Part 17 (2/2)

Propelled by Robin's strong arms, the Adirondack canoe shot quickly to the little dock. A moment later the guide took a basket handed to him and a.s.sisted his two pa.s.sengers, Constance and Mrs. Deane, to land. As they stood on the dock they were in the half dusk, yet clearly outlined against the pale-green water behind. Frank wondered what had brought Mrs. Deane to the Lodge. Probably the walk and row through the perfect evening.

The little group was but a few yards distant, but it never occurred to Frank that he could become an eavesdropper. The presence of Mrs. Deane would have dispelled any such idea, even had it presented itself. He watched them without curiosity, deciding that when they pa.s.sed the grove of birches he would step out and greet them. For the moment, at least, most of his recent doubts were put aside.

But all at once he saw Constance turn to her mother and take her hands.

”You are sure you are willing that we should make it known to-night?”

she said.

And quite distinctly on that still air came the answer:

”Yes, dear. I have kept you and Robin waiting long enough. After all, Robin is more to you than I am,” and the elder woman held out her hand to Robin Farnham, who, taking it, drew closer to the two.

Then the girl's arms were about her mother's neck, but a moment later she had turned to Robin.

”After to-night we belong to each other,” she said. ”How it will surprise everybody,” and she kissed him fairly on the lips.

It had all happened so quickly--so unexpectedly--they had been so near--that Frank could hardly have chosen other than to see and hear. He sat as one stupefied while they ascended the path, pa.s.sing within a few feet of the stone seat. He was overcome by the suddenness of the revelation, even though the fact had been the possibility in his afternoon's brooding. Also, he was overwhelmed with shame and mortification that he should have heard and seen that which had been intended for no ears and eyes but their own.

How fiercely he had condemned Mrs. Kitcher, who, it would seem, had been truthful, after all, and doubtless even less culpable in her eavesdropping. He told himself that he should have turned away upon the first word spoken by Constance to her mother. Then he might not have heard and seen until the moment when they had intended that the revelation should be made. That was why Mrs. Deane had come--to give dignity and an official air to the news.

He wondered if he and Edith were to be told privately, or if the bans were to be announced to a gathered company, as in the old days when they were published to church congregations. And Edith--what would it mean to her--what would she do? Oh, there was something horrible about it all--something impossible--something that the brain refused to understand. He did not see or hear the figure that silently--as silently as an Indian--from the other end of the grove stole up the incline toward the Lodge, avoiding the group, making its way to the rear by another path. He only sat there, stunned and hopeless, in the shadows.

The night air became chill and he was growing numb and stiff from sitting in one position. Still he did not move. He was trying to think.

He would not go to the Lodge. He would not be a spectacle. He would not look upon, or listen to, their happiness. He would go away at once, to-night. He would leave everything behind and, following the road to Lake Placid, would catch an early train.

Then he remembered that he had said he would marry Edith Morrison if he could win her love. But the idea had suddenly grown impossible.

Edith--why, Edith would be crushed in the dust--killed. No, oh, no, that was impossible--that could not happen--not now--not yet.

He recalled, too, what he had resolved concerning a life apart, such a life as the hermit had led among the hills, and he thought his own lot the more bitter, for at least the hermit's love had been returned and it was only fate that had come between. Yet he would be as generous. They would not need his help, but through the years he would wish them well--yes, he could do that--and he would watch from a distance and guard their welfare if ever time of need should come.

Long through the dark he sat there, unheeding the time, caring nothing that the sky had become no longer pale but a deep, dusky blue, while the lake carried the stars in its bosom.

CHAPTER XV

EDITH AND FRANK

It may have been an hour--perhaps two of them--since Robin with Constance and her mother had pa.s.sed him on the way to the Lodge, when suddenly Frank heard some one hurrying down the path. It was the rustle of skirts that he heard, and he knew that it was a woman running. Just at the little grove of birches she stopped and seemed to hesitate. In the silence of the place he could hear her breath come pantingly, as from one laboring under heavy excitement. Then there was a sort of sobbing moan, and a moment later a voice that he scarcely recognized as that of Edith Morrison, so full of wild anguish it was, called his name.

He had already risen, and was at her side in an instant.

”What is it?” he demanded; ”tell me everything--tell me quickly!”

”Oh,” she wailed, ”I knew you must be here. They couldn't find you, and I knew why. I knew you had been here, and had seen what I saw, and heard what I heard. Oh, you must go to her--you must go at once!”

She had seized his arm with both hands, shaking with a storm of emotion--of terror, it seemed--her eyes burning through the dark.

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