Part 7 (2/2)

”No doubt,” she agreed, ”but we could have reached that conclusion later. An expressed willingness to go would have spared me and all of us what followed. As it is, Edith Morrison thinks I wanted to deprive her of Robin on his one day at home, while he was obliged to make himself appear foolish before every one.”

”I wish you had as much consideration for me as you always show for Robin,” said Frank, becoming suddenly aggrieved.

”And why not for Robin?” The girl's voice became sharply crisp and defiant. ”Who is ent.i.tled to it more than he--a poor boy who struggled when no more than a child to earn bread for his invalid mother and little sister; who has never had a penny that he did not earn; who never would take one, but in spite of all has fought his way to recognition and respect and knowledge? Oh, you don't know how he has struggled--you who have had everything from birth--who have never known what it is not to gratify every wish, nor what it feels like to go hungry and cold that some one else might be warm and fed.” Miss Deane's cheeks were aglow, and her eyes were filled with fire. ”It is by such men as Robin Farnham,” she went on, ”that this country has been built, with all its splendid achievements and glorious inst.i.tutions, and the possibilities for such fortunes as yours. Why should I not respect him, and honor him, and love him, if I want to?” she concluded, carried away by her enthusiasm.

Frank listened gravely to the end. Then he said, very gently:

”There is no reason why you should not honor and respect such a man, nor, perhaps, why you should not love him--if you want to. I am sure Robin Farnham is a very worthy fellow. But I suppose even you do not altogether realize the advantage of having been born poor----”

The girl was about to break in, but checked herself.

”Of having been born poor,” he repeated, ”and compelled to struggle from the beginning. It gets to be a habit, you see, a sort of groundwork for character. Perhaps--I do not say it, mind, I only say perhaps--if Robin Farnham had been born with my advantages and I with his, it might have made a difference, don't you think, in your very frank and just estimate of us to-day? I have often thought that it is a misfortune to have been born with money, but I suppose I didn't think of it soon enough, and it seems pretty late now to go back and start all over. Besides, I have no one in need to struggle for. My mother is comfortably off, and I have no little suffering sister----”

She checked him a gesture.

”Don't--oh, don't!” she pleaded. ”Perhaps you are right about being poor, but that last seems mockery and sacrilege--I cannot bear it! You don't know what you are saying. You don't know, as I do, how he has gone out in the bitter cold to work, without his breakfast, because there was not enough for all, and how--because he had cooked the breakfast himself--he did not let them know. No, you do not realize--you could not!”

Mr. Weatherby regarded his companion rather wonderingly. There was something in her eyes which made them very bright. It seemed to him that her emotion was hardly justified.

”I suppose he has told you all about it,” he said, rather coldly.

She turned upon him.

”He? Never! He would never tell any one! I found it out--oh, long ago--but I did not understand it all--not then.”

”And the mother and sister--what became of them?”

The girl's voice steadied itself with difficulty.

”The mother died. The little girl was taken by some kind people. He was left to fight his battle alone.”

Neither spoke after this, and they walked through woods that were like the mazy forests of some old tale. If there had been a momentary rancor between them it was presently dissipated in the quiet of the gold-lit greenery about them, and as they wandered on there grew about them a peace which needed no outward establishment. They held their course by a little compa.s.s, and did not fear losing their way, though it was easy enough to become confused amid those barriers of heaped bowlders and tangled logs. By and by Constance held up her hand.

”Listen,” she said, ”there are voices.”

They halted, and a moment later Robin Farnham and Edith Morrison emerged from a natural avenue just ahead. They had followed a different way and were returning to the Lodge. Frank and Constance pushed forward to meet them.

”We have just pa.s.sed a place that would interest you,” said Robin to Miss Deane. ”A curious shut-in place where mushrooms grow almost as if they had been planted there. We will take you to it.”

Robin spoke in his usual manner. Edith, though rather quiet, appeared to have forgotten the incident of the veranda. Frank and Constance followed a little way, and then all at once they were in a spot where the air seemed heavy and chill, as though a miasma rose from the yielding soil.

Thick boughs interlaced overhead, and the sunlight of summer never penetrated there. Such light as came through seemed dim and sorrowful, and there was about the spot a sinister aspect that may have been due to the black pool in the center and the fungi which grew about it. Pale, livid growths were there, shading to sickly yellow, and in every form and size. So thick were they they fairly overhung and crowded in that gruesome bed. Here a myriad of tiny stems, there great distorted shapes pushed through decaying leaves--or toppled over, split and rotting--the food of buzzing flies, thousands of which lay dead upon the ground. A sickly odor hung about the ghastly place. No one spoke at first. Then Constance said:

”I believe they are all deadly--every one.” And Frank added:

”I have heard of the Devil's Garden. I think we have found it.”

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