Mr. Pat's Little Girl Part 15

"I meant to go into Patricia's Arbor, and I forgot," remarked Rosalind, as they walked home together.

"I thought I saw some one sitting there when Belle and I pa.s.sed," said Katherine.

CHAPTER THIRTEENTH.

IN PATRICIA'S ARBOR.

"O, how full of briers is this working-day world."

On this same bright morning when Rosalind for the first time saw the Gilpin place, Celia Fair carried her sewing, a piece of dainty lace work, to the old rustic summer-house. It made some variety in the monotony of things to sit here where she could lift her eyes now and then, and looking far away across the river to the hills, let them rest on a bit of sunny road that for a little s.p.a.ce emerged from the shadow to disappear again on its winding way.

On this stretch, of road the suns.h.i.+ne seemed always to lie warm and bright, and to Celia it brought a sense of restfulness. Perhaps in some far-off time the sunlight would again lie on her path.

She loved the old place, and the thought that in all probability it would soon pa.s.s into the hands of strangers, troubled her. She had often sat here in Patricia's Arbor, beside old Thomas Gilpin, and listened to his reminiscences. She had been a favorite with the old man, all of the tenderness of whose nature had spent itself upon the wife who lived only a brief time; and in Celia's relations.h.i.+p to her, distant though it was, lay the secret of his regard.

One of her earliest recollections was of taking tea at the Gilpin house in company with Genevieve and Allan Whittredge. Mild, fair-faced Miss Anne and her grim-visaged, cross-grained brother were a strangely a.s.sorted pair. Celia's childish soul had been filled with awe on these occasions.

She had difficulty in keeping her seat in the stiff old haircloth chairs, or in crossing the polished floor of the drawing-room without slipping.

At one end of this room stood the ancient spinet, long ago the property of her own great-grandmother, which she was told would some day be hers.

Celia had been proud of this until Miss Anne, displaying her chief treasures, Patricia's miniature and ring, remarked upon Genevieve's likeness to her great-aunt. Genevieve, with the ring on her finger, looked complacently over her shoulder at the long mirror, and Celia was smitten with sudden envy. A great-grandmother called Saint Cecilia was not half so interesting as a beautiful great-aunt with a romantic love story; and an old and useless spinet not to be compared to a ring like Patricia's. That the ring was to be Genevieve's she never doubted.

Allan had made fun of his sister and treated heirlooms in general with scorn, calling Celia to look at a print of Jonah in knee breeches and shoe buckles, emerging front the mouth of the whale. Allan always saw the fun in things.

Between those days and the present there was a great gulf fixed. She had resolutely put away from her all these memories, and to-day she was annoyed that they should return in such force. They brought only pain to her tired heart.

Her hands fell in her lap, and she gazed with unseeing eyes at the hills.

After all, Patricia, mourning her lover, had not known the bitterest sorrow.

The thought of her work, which must be done, aroused her. "What a weak creature I am, thinking my lot harder than that of any one else," she exclaimed, and taking up her needle she determinedly fixed her mind on the present. There was the suit Tom needed, and the grocery bill that should be paid the first of the month. She must work hard and not waste time in regrets. The summer that meant leisure and pleasure for many, meant only added cares for her.

A surprising announcement broke in upon these dreary thoughts: "This is the Forest of Arden!"

The voice was a sweet, girlish one, and came from somewhere behind the arbor, but the vines grew so thick she could not get a glimpse of the speaker. Celia went on with her work, feeling at first a little annoyed that her quiet should be disturbed, yet the suggestion of sylvan joy in the words grew upon her. The Forest of Arden--where they fleeted the time carelessly--what a rest for tired spirits it seemed to offer!

"If we will, we may travel always in the Forest, where the birds sing and the sunlight sifts through the trees--" the same voice repeated. A stir of wind set the leaves rustling, and Celia lost the rest.

"That means it will all come right in the end."

"The people who hated each other all came to be friends in the Forest."

Fragments like these floated in to Celia. Then she heard Maurice Roberta's voice saying, "Let's go farther down the slope." She went to the door of the arbor and looked out. As she had suspected, Maurice's companion was the girl she had encountered in the cemetery, Rosalind carried her hat in her hand, and as they crossed an open s.p.a.ce the suns.h.i.+ne turned her hair to gold.

Celia went back to her work. "It will all come right in the end,"--this was what Morgan had told her yesterday; it was strange that this child should cross her path again, and with the same message.

"Even people who hated each other came to be friends in the Forest." To travel always in the Forest! How restful the idea! How would it seem not to hate anybody? To be really at peace? But it was not possible for her.

Her thoughts would persist in dwelling upon Rosalind Whittredge. Again she recalled with shame the impulse that made her scorn the rose. She was glad she had picked it up and carried it home. Why should she have any feeling against Patterson Whittredge's daughter? Had not her father taken Patterson's side in the family trouble over his marriage? Ah, but that was long ago, and it was hard to forget that Rosalind, with her sweet, serious eyes, was after all Mrs. Whittredge's granddaughter, Genevieve's niece.

"I wish she wasn't, and that I could see her and speak to her, and ask her what she means by the Forest," she thought. "She is gentle and sweet; she is not like the Whittredges. Why should I dislike her because she belongs to them? Oh, it is dreadful to hate people!" Celia hid her face in her hands, "but I do--I do," she added.

CHAPTER FOURTEENTH

THE ARDEN FORESTERS

"Like the old Robin Hood of England."

"Article I. This Society shall be called 'The Arden Foresters,'" read Maurice. "That will do, won't it?"

"Yes; and then let's put the object. It doesn't come next in this, but we shan't need so many articles," Rosalind answered, running her finger down the page of a blue bound book.

The committee appointed to draw up a const.i.tution for The Arden Foresters had set about it with great seriousness. Their surroundings may have had something to do with this, for their papers were spread out on the leather-covered table in the directors' room at the bank, immediately under the eye of a former president, whose portrait hung over the mantel-piece, while the large-faced clock on the wall gave forth its majestic "tick, lock."

The blue book which was serving as a model, Rosalind had found on her aunt's table, and asked permission to use.

"Well, then, 'Article II. The object of this Society shall be, To remember the Secret of the Forest; to bear hard things bravely; to search for the ring--' Anything else?"

"Maurice, that is beautiful. Is there anything else?" Rosalind pressed her lips with a forefinger.

"Belle wanted to have 'to help the needy,' or something of the kind."

"The down-trodden," said Rosalind, laughing. "I don't like that, do you?"

"Let's wait; we may think of something after a while. Where shall we meet?

That might come next."

"Under the trees at the Gilpin place, and when it rains we can go to Patricia's Arbor. What fun it would be to have a meeting in the rain!" A great pattering on the window-pane emphasized Rosalind's remark.

Maurice wrote busily for a minute, looking up to ask, "What day shall we meet?"

"Let's not say any day, and then we can do as we choose," Rosalind suggested, feeling that the restrictions of a const.i.tution might be burdensome.

Article III then read: "This Society shall hold its meetings at the Gilpin place."

"Maurice, here are qualifications for members.h.i.+p. Ought we to have that?"

"I don't know; what are they?"

Rosalind bent over the book, "Let me see--'Intelligence, character, and--'

such a funny word. 'R e c i p r o c i t y'; what is that?"

Maurice looked over her shoulder, "'Rec--' Oh, I know, 'reciprocity.'"