CHAPTER XIII
WHAT THE SMALL WOMAN IN BLACK SAW
With September the hurry at the Lodge subsided. Vacations were beginningto be over--mountain climbers and wood rangers were returning to office,studio and classroom. Those who remained were chiefly men and womenbound to no regular occupations, caring more for the woods when thecrowds of summer had departed and the red and gold of autumn weremarching down the mountain side.
It had been a busy season at the Lodge, and Edith Morrison's face toldthe tale. The constant responsibility, and the effort to maintain thestandard of entertainment, had left a worn look in her eyes and takenthe color from her cheeks. The burden had lain chiefly on her youngshoulders. Her father was invaluable as an entertainer and had a fund ofinformation, but he was without practical resources, and the strain uponEdith had told. If for another reason a cloud had settled on her browand a shadow had gathered in her heart, she had uttered no word, but hadgone on, day by day, early and late, devising means and supervisingmethods--doing whatever was necessary to the management of a bighousehold through all those busy weeks.
Little more than the others had she seen Robin during those last Augustdays. He had been absent almost constantly. When he returned it wasusually late, and such was the demand upon this most popular ofAdirondack guides that in nearly every case he found a party waiting forearly departure. If Edith suspected that there were times when he mighthave returned sooner, when she believed that he had paused at the campon the west branch of the Au Sable, she still spoke no word and made nodefinite outward sign. Whatever she brooded in her heart was in thatsecret and silence which may have come down to her, with those blackeyes and that glossy hair, from some old ancestor who silently in hiswigwam pointed his arrows and cuddled his resentment to keep it warm. Ithad happened that during the days when Constance had been absent withher mother Robin had twice returned at an earlier hour, and this couldhardly fail to strengthen any suspicion that might already exist of hisfidelity, especially as the little woman in black had commented on thematter in Edith's presence, as well as upon the fact that immediatelyafter the return of the absent ones he failed to reach the Lodge bydaylight. It is a fact well established that once we begin to look forheartache we always find it--and, as well, some one to aid us in thesearch.
Not that Edith had made a confidante of the sinister-clad little woman.On the whole, she disliked her and was much more drawn toward thegood-natured but garrulous old optimist, Miss Carroway, who saw withclear undistorted vision, and never failed to say a word--a great manywords, in fact--that carried comfort because they constituted a plea forthe creed of general happiness and the scheme of universal good. HadEdith sought a confidante merely for the sake of easing her heart, it islikely that it was to this good old spinster that she would have turned.But a nature such as hers does not confide its soul-hurt merely for thesake of consolation. In the beginning, when she had hinted something ofit to Robin, he had laughed her fears away. Then, a little later, shehad spoken to Frank Weatherby, for his sake as well as for her own. Hehad not laughed, but had listened and reflected, for the time at least;and his manner and his manhood, and that which she considered a bond ofsympathy between them, made him the one to whom she must turn, now whenthe time had come to speak again.
There came a day when Robin did not go to the woods. In the morning hehad been about the Lodge and the guides' cabin, of which he was now thesole occupant, greeting Edith in his old manner and suggesting a walklater in the day. But the girl pleaded a number of household duties, andpresently Robin disappeared to return no more until late in theafternoon. When he did appear he seemed abstracted and grave, and wentto the cabin to prepare for a trip next morning. Frank Weatherby, whohad been putting in most of the day over some papers in his room, nowreturning from a run up the hillside to a point where he could watch thesunset, paused to look in, in passing.
"Miss Deane has been telling me the hermit's story," Robin said, as hesaw who it was. "It seems to me one of the saddest stories I ever heard.My regret is that he did not tell it to me himself, years ago. Poor oldfellow! As if I would have let it make any difference!"
"But he could not be sure," said Frank. "You were all in the world tohim, and he could not afford to take the chance of losing you."
"And to think that all those years he lived up there, watching ourstruggle. And what a hard struggle it was! Poor mother--I wish she mighthave known he was there!"
Neither spoke for a time. Then they reviewed their visit to thehermitage together, when they had performed the last sad offices for itslonely occupant. Next morning Robin was away with his party and Frankwandered over to the camp, but found no one there besides the servants.
He surmised that Constance and her parents had gone to visit the littlegrave on the hillside, and followed in that direction, thinking to meetthem. He was nearing the spot when, at a turn in the path, he saw them.He was unobserved, and he saw that Constance had her arms about Mrs.Deane, who was weeping. He withdrew silently and walked slowly back tothe Lodge, where he spent the rest of the morning over a writing tablein his room, while on the veranda the Circle of Industry--still active,though much reduced as to numbers--discussed the fact that of late Mr.Weatherby was seen oftener at the Lodge, while, on the other hand,Constance had scarcely been seen there since her return. The littlewoman in black shook her head ominously and hinted that she might tell agood deal if she would, an attitude which Miss Carroway promptlyresented, declaring that she had thus far never known her to keep backanything that was worth telling.
It was during the afternoon that Frank, loitering through a little groveof birches near the boat landing, came face to face with Edith Morrison.He saw in an instant that she had something to say to him. She was aswhite as the birches about her, while in her eyes there was the bright,burning look he had seen there once before, now more fierce andintensified. She paused by a mossy-covered bowlder called the "stoneseat," and rested her hand upon it. Frank saw that she was tremblingviolently. He started to speak, but she forestalled him.
"I have something to tell you," she began, with hurried eagerness. "Ispoke of it once before, when I only suspected. Now I know. I don'tthink you believed me then, and I doubted, sometimes, myself. But I donot doubt any longer. We have been fools all along, you and I. They havenever cared for us since she came, but only for each other. And insteadof telling us, as brave people would, they have let us go on--blindingus so they could blind others, or perhaps thinking we do not matterenough for them to care. Oh, you are kind and good, and willing tobelieve in them, but they shall not deceive you any longer. I know thetruth, and I mean that you shall know it, too."
Out of the varying emotions with which the young man listened to therapid torrent of words, there came the conviction that without doubt thegirl, to have been stirred so deeply, must have seen or heard somethingwhich she regarded as definite. He believed that she was mistaken, butit was necessary that he should hear her, in order, if possible toconvince her of her error. He motioned her into the seat formed by thebowlder, for she seemed weak from over-excitement. Leaning against it,he looked down into her dark, striking face, startled to see how wornand frail she seemed.
"Miss Morrison," he began gently, "you are overwrought. You have had ahard summer, with many cares. Perhaps you have not been able to seequite clearly--perhaps things are not as you suppose--perhaps----"
She interrupted him.
"Oh," she said, "I do not suppose--I know! I have known all the time. Ihave seen it in a hundred ways, only they were ways that one cannot putinto words. But now something has happened that anybody can see, andthat can be told--something _has_ been seen and told!"
She looked up at Frank--those deep, burning eyes of hers full ofindignation. He said:
"Tell me just what you mean. What has happened, and who has seen it?"
"It was yesterday, in the woods--the woods between here and the camp onthe Au Sable. They were sitting as we are, and he held her hand, and shehad been crying. An
d when they parted he said to her, 'We must tellthem. You must get Mrs. Deane's consent. I am sure Edith suspectssomething, and it isn't right to go on like this. We must tell them.'Then--then he kissed her. That--of course----"
The girl's voice broke and she could not continue. Frank waited amoment, then he said:
"And who witnessed this scene?"
"Mrs. Kitcher."
"You mean the little woman who dresses in black?"
"Yes, that is the one."
"And you would believe that tale-bearing eavesdropper?"
"I must. I have seen so much myself."
"Then, let me say this. I believe that most of what she told you isfalse. She may have seen them together. She may have seen him take herhand. I know that Miss Deane told Robin something yesterday that relatedto his past life, and that it was a sad tale. It might easily bring thetears, and she would give him her hand as an old friend. There may havebeen something said about his telling you, for there is no reason whyyou should not know the story. It is merely of an old man who is dead,and who knew Robin's mother. So far as anything further, I believe thatwoman invented it purely to make mischief. One who will spy and listenwill do more. I would not believe her on oath--nor must you, either."
But Edith still shook her head.
"Oh, you don't know!" she persisted. "There has been much besides. Itis all a part of the rest. You have not a woman's intuition, and Robinhas not a woman's skill in deceiving. There is something--I know thereis something--I have seen it all along. And, oh, what should Robin keepfrom me?"
"Have you spoken to him of it?"
"Once--about the time you came--he laughed at me. I would hardly mentionit again."
"Yet it seems to me that would be the thing to do," Frank reflectedaloud. "At least, you can ask him about the story told him by MissDeane. You--you may say I mentioned it."
Edith regarded him in amaze.
"And you think I could do that--that I could ask him of anything that hedid not tell me of his own accord? Will you ask Miss Deane about thatmeeting in the woods?"
Frank shook his head.
"I do not need to do so. I know about it."
She looked at him quickly--puzzled for the moment as to hismeaning--wondering if he, too, might be a part of a conspiracy againsther happiness. Then she said, comprehending:
"No, you only believe. I have not your credulity and faith. I see thingsas they are, and it is not right that you should be blinded any longer.I had to tell you."
She rose with quick suddenness as if to go.
"Wait," he said. "I am glad you told me. I believe everything is allright, whatever that woman saw. I believe she saw very little, and untilyou have seen and learned for yourself you must believe that, too.Somehow, everything always comes out right. It must, you know, or theworld is a failure. And this will come out right. Robin will tell youthe story when he comes back, and explain everything. I am sure of it.Don't let it trouble you for a single moment."
He put out his hand instinctively and she took it. Her eyes were full ofhot tears. It came upon Frank in that instant that if Mrs. Kitcher werewatching now she would probably see as much to arouse suspicion as shehad seen the day before, and he said so without hesitation. Edith made afutile effort to reflect his smile.
"Yes," she agreed, "but, oh, that was different! There was more, andthere has been so much--all along."
She left him then, followed by a parting word of reassurance. When shehad disappeared he dropped back on the stone seat and sat lookingthrough the trees toward the little boat landing, revolving in his mindthe scene just ended. From time to time he applied unpleasant names tothe small woman in black, whose real name had proved to be Kitcher.What, after all, had she really seen and heard? He believed, verylittle. Certainly not so much as she had told. But then, one by one,certain trifling incidents came back to him--a word here--a lookthere--the tender speaking of a name--even certain inflections andscarcely perceptible movements--the things which, as Edith had said, onecannot put into words. Reviewing the matter carefully, he became lesscertain in his faith. Perhaps, after all, Edith was right--perhaps therewas something between those two; and troubling thoughts took the joy outof the sunlight and the brightness from the dancing waters.
The afternoon was already far gone, and during the rest of the day hesat in the little grove of birches above the landing, smoking andrevolving many matters in his mind. For a time the unhappiness of EdithMorrison was his chief thought, and he resolved to go immediately toConstance and lay the circumstances fully before her, that she mightclear up the misunderstanding and restore general happiness and goodwill. Twice, indeed, he rose to set out for the camp, but each timereturned to the stone seat. What if it were really true that a greatlove had sprung up between Constance and Robin--a love which was at oncea glory and a tragedy--such a love as had brightened and blotted thepages of history since the gods began their sports with humankind andjoined them in battle on the plains of Troy? What if it were true afterall? If it were true, then Constance and Robin would reveal it soonenough, of their own accord. If it were not true, then Edith Morrison'swild jealousy would seem absurd to Constance, and to Robin, who would beobliged to know. Frank argued that he had no right to risk for her suchhumiliation as would result to one of her temperament for having givenway to groundless jealousy. These were the reasons he gave himself fornot going with the matter to Constance. But the real reason was that hedid not have the courage to approach her on the subject. For one thing,he would not know how to begin. For another--and this, after all,comprised everything--he was afraid it _might be true_.
So he lingered there on the stone seat while the September afternoonfaded, the sun slipped down the west, and long, cool mountain shadowsgathered in the little grove. If it were true, there was no use offurther endeavor. It was for Constance, more than for any other soul,living or dead, that he had renewed his purpose in life, that he hadrecalled old ambitions, re-established old effort.
Without Constance, what was the use? Nobody would care--he least of all.If it were true, the few weeks of real life that had passed since thatday with her on the mountain, when they had been lost in the mist andfound the hermitage together, would remain through the year to come amemory somewhat like that which the hermit had carried with him into thewilderness. Like Robin Gray, he, too, would become a hermit, though inthat greater wilderness--the world of men. Yet he could be more thanRobin Gray, for with means he could lend a hand. And then he rememberedthat such help would not be needed, and the thought made the picture inhis mind seem more desolate--more hopeless.
But suddenly, from somewhere--out of the clear sky of a sub-consciousmind, perhaps--a thought, a resolve, clothed in words, fell upon hislips. "If it is true, and if I can win her love, I will marry EdithMorrison," he said.