"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.
"I sometimes do believe and sometimes do not."
"Belle!" called Mrs. Parton from the porch, addressing her daughter, who swung lazily to and fro in the hammock, her eyes on a book, "I can't find Jack, and I want you to take this money to Morgan. Your father reminded me of the bill just before he left, and I haven't thought of it from that day to this."
"Oh, mother, can't—?"
"Can't who? You know there isn't a soul to send but you, and I must have this off my mind. Manda is helping me with the sweet pickles, and Tilly has gone to camp-meeting."
Belle rose reluctantly, tossed back her hair, and went in search of her hat.
"Be sure now to get a receipt," Mrs. Parton said, as she gave the money into Belle's hands. "I am not afraid of Morgan, but the colonel is certain to accuse me of not paying it if I haven't a receipt to show him."
Belle tucked her book under her arm and walked off.
"Now, Belle," protested her mother, "why can't you leave that book at home? Don't let me hear of your reading as you go along the street."
"I won't, but I like to carry it," answered Belle, patting it lovingly. She was deeply interested in the story, and begrudged the time it took to walk to the magician's. Once there, she decided she would stay awhile to rest and finish the chapter.
The day was warm, and she strolled along in lazy fashion. The Whittredge house as she passed looked deserted. The front shutters were closed, and no one was to be seen. Rosalind had gone away with her uncle for a few days. Belle amused herself by imagining that Rosalind's having been there at all was a dream, and she succeeded in producing a bewildering sense of unreality in her own mind.
Morgan was not in his shop, but that he had been there recently was evident, for his tools lay scattered about.
After the heat of the street the shop was cool and inviting, and a corner of an old sofa offered itself as a desirable spot in which to continue the story. It stood against the wall, and with several other pieces of furniture before it, was a secluded as well as a comfortable resting-place. Belle settled herself to her liking and was at once lost in her book. She finished the chapter and read another, and was beginning a third when something aroused her. For a moment she couldn't remember where she was, then with a finger in her book she peeped around the clock case, which with a high-backed chair screened her corner.
The magician stood in the middle of the room, with his back toward her, gazing intently at something in his hand. Belle was about to come out of her hiding-place when he stepped to the window, and holding the object up between his thumb and finger, let the sunlight fall upon it, laughing gleefully like a child over a toy.
Belle drew back quickly. Was she dreaming still? She pinched herself. No, she was awake, and in the magician's shop, and the thing she had seen in his hand was nothing less than Patricia's ring! She had heard it described too often not to recognize it. But how came it in Morgan's possession? She sat still and thought.
Meanwhile, after turning it over and over, and nodding and laughing to himself in a way that would have seemed rather crazy to one who did not know him, the magician disappeared into the back room, closing the door behind him. Belle seized the opportunity to steal from the shop. It would be easier to think out of doors.
The little brown and white house across the lane was keeping itself to-day. Miss Betty had gone to the city, and Sophy was at camp-meeting, as Belle happened to know, so she went over and sat on the porch step beside a large hydrangea. She must decide what to do. She remembered very distinctly the circumstances connected with the disappearance of the ring. Morgan had been one of the last persons to speak to old Mr. Gilpin before the attack of heart failure that ended his life, but no one had dreamed of suspecting him. Could he have had it all this time?
Belle felt ashamed of herself for the thought. If there was an honest person in the world, it was Morgan. She had heard her father talk of circumstantial evidence, and how easy it was to draw wrong conclusions. She was puzzled. One thing was certain, she had seen the ring in his hand.
"Now, if he were really a magician, I might think he had broken the spell on the ring we found in the Gilpin house," she said to herself.
She must go back and pay the bill; for if she did not, her mother would have to know the reason, and Belle was not sure it would be wise to tell her about the discovery. Mrs. Parton acknowledged frankly she couldn't keep a secret, and Belle was wise enough to see it wouldn't do to spread the news abroad.
"I wish Rosalind was here," she thought.
When at length she made up her mind to go back, the magician was at work and greeted her just as usual. Belle wondered if she had not dreamed it after all. While he went into the next room to make change and receipt the bill, she looked for the ring she and Rosalind had hung on a nail beside the door. It was gone. Had any one ever known such a perplexing state of affairs?
The magician must have wondered what made the usually merry Belle so grave, for he asked if she was well as he gave her the bill.
As she walked slowly homeward, she noticed a large, dignified gentleman coming toward her. He did not belong to Friendship, she knew, and she wondered a little who he might be. He looked down on her benevolently through his spectacles as he passed, and for a moment seemed about to speak. Belle quickly forgot him, however, for the ring occupied her thoughts to the exclusion of everything else. Even the story so fascinating an hour ago, had lost its charm.
"Does your head ache?" her mother asked, seeing her sitting on the doorstep, her chin in her hand, her book unopened beside her.
"No, mother; I am just thinking," was Belle's reply.
She was trying to decide whom to tell. "I wish father was at home," she said to herself.
She went to bed with the matter still undecided, and the first thing she thought of when she opened her eyes the next day was the ring. A conversation overheard between her mother and Manda, the cook, added to her uneasiness.
"Miss Mary, did you know there was a 'tective loafin' round town?"
"A detective? No, I did not. If there is, it won't make any difference to you and me," answered Mrs. Parton.
"Maybe it don't make no difference to white folks, but looks like they's always 'spicioning niggers," continued Manda, with a shake of her head. "Tilly 'lows it's that thar ring of old Marse Gilpin's."
"Hardly," said Mrs. Parton, with a laugh. Belle, remembering the stranger, wondered if it might not be true.
Such talk among the servants of Friendship was nothing new. Since the first excitement over the disappearance of the ring, it had broken out periodically; but to Belle this morning it seemed a strange coincidence. Suppose some one else had seen the ring in Morgan's possession? And now it occurred to her to tell Miss Celia.
On her way to the Fairs' she met the stranger again, this time in front of Mrs. Graham's school. He was looking about him with an air of interest, and as Belle approached he asked if this was not the Bishop residence.
"It was," she answered, "but it is a school now."
The gentleman thanked her and walked on.
"I believe he is a detective," she said to herself.
Celia was in her usual place in the arbor bending over a piece of embroidery, when Belle found her.
"Miss Celia, I have the strangest thing to tell you," she began, and then unfolded her story.
Celia listened in astonishment. "Why, Belle, it isn't possible—you don't think—"
"Miss Celia, I don't know. I saw the ring, and I know Morgan isn't a thief, but I don't understand it."
"No, indeed. Morgan, whom we have always known—who is honest as the day!" Celia was silent for a moment, then she said, "Belle, it seems to me the only thing for you to do is to tell Mr. Whittredge. The ring belongs to him; he will know what to do far better than we, and he will think of Morgan, too."
"I would have told him, but he has gone away."
Belle wondered a little at Miss Celia's tone; it was as if she cared a great deal.
"I don't think he will be gone long. He took Rosalind with him," she added.
"Then I should wait till his return. A few days more can't make much difference. You have been very wise not to mention it to any one."
But when Belle told about the supposed detective, Celia laughed and said she had a vivid imagination, and that it was only a coincidence that the old rumors should be revived just now.
As Belle went down the hill, feeling somewhat crestfallen and rather tired of the whole matter of the ring, she met Maurice and Jack. Jack had spent the night with Maurice, and now they were on their way to the landing to take some pictures with Maurice's new camera. They made no objection to her proposal to join them, so she turned back, feeling strongly tempted to tell her story to them; but she had agreed with Miss Celia that it was best not to talk about it until Mr. Whittredge's return, and Belle prided herself on her ability to keep a secret.
The interest of deciding what view would make the best picture made her forget the ring for a while; but as they sat on the edge of the dock waiting to catch a sailboat about to start out, she suddenly said, "Boys, I believe I saw a detective this morning," and she described the stranger.
"Why do you think he is a detective?" asked Maurice.
"Well, you know they always wear spectacles and try to look like ministers," she answered confidently.
"Pshaw! they have all sorts of disguises," said Jack.
"I don't care, I'm sure he is one, and I think he is looking for the ring." Belle pursed up her lips as much as to say she might tell more.
"You are trying to make us believe you know something," remarked Jack, with brotherly scorn.
"I do. Something I can't tell for—well, for several days."
"Who knows it beside you?" asked Maurice.
"Just Miss Celia."
If Miss Celia knew, it seemed worthy of more respect. "How did you find it out?" asked Jack.
"I can't tell you. It is a mystery; but, boys, I want to keep an eye on that man and see what he does," Belle said impressively.
"How about taking his picture?" suggested Maurice.
"Just the thing!" Belle clapped her hands. "Let's go look for him now."
Anything that promised some fun was hailed with delight. It had been a little dull in Rosalind's absence. When she was with them nobody was conscious of her leadership, but now she was away they were at a loss.
They waylaid old Mr. Biddle, driving in from the country with a load of apples, and demanded a ride which he good-naturedly allowed them, and they drove down the hill in state. When they came within sight of the post-office, Belle clutched Maurice's arm. "There he is," she whispered. "Let's get out and wait for him. You have your camera ready."
The obliging Mr. Biddle stopped his horse and let his passenger out. As for the stranger, if he had known what was wanted of him, he couldn't have been more accommodating. He came slowly down the steps of the post-office, and stood within a few yards of the doorway, where three giggling young persons had taken shelter. Maurice had time for half a dozen pictures if he wanted them.
"He isn't a detective," whispered Jack, "I'll bet a dime he is a minister."
"I said he looked like a minister," Belle retorted.
"I am going to Burke's to get him to show me about developing," said Maurice, as the stranger moved away, "Wouldn't it be fun if we could have his picture to show Rosalind when she comes to-morrow?"
"Is she coming to-morrow? Oh, I am glad!" said Belle.
"Let's follow and see where he goes," Jack proposed, as Maurice left them; and Belle nothing loath, they dogged the steps of the supposed detective. She was both alarmed and triumphant when he was seen to turn into Church Lane, but all other emotions were swallowed up in surprise when, instead of crossing to the magician's shop, he entered Miss Betty Bishop's front gate.
"'Twas I, but 'tis not I."
The next morning Belle and Jack awaited the 10.30 train, seated together on a trunk on the station platform. Celia saw them from the door of the express office across the road. Presently they recognized her and began to wave, and then Belle came flying over to tell her how they had taken the detective's picture and had afterward seen him enter Miss Betty's gate.
"Why should a detective go to Miss Betty's?" Celia asked, much amused.
"Why should he go if he wasn't a detective?" Belle demanded.
"Why not? He may be an agent, or a friend," Celia suggested, laughing.
A whistle in the distance left no time for argument. Belle flew back to the platform, where Maurice had joined Jack. Celia turned toward home.
She was more perplexed over Belle's story about the ring than she cared to own. Not for a moment did she think Morgan had taken it; and yet he was getting to be an old man and she recalled something she had heard her father say about a certain brain disease that first showed itself in acts wholly out of keeping with the character of its victim. Could this be the explanation?
It was a relief to know that it would soon be in Allan Whittredge's hands. That he would do the kindest, wisest thing, she never thought of doubting.
She had heard with a sinking of heart that he had gone away, and she scorned herself for the sensation of relief when Belle added, it was only for a few days. Celia deeply regretted the way in which she had met his request to speak with her that night at Friendly Creek. Why could she not have listened quietly? In these days she was torn by conflicting feelings. The spirit of the Forest was slowly tempering the bitterness in her heart, but it sometimes seemed to her that her loyalty to her father was weakening.
It was fortunate matters at home demanded her thoughts. Plans for the winter, getting the boys off to school, and the many small cares of the housekeeper left little time for brooding.
At the station Belle, in her eagerness to be the first to greet Rosalind, had to be dragged back out of harm's way by the baggage master, as the long train swept around the curve.
"You'll find yourself killed one of these days if you don't look out," remarked Jack, descending from the trunk.
But Belle gave small heed. "I am so glad you have come," she cried, seizing upon Rosalind almost before she had her foot on the ground. "Such lots of things have happened."
"Aren't you glad to see me too?" asked Mr. Whittredge.
"Yes, I am especially glad to see you, because I have something to tell you. Something I can't tell any one else."
"Bless me! this is interesting. Just wait till I find my checks, and we'll walk up town together."
Belle, however, was not destined to relate her story just then, for no sooner had they started out, she in front with Mr. Whittredge, and Rosalind and the boys following, than Mr. Molesworth joined them and began talking about the paper mills. There was nothing for her but to fall back with the others, and this was not without its compensation, for now she could have a share in telling Rosalind about the detective.
"It's all nonsense. I don't believe he was a detective at all, but it was fun taking his picture," said Jack.
"I'll have it to show you to-morrow," added Maurice.
"Why don't you ask Cousin Betty who he is?" suggested Rosalind.
Belle's deep sense of the mystery of things had kept her from thinking of this simple method of solving the problem.
"Of course we might," she acknowledged.
"I want to stop at Morgan's a moment," Allan looked back to say.
At the magician's corner Mr. Molesworth left them; but as it was only a step to the shop, the secret still remained untold.
Morgan seemed delighted beyond all reason at sight of them. He greeted Allan as if he had been away years instead of days; and tapping his own breast, he exclaimed, looking from one to another, "I am Morgan, the magician!" Then pointing to the nail where the children had hung the brass ring, he added, "I have broken the spell!" With this he disappeared for a moment into the back room, but he was with them again before they had recovered from their surprise at his strange manner; and now he held something in his hand which he waved aloft gleefully.
Belle began to understand that all her anxiety had been needless.
"What does this mean?" asked Allan, as Morgan put into his hand a little worn case.
The children crowded around him as he opened it and disclosed the long-lost, much talked of sapphire ring. In his delight the cabinet-maker almost danced a jig, and continued to repeat, "I'm a magician."
"It's found; it's found!" cried Rosalind.
"And I knew it," said Belle.
"Hello!" exclaimed Jack. "Was this your secret? Did Morgan tell you?"
Belle tried to explain her discovery, but so great was the excitement nobody would listen. It was really beyond belief that Patricia's ring was actually in their hands. It was some time before they quieted down sufficiently to hear Morgan's story.
He had begun work on the spinet several days ago, he said, and upon removing the top had noticed something wedged in under the strings, which upon investigation he found to be the case containing the ring.
"But where is the other ring?" Rosalind asked.
The magician laughed and said that was another story, and he told how the evening before the real ring was found, Crisscross had been seized with a fit of unusual playfulness, and jumping up on the chest, above which the ring hung, had begun to move it to and fro with his paw, presently knocking it off and sending it rolling across the floor. He darted after it under tables and chairs but apparently never found it; nor could the magician, although he searched carefully.
"So the mystery is not ended yet. We do not know what became of the magic ring, nor how the real ring came to be in the spinet," Allan remarked.
"It is exactly like a sure enough fairy tale," added Belle; and then she whispered her part of the story, turning her back to the magician, for fear he might see what she was talking about.
"And how about the detective? Did you think he was coming to arrest Morgan?" asked Maurice.
Belle looked a little shamefaced. "I didn't know," she said.
Mr. Whittredge wanted to hear about the detective, and was much amused at her description of the taking of his picture.
Rosalind as she listened held the ring in her hand—Patricia's ring. She had thought a great deal about Patricia, and this seemed to bring her near and make her more real—the young girl who had looked like Aunt Genevieve, only more kind.
"Let's show the ring to Miss Betty! May we, Mr. Whittredge?" asked Belle.
Allan did not appear enthusiastic over the suggestion, but he did not refuse, and followed the children at a distance as they raced across the street.
"There's the detective now," cried Jack, at the gate.
"Where?" the others asked breathlessly.
"On the porch with Miss Betty."
Sure enough, partially shielded from view by the vines, in one of Miss Betty's comfortable chairs, sat the stranger.
"Why—" began Rosalind, stopping short, "it looks like—Why, Dr. Hollingsworth! I didn't know you were here!"
At the same moment the gentleman started up, exclaiming, "Well, Rosalind, they said you were out of town. I am very glad to see you," and they met and clasped hands like warm friends.
"Children!" cried Rosalind, turning to her companions, "this is our president, Dr. Hollingsworth."
"And these are the young people who took my photograph yesterday," Dr. Hollingsworth observed gravely. There was a twinkle in his eye, however.
By this time Mr. Whittredge had arrived on the scene and was introduced.
"So this is the detective," he said.
The culprits looked at each other and meditated flight, but changed their minds when Dr. Hollingsworth shook hands with them, and said he knew how it was to have a new camera and want to take everything in sight, and that he really felt complimented.
Belle thought she wouldn't have minded, except for the detective part of it, over which Mr. Whittredge made so much fun.
The ring was exhibited, and the whole matter made clear after a while, and Dr. Hollingsworth said he was glad to have figured in any capacity in such an interesting occurrence.
"And how in the world did it get in the spinet?" asked Miss Betty. "I believe Cousin Thomas put it there himself, as a practical joke."
Miss Betty might have been holding a reception that morning, so full of people did her small porch appear, and so continuous was the hum of voices.
Dr. Hollingsworth, it seemed, had been in the habit of visiting in Friendship twenty years ago, and finding himself in the vicinity, he had made it convenient to call upon his old friends; but, as he said, things had been rather against him. His college friend, the Presbyterian minister, was away on his vacation, Miss Bishop out of town for the day, and Rosalind, he did not know where.
"And so there was nothing for me to do but loaf about that first afternoon," he explained, "but little did I think to what dark suspicions I was laying myself open," and he smiled at Belle.
"Cousin Betty, you never told me you knew our president," Rosalind said reproachfully.
Miss Hetty laughed. "You see it had been such a long, long time, Rosalind—"
"That she had forgotten me," added the president.
"Oh, no, I hadn't," she insisted.
They all felt that they should like to see more of him, and that it was too bad he had to leave on the five o'clock train. The last hour was spent with the Whittredges, and Rosalind and Allan accompanied him to the station. Here, while they waited, Rosalind had an opportunity to tell him about the society of Arden Foresters, in which he seemed greatly interested, and was saying he should like to belong, when the gong sounded the approach of the train, and there was only time for good-by.
"I shall be in this part of the country late in October, and may look in upon you again," the president put his head out of the window to say, as the conductor called, "All aboard."
"Assuredly the thing is to be sold."
Although the September days were warm, it was plain that summer was departing. The flutter of yellow butterflies along the road told it, so did the bursting pods of the milkweed, and the golden-rod and asters, wreathing the meadows in royal colors.
The potting of plants began in the gardens, housewifely minds turned to fall cleaning, the spicy odor of tomato catsup pervaded the atmosphere, and the sound of the school bell was heard in the land.
It was always so, Belle groaned. Just when out of doors grew most alluring, lessons put in their superior claim. To be sure, there were some free afternoons and always Saturdays, but one did not want to lose a moment of the fleeting beauty.
Rosalind missed somewhat the constant companionship of her friends. Mrs. Whittredge thought it hardly worth while to enter her in school for two months, but at the instigation of Miss Herbert some home instruction was begun. This Uncle Allan had no conscience about interrupting whenever he wanted Rosalind for a drive or walk. As yet he said nothing about leaving Friendship. A few brief sentences had been exchanged with his mother upon the subject that weighed most heavily on his mind.
"Has anything ever been done, any step taken, to correct the unfounded report which got out at the time of my father's death, in regard to Dr. Fair's treatment of the case?" he asked abruptly one evening.
The color rose in Mrs. Whittredge's face, and she looked up from her work. "I do not understand you. How do you know it was unfounded?"
"For one thing, because I have taken pains to investigate. I saw Dr. Bell in Baltimore."
"May I ask why this sudden zeal?" His mother went on taking careful stitches in a piece of linen.
"For the reason that until a few weeks ago I knew nothing about it. Now I cannot rest till the cruel wrong has been in some measure righted."
"And you conclude without question, at once, that all the wrong is on one side. But I should not be surprised. I have ever been the last to be considered by my children."
"You are not quite fair, mother," Allan answered gently, touched by the unhappy bit of truth in this remark; "but I'll not defend myself more than to say that I am not judging any one. I only wish the wrong on our side made right." And he added, what he realized afterward had the sound of a threat, "Unless it is done, I can never call Friendship my home."
Here it ended for the time.
And now, after a week of rain, October began with perfect weather, and from the strangers who flocked to the auction, attracted by reports of Lowestoft plates and Sheraton furniture, were heard many expressions of delight at the beauty of the old town.
For two hours before the sale began, a stream of people passed through the house, examining its contents, or wandered about the grounds, admiring the view and the fine beech trees. Friendship itself was well represented in the throng, but rather in the character of interested onlookers than probable purchasers.
Miss Betty was there to watch the fate of her silver, and Allan Whittredge had brought Rosalind, who was eager to see for herself what an auction was like. She hung entranced over Patricia's miniature, which with some other small things of value had been placed in a glass case in the library, until her uncle told her if she would select some article of furniture that particularly pleased her, he would try to get it for her. This delighted her beyond measure, and after much consideration she chose a chest of drawers, with a small mirror above it, swung between two sportive and graceful dolphins. "The little dolphin bureau," she called it.
"SHE CHOSE A CHEST OF DRAWERS."
"SHE CHOSE A CHEST OF DRAWERS."
The sale was to begin at eleven o'clock, and silverware and china were first to be disposed of. The long drawing-room was full of camp chairs, and the audience had begun to assemble when Rosalind entered and sat down in a corner to wait for her uncle, who was interviewing the auctioneer. Two rows in front of her she saw Miss Betty, with Mrs. Parton and Mrs. Molesworth.
"Do you expect to bid on your cream-jug and sugar-bowl when they are put up, Betty?" asked Mrs. Parton; adding, "How this chair squeaks! I wonder if it will hold me."
"I haven't made up my mind," was the answer. "It goes against the grain to give money for what is really mine already. I can't get over the impression that this is a funeral instead of a sale."
"I wonder if the Whittredges will buy anything. I saw Allan in the hall," said Mrs. Molesworth. She was a tall, angular person, with a severe manner, a marked contrast to Mrs. Parton, with her ample proportions and laughing face. "By the way, Betty," she continued, "what has become of the ring?"
"I know no more than you."
The entrance of several strangers and some confusion about seats, kept Rosalind from hearing any more of the conversation for a time. A portly man completely blocked the way, and she began to wonder if her uncle would be able to get to the chair she was keeping for him.
When things were quiet again, she heard Mrs. Molesworth say, leaning over Miss Betty and speaking to Mrs. Parton, "Why, she was an actress, wasn't she?"
"I don't see that that was such an insuperable objection," Mrs. Parton replied, "In point of family she was just as good as he, perhaps a little better. The colonel and I met a lady at Cape May who knew them well. This girl was left an orphan early, and through the rascality of her guardian found herself penniless at seventeen. She had inherited the artistic gift of her family, only in her it took the dramatic turn, and necessity and her surroundings all combined to lead her in that direction. Then just as she was making a success she gave it up to marry—" Another interruption, and Rosalind did not hear whom she married.
Her uncle now managed to join her by stepping over the backs of chairs, and it was not long before the sale began.
From the start it was evident the city people had not come to look on. Bidding was spirited, and Miss Betty's silver soon went "out of sight," as Mrs. Parton expressed it.
Rosalind was highly entertained, and whenever her uncle put in a quiet bid, as he did now and then, she held her breath, fairly, for fear he would not get what he wanted.
To Allan there was an unreality about it all. It seemed so short a time since he and Genevieve and Celia had been children together, taking tea with Cousin Thomas and Cousin Anne. What a strange household the two had constituted in this old mansion, where their whole lives had been spent. As he thought of it, he felt he had an inkling of why Thomas Gilpin had done as he did. Perhaps he had felt it would be better to have a clean sweep, and thus make possible for some one a fresh beginning in the old place. A fine substantial house it was, needing only a few improvements to make of it, with its spacious, high-ceiled rooms and wide hall, a most desirable residence.
Rosalind's voice recalled him. "May I come again this afternoon, Uncle Allan? They may begin on the furniture."
The auction continued for three or four days. Rosalind became the proud possessor of the dolphin bureau; and her uncle obtained also the miniature of Patricia, for what seemed indeed an extravagant sum, but he had given his promise to his sister.
At the close of the sale on the second day, Allan went into the library to examine some books. The throng of onlookers and buyers had dispersed; only the auctioneer's assistants remained at work in the hall. Purchases had been promptly removed, and the house already seemed dismantled and bare.
Absorbed in his search for a volume not on the catalogue, but which he felt sure was somewhere on the shelves, he became aware of Celia Fair's voice just outside the door. The next moment she entered the library and, going to the fireplace, stooped to examine the andirons. She had not observed him. Should he go quietly out, or make one more appeal to be heard? Allan hesitated.
With her hand on the high mantel-shelf and her head against her hand, Celia stood looking down on the vacant hearth. There was something of weariness in the attitude. What a delicate bit of porcelain she seemed! Allan had a sudden, illogical vision of a fire of blazing logs, and himself and Celia sitting before it.
He moved out of the shadow and she saw him; but though she stood erect and tense in a moment, she did not, as he expected, hasten from the room. Instead, she hesitated, and there was an appeal in her eyes very different from the defiance of a few weeks ago.
"I didn't know there was any one here," she said; adding, "Mr. Whittredge, I have wanted to have an opportunity to say that I regret my rudeness. I was unreasonable—I am sorry."
The childishness of the speech went to Allan's heart. He was conscious of keeping a very tight rein on himself as he answered, "Do not say that. I can understand a little of what you must feel. But does it mean that I may speak now and tell you that only a few weeks ago I first learned the cruel, the unwarranted, charge against your father? I had not understood before."
Celia lifted her hand as if to ward off a blow, but she did not speak.
Allan continued, "My silence must have seemed like a consent to it. And now, can we not meet, if only for a few minutes, on common ground? Must we be enemies because—"
"Not enemies—oh, no," Celia said, looking toward the door as if she wished to end the interview.
"Then—you will think me very insistent—but there is something I must explain to you. First, won't you let me give you a chair?"
"Thank you, I'll stand," Celia answered; she moved, however, to a table and leaned against it.
"It is about the ring. You perhaps remember the wording of the will? Before I left home to go abroad, so long ago, when I bade good-by to old Mr. Gilpin, he said to me, with that odd chuckle of his, 'Allan, I want Celia to have the ring when I die,' I replied that I hoped he would leave it to you in his will. Again, as I was leaving him, he called after me, 'Remember, Celia is to have the ring,' It escaped my mind until I heard of the will, then of course I remembered. I think he had a feeling that if he left it to anybody it should be to a member of our family, and yet he wished you to have it. Now we both know what the old man had in mind; but, although things have changed between us since then, the fact remains that the ring is yours." Allan took the little worn case from his breast pocket and held it out.
Celia looked at his extended hand, and shook her head. "I cannot take it," she said.
"But it does not belong to me; you must take it. You put me in an awkward position by refusing."
Celia's eyes flashed. "And how about my position if I should take it? Has not all Friendship been speculating about the meaning of the Gilpin will? Is not everybody wondering what you are going to do with it? What—" She paused, clearly unable to keep her voice steady.
She seemed about to hurry away when Allan intercepted her. "Forgive me—wait—just a moment. I see now. I was unpardonably stupid. I am not in the habit of considering what people say or may think, but I can see it would not do. I seem to be always annoying you," he concluded helplessly.
A faint smile dawned on Celia's face. "No one can help it; it is just an awkward situation," she said, and left him.
"They asked one another the reason."
Although the auction was over, the air of Friendship still vibrated from the stir. Bereft of its treasures, the Gilpin house stood an empty shell, facing an unknown future; for beyond the statement that he was from Baltimore, nothing was known of its purchaser.
"Why in the world should a man from Baltimore want it?" Mrs. Parton asked; and the question was echoed on all sides. Not to live in, at all events, it appeared, as weeks passed and it remained undisturbed.
Nor was this the only unanswered question. There was the ring. Miss Betty said it might as well have been left in the spinet, for all the good it did any one.
Allan had his own unanswered question; without doubt his mother had hers, as had Celia Fair, but they gave no sign to the outside world, nor asked any help in finding an answer.
And now came a new excitement. Dr. Pierce, the Presbyterian minister, announced impressively one Sunday that on a week from that day his pulpit would be occupied by his distinguished friend, Dr. Hollingsworth.
It was explained that he had been South on business relating to a bequest to the university, and found it convenient to stop over on his way home. Still, with several large cities within easy reach, his presence was an undoubted compliment to the village, and Friendship began at once to refresh its memory in regard to its expected guest.
Mrs. Molesworth came across the street to ask Mrs. Parton if she had ever heard Dr. Hollingsworth was not orthodox.
Mrs. Parton had not, and seemed to consider it a minor matter, for she went on to tell how pleasant he was, and how fully he appreciated the joke of being taken for a detective by Belle.
"I trust, indeed, it is not true," said Mrs. Molesworth, going back to the original question.
"Well, I shouldn't worry, Cornelia. He is not likely to do much harm in one sermon," Mrs. Parton answered easily.
Mrs. Molesworth shook her head. "You can never be sure. It is not for myself I fear, but for the boys. I have tried to protect them."
"If your boys are like mine, they won't get any harm from a sermon. I do manage to drag them to church, but it is like taking a horse to water—it is another matter to make them listen."
Mrs. Molesworth returned home feeling that Mary Parton treated serious subjects with undue levity. Mrs. Parton, seeing Miss Betty Bishop approaching, lingered at the gate.
"Well, Betty, I suppose you know we are to have Dr. Hollingsworth at our church Sunday."
She had heard it, but did not seem disposed to enlarge upon it, as was her custom with a piece of news.
"Cornelia Molesworth is worrying because she has heard he is not orthodox."
"She is not obliged to hear him, is she? Nobody can amount to anything nowadays without being accused of heresy; however, I fancy Dr. Hollingsworth can bear up under Mrs. Molesworth's disapproval."
Mrs. Parton surveyed Miss Betty with a twinkle in her eye. "I declare, Betty," she remarked, irrelevantly, "you are growing younger. You look nearer twenty than forty this minute."
"Perhaps it is my new hat," Miss Betty suggested; but surely she had passed the age when one flushes over the possession of a becoming hat.
Mrs. Parton laughed to herself as she went back to the house, "Do you suppose that is why he is coming? Goodness! I wish the colonel was here."
The news was discussed all over town that Monday morning.
"What brings Dr. Hollingsworth here?" Dr. Barnes asked, meeting Colonel Parton in the bank. "He is a friend of the Whittredges, I understand. Anyway, it is a compliment to Friendship."
"Friendship is a great place. He liked our looks when he was here a month or so ago," and the colonel laughed his easy laugh.
"More than likely he thinks we need a little stirring up," Mr. Roberts remarked from his desk.
"Did you hear the joke on my Belle?" the colonel asked, and proceeded to relate the story of the supposed detective and the photograph.
The Arden Foresters in their turn talked it over that afternoon, sitting in a row near the red oak, which lavished badges of crimson and gold upon them now. The October air was delicious. They had raced up the hill and down to the landing and back again, for pure joy of moving in the sparkling atmosphere.
"I have something to tell you," Rosalind announced. "You must all come to church next Sunday, for our president is going to preach."
"Is that what you have to tell? because I knew it already," said Belle, whose cheeks matched the oak leaf she was pinning on her jacket.
"No, it is something even better than that. I have a letter to read to you." As she spoke, Rosalind tossed a handful of leaves at Maurice.
"That's right, wake the professor up," cried Jack, following her example.
"Or bury him," said Belle, joining the onslaught.
Maurice, who had been gazing rather absently into the distance, was aroused to defend himself, and the battle resolved itself into a hand-to-hand combat between the two boys.
Maurice's crutch had been discarded, and his knee was almost as strong as ever, although rough sports, such as foot-ball, were still denied him. He had recently arrived at the dignity of long trousers, being tall for his age, and Jack had immediately nicknamed him "the professor."
"Now, boys, that is enough," Rosalind said, with decision; "Maurice is waked up, I think."
"Am I awake, or not?" Maurice demanded of the struggling Jack, as he held him down and sat upon him.
"Mercy, yes!" Jack cried, freeing himself with a mighty effort. "But you must smile; I can't have you looking so melancholy. Smile!"
In spite of himself Maurice obeyed the command.
"That's right; now sit down and behave," Jack added, laughing.
Rosalind took out her letter. "Listen," she said:—