?" asked Mrs. Whittredge.
"I beg your pardon, Uncle Allan, I was just thinking. I did not mean to say it out loud," Rosalind explained, in great contrition.
"Evidently you were not interested in my learned discourse," he said, with a terrible frown, which was not at all alarming.
The diversion, however, caused him to remember his pudding, and in a few minutes Rosalind was free to join Maurice and Katherine at the gate.
Belle, who had called the meeting, was waiting for them at the top of the hill.
"I thought you were never coming," she cried; "we have made such a discovery!" And as they walked toward the house she explained that her mother had sent her that morning with a message to Miss Celia, and not finding her at home, she and Jack, who was with her, went over to the Gilpin place to wait. As they wandered about the grounds, something put it into Jack's head to try one of the cobwebby cellar windows, and lo! it opened. Poking their heads in, they saw it was over a stairway, which could be easily reached by walking a few feet on a ledge of stone. Delighted with the discovery, they scrambled in, and making their way up the steps found the door at the top unbolted.
"Jack opened it and peeped into the hall, and then we were as scared as anything, and ran, and oh! we had such a time getting out. Now, what do you think of it? We can look for the ring really!" Belle paused, out of breath.
"What fun!" cried Rosalind.
"Just what we have been wishing for," added Maurice. "I have been trying to think how we could get in."
Katherine was the only one who was not enthusiastic over the adventure. She hung back a little and wanted to know what Belle had been afraid of.
"Oh, I don't know. It was so dark, and mysterious, and creepy; but it was such fun!"
"We shan't mind if we are all together," said Rosalind, reassuringly. "We'll pretend we are storming a castle to rescue somebody."
If it occurred to any of them that it might not be exactly right to break into a closed house in this fashion, the idea was quickly dismissed.
Jack was watching for them, sprawled at his ease on the grass by the window. He was rather proud of having been the discoverer of it.
In the heart of the country it could hardly have been quieter than it was in the Gilpin grounds that afternoon. Now and then some vehicle could be heard going up or down the hill, or the whistle of a canal-boat broke in upon the drowsy droning hum that was part of the summer stillness. There was no one to interfere. Even if Celia brought her work to the arbor, it was on the other side of the house, out of sight and hearing.
The first obstacle the expedition encountered was the impossibility of Maurice's getting through to the stairway with his crutch. It was plain that it was out of the question, yet it was terribly hard to give up. There was a spice of daring in the adventure that appealed to him. For a moment he had a most uncomfortable sensation in his throat; and the old pettishness returned as he thundered at Katherine, in response to her reiterated, "You mustn't do it, Maurice," "I wish you'd hush. I know what I can do!"
"We are dreadfully sorry, Maurice, but you can keep watch and give the alarm if any one comes," said Belle.
Rosalind's oak leaf, as she stood before him, recalled him, and suggested that here was a hard thing to be bravely borne.
"Go on," he said; "I'll wait for you here. I don't mind." His tone was almost cheerful. His ill temper came near getting the better of him however, when Katherine insisted upon staying too. Katherine couldn't understand that people sometimes did not want to be pitied; and she was not very anxious, if the truth were known, to join the exploring party.
There was no way of escape for her. The others were too urgent, and Maurice did not want her.
"There is an imprisoned maiden in the tower, and we are going to rescue her." As she spoke Rosalind pointed to the garret window.
"What fun! Come on," cried Belle.
Jack had already wriggled in.
"It is rather dusty, isn't it?" Rosalind peeped in at the cobwebs doubtfully, but the thought of the imprisoned maiden overcame her dislike to dust. "Her name is Patricia," she paused on the sill to say.
"And we are going to release her and restore her ring, which a wicked magician has turned into lead," added Belle, with sudden inspiration.
"Why, Belle, I never thought of that. Perhaps it is the reason nobody can find it," laughed Rosalind, taking one step on the ledge and giving a little shriek of dismay.
"You won't fall. Give me your hand," commanded Jack, with masculine confidence.
The damp gloom of the cellar was rather frightful after the bright sunshine outside. No wonder Katherine crowded close to Belle and their voices sank to awed whispers. It was a relief to step out into the hall above, where the fanlight over the door made it seem less grewsome. The dust lay thick on the Chippendale table and chairs, and from its corner the tall clock looked down on them solemn and voiceless. There was no denying that it was scary, as Belle expressed it. What light there was seemed unreal, and the closed rooms when they peeped in were cheerless and ghostly.
They stole about on tiptoe, keeping close together and talking in low tones. The library, where old Mr. Gilpin had been found unconscious and where the ring had last been seen, was the most ghostly of all. Belle paused on the threshold.
"Let's go upstairs," she suggested. As she spoke she saw on the floor at her feet a ring of some dull metal, such as is used on light curtain-rods, but under the circumstances there was something a little startling in its being there.
Jack seized it, "Here is Patricia's ring!" he cried.
"Oh, Jack, hush!" whispered Belle, as his voice woke a hundred lonely echoes.
"I'll tell you; let's take it to the magician—our magician—and ask him to break the spell," said Rosalind.
"Oh, I wish you wouldn't talk so," entreated Katherine. "It makes me feel as if it were true."
It was plain that nobody wished to be last on the way upstairs, nor was the post of leader very ardently desired, so they settled it by crowding up four abreast. In the rooms above they breathed more freely, and grew bolder as they wandered about, recognizing things Celia had described.
"Do come here," called Belle, from a small room, hardly more than a closet, which opened from one of the bed chambers, "and see this funny picture."
There was one window in this room, and the outside shutters had round openings near the top through which the light came. The others looked at the print, and then Rosalind returned to a work-table that pleased her fancy, Katherine following her. As Belle lingered, Jack, in a spirit of mischief, suddenly pulled the door to.
"Jack! Jack! please let me out," she cried.
"Why don't you come out, goosie?"
"You have locked the door. Please, Jack!"
"It isn't locked," Jack insisted, but when he tried to open it he found the knob immovable.
"Maybe it is a dead latch," suggested Rosalind. "He is trying, Belle, really."
"Are you sure you can't open it from the inside?" Jack asked anxiously.
"Yes. I can turn the key both ways, but something holds the knob." Belle's voice was tremulous.
"I am dreadfully sorry. What shall we do?" asked Jack, meekly, turning to Rosalind, after their efforts had proved fruitless.
"Couldn't we open a window and call to Maurice? He would go for some one."
Jack acted upon this and opened a shutter of the hall window, but when he looked out no Maurice was to be seen, nor was there any response to his whistle.
"I'll have to go myself," he said, "unless you'd rather go."
"No, Katherine and I will stay with Belle while you go," Rosalind answered, adding, "Jack, I think Morgan is working at the Fairs'. He could get the door open, I am sure."
"All right," said Jack, but as he turned to go Katherine began to cry. "I am afraid to stay here," she sobbed, quite beside herself with terror.
"Oh! what are you going to do?" came in a wail from the other side of the door.
Rosalind and Jack looked at each other. "Take her with you; I don't mind—much," she said.
Jack was disposed to argue with Katherine. "There is nothing to be afraid of. You ought to stay with Rosalind," he urged, but Katherine was beyond reasoning with her fears.
"Never mind, if you hurry it won't be long, Belle and I can talk through the keyhole."
Very reluctantly Jack left her, accompanied by the tearful Katherine.
"Belle, you aren't afraid?" asked Rosalind, softly, as the sound of retreating steps grew faint.
"Not v-ery," whispered Belle. "But you don't know how queer those holes in the shutters look—like big round eyes staring at me. I have tried to open them but I can't."
"Belle, it is funny, isn't it, that there is an imprisoned maiden after all?"
"Oh, Rosalind, I know how it feels now. It is awful!"
"I think I know a little about it too," said Rosalind, sure that it was almost as bad to have that lonely, echoing house behind her as to be locked in. "Did you remember your oak leaf?" she asked.
"Yes, and I am not going to cry. Rosalind, we might have let Maurice in at the door. Wasn't it stupid of us?"
"Why, Belle! of course we might."
Katherine and Jack meanwhile had made their way out, the latter requiring a good deal of help, for getting in was easier than getting out. Jack was very indignant with her for not staying with Rosalind, and treated her with a cold disdain most trying.
As soon as she was in the open air, Katherine bitterly repented of her cowardice. She followed Jack meekly as he strode across the grass toward the Fairs', utterly ignoring her.
A sound of voices came from the summer-house, and Jack looked in to discover Maurice talking to Miss Celia. He briefly explained the trouble, adding, "If Morgan is at your house, Miss Celia, I'll go for him."
"I think you will find him. But what a thing for you children to do!" Celia exclaimed, "Who stayed with Belle?"
"Rosalind. Katherine was afraid."
Katherine, who lingered outside, shrunk back as he said this. Her tears began afresh. They all thought her a coward. She didn't want Miss Celia or Maurice to see her. She turned and ran away.
CHAPTER NINETEENTH.
OLD ACQUAINTANCE.
"And there begins my sadness."
Allan Whittredge, strolling up the hill toward the Gilpin place late in the afternoon, became aware of a dejected figure approaching, which presently resolved itself into Katherine Roberts, who paused every few minutes to press her handkerchief to her eyes.
"Why, Katherine, what is the trouble?" he asked, when he reached her side.
She stood still, not answering, and with her eyes covered. No one was in sight up or down the street. Allan drew her toward a convenient carriage block and, sitting beside her, asked his question again. His manner was winning, and Katherine, in great need of sympathy, sobbed, "They won't like me any more."
"Jack or Rosalind, or any of them," came in quivering tones.
"Why, what have you done that is so terrible? I thought quarrels were unknown in the Forest."
Katherine shook her head. "It wasn't a quarrel. I was afraid because it was dark,—and Jack said I was a coward. He told Maurice and Miss Celia so." The confession ended in more tears.
Patiently Allan questioned and listened until he had a fairly clear idea of the situation. Then he spoke with cheerfulness.
"You all ought to be dealt with for getting into such mischief," he said. "And now don't cry any more. Many a soldier has run away from his first battle-field. If I were you, I'd own up I had been a coward and say I was sorry. Do you want to come back with me, and see the end of this adventure?"
Greatly comforted, Katherine dried her eyes and decided to go with Mr. Whittredge. Jack might not be so hard on her when he saw her under such protection.
By this time Jack had found Morgan and brought him to the Gilpin house, where Celia and Maurice were waiting; and at Celia's suggestion he went in and opened the side door, thus making entrance easy for the others.
"How silly not to have thought of letting Maurice in this way before," he exclaimed.
The old house, a moment before so ghostly, now rang with the sound of voices as Rosalind, leaning over the stair rail, joyfully welcomed the rescuers.
The magician had some tools with him, but be seemed puzzled at first as to what the trouble could be, when Celia said, "I know what the matter is. Belle, isn't there a little catch at the side of the lock that moves up and down? Try."
"Yes," answered Belle, after a moment's investigation.
"Then push it up," said Celia, but before the words were out of her mouth Belle had the door open and was being as warmly welcomed by Rosalind as if they had been separated for years instead of minutes.
Belle was really pale from the trying experience, and had to wink rapidly to keep the tears of relief out of her eyes, while Celia explained the accident.
"You see, when Jack banged the door the catch fell and kept the knob from turning. We have one that has given us a good deal of trouble." Then she put her arm around Belle and reminded her that the way of transgressors is hard.
"But I wasn't doing anything wrong," replied Belle.
"Everything came true, Maurice," Rosalind said merrily. "First Belle found a ring, and then the imprisoned maiden was rescued; but her name wasn't Patricia, after all."
"I don't believe she wants to play the part again," said Celia.
"Indeed, I don't," answered Belle. "Here is the enchanted ring, Rosalind. Ask the magician to break the spell."
"What children you are!" Celia laughed, and her face was full of brightness as she descended the stairs with Belle beside her, the others following. Three steps from the bottom she came face to face with Allan Whittredge and Katherine.
Celia hated herself for her burning cheeks as she bowed gravely. One hand held her work big, the other was on Belle's shoulder; and if, us for a fleeting instant she thought, Allan was about to hold out his hand, he changed his mind. His manner was calmly, unconcernedly polite as he spoke her name.
"Uncle Allan, what are you doing here?" called Rosalind.
Under the chorus of greetings and explanations Celia slipped away. Her thoughts were in a tumult as she hurried across the grounds to her own home.
Her mother was on the porch with a caller, and Celia took her seat there and went on with her sewing. The visitor remarked on her improved color, and Mrs. Fair looked at her daughter in some perplexity, Celia had been so pale of late.
All the evening she worked with feverish energy, writing labels for fruit jars and pasting them on, until no shadow of an excuse remained for not going to bed.
When at length she went to her room, it was to sit at the open window gazing blankly out into the darkness. She had been telling herself fiercely how silly and weak she was, but she had not succeeded in conquering her unhappiness. Now she resisted no longer.
She had not met Allan Whittredge face to face before for six years, although since his father's death he had been frequently in Friendship. She had known it must happen sometime, and had schooled herself to think it would mean nothing to her, but instead it had brought back a host of vain regrets.
She had been happier of late. Association with those light-hearted children had brought back something of her old hopefulness. That a chance meeting with Allan Whittredge could change all this, humiliated her.
"You haven't any pride, Celia Fair. It was your own doing."
"I had to do it; it was forced on me."
"And a fortunate thing it was. Do you suppose he would care now? These years which he has spent out in the world—what have they done for you? They have turned a happy-hearted girl into a bitter, disappointed woman." So she argued with herself.
Resting her head on the sill, she let her thoughts go where they would.
"You are sure you won't forget, Celia? It is going to be a long time," Allan had said. She was still a schoolgirl, and he just through college, and no one but her father knew about it. Dr. Fair had shaken his head, but he loved Allan almost as much as he loved Celia. Allan must do as his mother wished and go abroad. Time would show of what stuff their love was made, he said.
She had been so happy. She had been glad no one knew. Her happiness was all her own.
Then had come Judge Whittredge's illness, the trouble about the Gilpin will, and the cruel slander that had crushed her father. The brief letter with which she returned Allan's letters and ring, was the result of her bitter resentment and grief. In her sorrow over her father's death she told herself her love was dead, and for a time she believed it. Now she knew it was not so.
"At least, I will be honest with myself. I do care. Perhaps I shall always care. Oh, it is cruel to come so near happiness and miss it. But it is something to have come near it.
"O God, help me—" she prayed, "not to choose the desert way. I do not want to be bitter and hard."
As she lay back in her chair, too weary to think; through her mind floated Rosalind's words, "Things always come right in the Forest."
It was after dinner. The sun had set, leaving the sky full of opal tints. The delicate leaves of the white birch barely moved, so still was the air. The whir of the last locust had died away, and the soft splash of the fountain was the only sound, as Rosalind in her white dress flitted past the griffins and joined her uncle on the garden bench. He welcomed her with a smile, and smoked on in silence. They were too good comrades to need to talk.
After a while Rosalind spoke: "Uncle Allan, do you know Miss Celia Fair?"
"I used to."
Silence again.
"I like her very much. I think she is sweet, and she bears hard things bravely. Belle says, since her father died they haven't any money, so Miss Celia works, and the boys are troublesome, and her mother is ill a great deal."
Another silence.
"Uncle Allan, was it any harm for me to know her? Belle said there was a quarrel, and Aunt Genevieve said, 'We have nothing to do with the Fairs.'"
As he flicked the ash from his cigar, Allan smiled at Rosalind's unconscious imitation of Genevieve's tone.
"I see no reason why you should take up other people's quarrels," he said gravely.
Then Rosalind told him of her first meeting with Celia, and the incident of the rose. "But I think now I must have been mistaken," she added.
"Perhaps," said Allan, and again he smiled to himself in the twilight, so vividly did the story recall the occasional passionate outbursts of the child Celia, usually so gentle, so timidly reserved.
That strange letter of hers had puzzled while it hurt. Far away from the scene of the trouble, he could not understand the bitterness of the strife. That for a village quarrel—some unkind words, perhaps—she could break the bond between them—was this the Celia he thought he knew so well?
The wound had rankled, but after a time he told himself it was for the best. Travel and study had broadened and matured him, and he could smile now as he recognized, what was unsuspected at the time, that his mother had planned these years of absence in the determination to cure him of a boyish fancy which her eyes had been keen enough to detect.
And yet—his thought would dwell upon her as she stood on the step, her arm around Belle, the laughter fading from her face. Not the little schoolgirl, but a woman, gracious and tender.
Rosalind danced away to join Maurice and Katherine, whose humble penitence had restored her to favor; and over the hedge came the sound of their voices singing an old tune. On the still night air, in their clear treble, the words carried distinctly:—
"Should auld acquaintance be forgot?"—
CHAPTER TWENTIETH.
THE SPINET.
"Thou art not for the fashion of these times."
"Where are you going to put it, Celia?" asked Mrs. Fair.
"In Saint Cecilia's room, I suppose," her daughter replied. Her father had given this name to the sitting room which was her own special property, and in which she would have nothing that was not associated in some way with her great-grandmother.
"I don't believe you ever enter it now," Mrs. Fair continued discontentedly.
"The spinet won't mind that; it is used to being alone," Celia answered cheerfully, standing before the mirror, fastening an oak leaf on her dress. It reminded her that even if her heart was heavy and her life full of difficulties, she could still be courageous.
"Things are sure to come right in the Forest," she had said to herself again and again. Not because she believed it, but because she longed to, and sometimes she did believe it,—just for a little while,—as she looked from Patricia's Arbor across to that bit of sunny road.
Since the adventure of the Arden Foresters the cellar windows of the Gilpin house had been securely fastened, and its bolts and bars made proof against more experienced house breakers than they. And now preparations for the sale became evident. Circulars containing an inventory of the things to be disposed of were spread abroad, and it was known that the proprietor of the new mills, a stranger in Friendship, had been through the house with the idea of purchasing.
As she unlocked the door of Saint Cecilia's room, Celia could not help remembering the days when she had looked forward so happily to owning the spinet, and seeing it stand beneath her great-grandmother's portrait.
From the cushioned window-seat, where there was a glimpse of the river through the trees, she had loved to survey the calm orderliness of the little room. At heart something of a Puritan, the straight-backed chairs and unreposeful sofa, the secretary with its diamond-paned doors and glass knobs, the quaint old jardinières brought from China a century ago, pleased her fancy.
How Genevieve Whittredge had smiled and shrugged her shoulders! In those days their half antagonistic friendship had not suffered a complete break. She must have color and warmth and lavishness, and Celia acknowledged her unerring taste and admired the beauty and richness Genevieve found necessary to her happiness, even while she returned contentedly to her own prim little room.
It had been her dreaming place, and when dreams were crowded out by an exacting present, she had closed the door and turned the key. It was so much the less to take care of.
"I don't see why Mr. Gilpin couldn't have left you some money," her mother said, following her. "It would be such a help just now. How are we to keep Tom at the university another year?"
Mrs. Fair had a way of bringing up problems just when her daughter had succeeded in putting them aside.
"I think we can manage in some way, mother. Don't worry," she said.
"But some one has to worry."
"Then let me do it," Celia answered, smiling.
Half an hour later she was standing by the spinet, absently touching the tuneless keys, when a voice from the window startled her. It was Morgan, who with his elbows on the sill, was looking in.
"Better sell it, Miss Celia."
Sell it! The idea had never occurred to her. "What could I get for it?" she asked, going to the window.
"Two hundred—maybe more."
Two hundred dollars would be a great help toward Tom's expenses, but to give up her grandmother's spinet? It took on a new value.
"Let me have it to do over and I guarantee you two hundred dollars," said Morgan.
"I'll think of it and let you know," was Celia's answer.
"It seems like the irony of fate," she told herself, "to have to sell it almost before it is really mine; and yet when two hundred dollars lie within my reach, I can't refuse to take them. Poor old spinet, it is too bad to send you away. I shouldn't do it if I could help it; but you don't fit in with these times. Or rather, you are helping me out; that is the way to look at it."
So it was that the spinet did not long keep company with the portrait of Saint Cecilia, its original owner, but was harked away to the shop of the magician and the society of the clock case and the claw-footed sofa.
Here Allan Whittredge saw and recognized it one day, and questioned Morgan. Allan remembered the prim little sitting room, and how Celia had looked forward to owning the spinet, and it troubled him to think she was compelled to part with it. When he left the shop he went over to Miss Betty's.
After talking for a while about other things, he asked, "Betty, is it true that Dr. Fair left his family with very little?"
"True? Of course it is. Have you just found that out? Celia is working her fingers to the bone, and I wish I were sure those boys are worth it," was her reply.
"How did it happen?"
"Well, I don't think Dr. Fair had the best judgment in the world when it came to investments; at the same time, a lot of other people lost in the West View coal mines. His death was a great shock; I loved Dr. Fair."
"I too," said Allan. "He was a good man."
"I don't know whether you know it, Allan. Perhaps I ought not to tell you; but there was some talk of Dr. Fair's treatment having done your father harm. I really believe your mother was out of her mind with anxiety, and you know she disliked the doctor. He was dismissed, you remember; and this was whispered about and exaggerated until I think it almost broke his heart. Of course there was no truth in it—that was made clear in the end—and his death put a stop to the talk, for everybody loved and respected Dr. Fair; but it has been terribly hard on Celia."
Allan sat looking at Miss Betty absently. "Terribly hard on Celia,"—the words repeated themselves over and over in his mind.
"This is the first I ever heard of it," he said at length.
Miss Betty watched him as he walked away. "As usual I have been minding some one else's business," she said to herself; "but he ought to know it. Allan is a fine fellow."