CHAPTER XI
DURING THE ABSENCE OF CONSTANCE
Yet the adventure on the mountain was not without its ill effects. Ithappened that day that Mr. and Mrs. Deane had taken one of their rarewalks over to Spruce Lodge. They had arrived early after luncheon, andlearning that Frank and Constance had not been seen there during themorning, Mrs. Deane had immediately assured herself that dire misfortunehad befallen the absent ones.
The possibility of their having missed their way was the most temperateof her conclusions. She had visions of them lying maimed and dying atthe foot of some fearful precipice; she pictured them being assailed bywild beasts; she imagined them tasting of some strange mushroom andinstantly falling dead as a result. Fortunately, the guide who had seenFrank set out alone was absent. Had the good lady realized thatConstance might be alone in a forest growing dark with a coming storm,her condition might have become even more serious.
As it was, the storm came down and held the Deanes at the Lodge for theafternoon, during which period Mr. Deane, who was not seriouslydisturbed by the absence of the young people, endeavored to convince hiswife that it was more than likely they had gone directly to the camp andwould be there when the storm was over.
The nervous mother was far from reassured, and was for setting outimmediately through the rain to see. It became a trying afternoon forher comforters, and the lugubrious croaking of the small woman in blackand the unflagging optimism of Miss Carroway, as the two wandered fromgroup to group throughout the premises, gave the episode a generalimportance of which it was just as well that the wanderers did not know.
Yet the storm proved an obliging one to Frank and Constance, for the sunwas on the mountain long before the rain had ceased below, and as theymade straight for the Deane camp they arrived almost as soon as Mrs.Deane herself, who, bundled in waterproofs and supported by her husbandand an obliging mountain climber, had insisted on setting out the momentthe rain ceased.
It was a cruel blow not to find the missing ones at the moment ofarrival, and even their prompt appearance, in full health and with notale of misfortune, but only the big trout and a carefully preparedstory of being confused in the fog but safely sheltered in the forest,did not fully restore her. She was really ill next day, and carriedConstance off for a week to Lake Placid, where she could have medicalattention close at hand and keep her daughter always in sight.
It began by being a lonely week for Frank, for he had been commanded byConstance not to come to Lake Placid, and to content himself withsending occasional brief letters--little more than news bulletins, infact. Yet presently he became less forlorn. He went about with apreoccupied look that discouraged the attentions of Miss Carroway. Forthe most part he spent his mornings at the Lodge, in his room.Immediately after luncheon he usually went for an extended walk in theforest, sometimes bringing up at the Deane camp, where perhaps he dinedwith Mr. Deane, a congenial spirit, and remained for a game of cribbage,the elder man's favorite diversion. Once Frank set out to visit thehermitage, but thought better of his purpose, deciding that Constancemight wish to accompany him there on her return. One afternoon he spentfollowing a trout brook and returned with a fine creel of fish, thoughnone so large as the monster of that first day.
Robin Farnham was absent almost continuously during this period, andEdith Morrison Frank seldom saw, for the last weeks in August broughtthe height of the season, and the girl's duties were many andimperative. There came no opportunity for the talk he had meant to havewith her, and as she appeared always pleasant of manner, only a littlethoughtful--and this seemed natural with her responsibilities--hebelieved that, like himself, she had arrived at a happier frame of mind.
And certainly the young man was changed. There was a new light in hiseyes, and it somehow spoke a renewed purpose in his heart. Even his stepand carriage were different. When he went swinging through the forestalone it was with his head thrown back, and sometimes with his armsoutspread he whistled and sang to the marvelous greenery above and abouthim. And he could sing. Perhaps his was not a voice that would win fameor fortune for its possessor, but there was in it a note of ecstasywhich answered back to the call of the birds, to the shout or moan ofthe wind, to every note of the forest--that was, in fact, a tone in thedeep chord of nature, a lilt in the harmony of the universe.
He forgot that his soul had ever been asleep. A sort of child frenzy forthe mountains, such as Constance had echoed to him that wild day inMarch, grew upon him and possessed him, and he did not pause to rememberthat it ever had been otherwise. When the storm came down from thepeaks, he strode out into it, and shouted his joy in its companionship,and raced with the wind, and threw himself face down in the wet leavesto smell the ground. And was it no more than the happiness of a loverwho believes himself beloved that had wrought this change, or was therein this renewal of the mad joy of living the reopening and the flow ofsome deep and half-forgotten spring?
From that day on the mountain he had not been the same. That morningwith its new resolve; the following of the brook which had led him backto boyhood; the capture of the great trout; the battle with the mountainand the mist; the meeting with Constance at the top; the hermit's cabinwith its story of self-denial and abnegation--its life so close to thevery heart of nature, so far from idle pleasure and luxury--with thateventful day had come the change.
In his letters to Constance, Frank did not speak of these things. Hewrote of his walks, it is true, and he told her of his day'sfishing--also of his visits to her father at the camp--but of any changeor regeneration in himself, any renewal of old dreams and effort, hespoke not at all.
The week lengthened before Constance returned, though it was clear fromher letters that she was disinclined to linger at a big conventionalhotel, when so much of the summer was slipping away in her belovedforest. From day to day they had expected to leave, she wrote, but asMrs. Deane had persuaded herself that the Lake Placid practitioner hadacquired some new and subtle understanding of nerve disorders, they wereloath to hurry. The young lady ventured a suggestion that Mr. Weatherbywas taking vast comfort in his freedom from the duties andresponsibilities of accompanying a mushroom enthusiast in her dailyrambles, especially a very exacting young person, with a predilectionfor trying new kinds upon him, and for seeking strange and semi-mythicalspecimens, peculiar to hazy and lofty altitudes.
"I am really afraid I shall have to restrain my enthusiasm," she wrotein one of these letters. "I am almost certain that Mamma's improvementand desire to linger here are largely due to her conviction that so longas I am here you are safe from the baleful Amanita, not to mentionmyself. Besides, it is a little risky, sometimes, and one has to know avery great deal to be certain. I have had a lot of time to study thebook here, and have attended a few lectures on the subject. Among otherthings I have learned that certain Amanitas are not poison, even whenthey have the cup. One in particular that I thought deadly is not onlyharmless, but a delicacy which the Romans called 'Caesar's mushroom,' andof which one old epicure wrote, 'Keep your corn, O Libya--unyoke youroxen, provided only you send us mushrooms.'" She went on to set down thetechnical description from the text-book and a simple rule fordistinguishing the varieties, adding, "I don't suppose you will gatherany before my return--you would hardly risk such a thing without mysuperior counsel--but should you do so, keep the rule in mind. It istaken word for word from the book, so if anything happens to you while Iam gone, either you or the book will be to blame--not I. When I comeback--if I ever do--I mean to try at least a sample of that epicureandelight, which one old authority called 'food of the gods,' provided Ican find any of them growing outside of that gruesome 'Devil's Garden.'"
Frank gave no especial attention to this portion of her letter. Hisinterest in mushrooms was confined chiefly to the days when Constancecould be there to expatiate on them in person.
In another letter she referred to their adventure on the mountain, andto the fact that Frank would be likely to see Robin before her return.
"You may tell R
obin Farnham," she said, "about our visit to the hermit,and of the message he sent. Robin may be going in that direction verysoon, and find time to stop there. Of course you will be careful not tolet anything slip about the tale he told us. I am sure it would make nodifference, but I know you will agree with me that his wishes should besacred. Dear me, what a day that was, and how I did love that wonderfulhouse! Here, among all these people, in this big modern hotel, it seemsthat it must have been all really enchantment. Perhaps you and Robincould make a trip up there together. I know, if there truly is ahermit, he will be glad to see you again. I wonder if he would like tosee _me_ again. I brought up all those sad memories. Poor old man! Mysympathy for him is deeper than you can guess."
It happened that Robin returned to the Lodge that same afternoon. Alittle later Frank found him in the guide's cabin, and recounted to himhis recent adventures with Constance on the mountain--how they hadwandered at last to the hermitage, adding the message which their hosthad sent to Robin himself.
The guide listened reflectively, as was his habit. Then he said:
"It seems curious that you should have been lost up there, just as I wasonce, and that you should have drifted to the same place. You took alittle different path from mine. I followed the chasm to the end, whileyou crossed on the two logs which the old fellow and I put thereafterward to save me time. I usually have to make short visits, becausefew parties care to stay on McIntyre over night, and it's only now andthen that I can get away at all. I have been thinking about the old chapa good deal lately, but I'm afraid it would mean a special trip justnow, and it would be hard to find a day for that."
"I will arrange it," said Frank. "In fact, I have already done so. Ispoke to Morrison this morning, and engaged you for a day as soon as yougot in. I want to make another trip up the mountain, myself. We'll goto-morrow morning--directly to the cabin--and I'll see that you haveplenty of time for a good visit. What I want most is another look aroundthe place itself and its surroundings. I may want to construct a placelike that some day--in imagination, at least."
So it was arranged that the young men should visit the hermitagetogether. They set out early next morning, following the McIntyre trailto the point below the little fall where the hermit had bidden good-byto mankind so many years before. Here they turned aside and ascended thecliff by the hidden path, presently reaching the secluded and isolatedspot where the lonely, stricken man had established his domain.
As they drew near the curious dwelling, which because of itsconstruction was scarcely noticeable until they were immediately uponit, they spoke in lowered voices, and presently not at all. It seemedto them, too, that there was a hush about the spot which they had notnoticed elsewhere. Frank recalled the chorus of birds which had filledthe little garden with song, and wondered at their apparent absence now.The sun was bright, the sky above was glorious, the gay posies along thegarden paths were as brilliant as before, but so far as he could see andhear, the hermit's small neighbors and companions had vanished.
"There is a sort of Sunday quiet about it," whispered Frank. "Perhapsthe old fellow is out for a ramble, and has taken his friends with him."Then he added, "I'll wait here while you go in. If he's there, stay andhave your talk with him while I wander about the place a little. Later,if he doesn't mind, I will come in."
Frank directed his steps toward the little garden and let his eyeswander up and down among the beds which the hermit had planted. It waslate summer now, and many of the things were already ripening. In alittle more the blackening frost would come and the heavy snow drift in.What a strange life it had been there, winter and summer, with onlynature and a pageantry of dreams for companionship. There must havebeen days when, like the Lady of Shalott, he had cried out, "I am sickof shadows!" and it may have been on such days that he had watched bythe trail to hear and perhaps to see real men and women. And when thehelplessness of very old age should come--what then? Within his mindFrank had a half-formed plan to persuade the hermit to return to thecompanionship of men. There were many retreats now in thesehills--places where every comfort and the highest medical skill could beobtained for patients such as he. Frank had conceived the idea ofproviding for the hermit's final days in some such home, and he hadpartly confided his plan to Robin as they had followed the trailtogether. Robin, if anybody, could win the old fellow to the idea.
There came the sound of a step on the path behind. The young man,turning, faced Robin. There was something in the latter's countenancethat caused Frank to regard him searchingly.
"He is not there, then?"
"No, he is not there."
"He will be back soon, of course."
But Robin shook his head, and said with gentle gravity:
"No, he will not be back. He has journeyed to a far country."
Together they passed under the low eaves and entered the curiousdwelling. Light came through the open door and the parchment-coveredwindow. In the high-backed chair before the hearth the hermit sat, hischin dropped forward on his breast. His years of exile were ended. Allthe heart-yearning and loneliness had slipped away. He had become onewith the shadows among which he had dwelt so long.
Nor was there any other life in the room. As the birds outside hadvanished, so the flitting squirrels had departed--who shall say whither?Yet the change had come but recently--perhaps on that very morning--forthough the fire had dropped to ashes on the hearth, a tiny wraith ofsmoke still lingered and drifted waveringly up the chimney.
The intruders moved softly about the room without speaking. PresentlyFrank beckoned to Robin, and pointed to something lying on the table. Itwas a birch-bark envelope, and in a dark ink, doubtless made from someroot or berry, was addressed to Robin. The guide opened it and, takingit to the door, read:
MY DEAR BOY ROBIN:
I have felt of late that my time is very near. It is likely that I shall see you no more in this world. It is my desire, therefore, to set down my wishes here while I yet have strength. They are but few, for a life like mine leaves not many desires behind it.
It is my wish that such of my belongings as you care to preserve should be yours. They are of little value, but perhaps the field glass and the books may in future years recall the story in which they have been a part. In a little chest you will find some other trifles--a picture or two, some papers that were once valuable to those living in the world of men, some old letters. All that is there, all that is mine and all the affection that lingers in my heart, are yours. Yet I must not forget the little girl who was once your sister. If it chance that you meet her again, and if when she knows my story she will care for any memento of this lonely life, you may place some trifle in her hands.
It was my story that I had chiefly meant to set down for you, for it is nearer to your own than you suppose. But now, only a few days since, out of my heart I gave it to those who were here and who, perhaps, ere this, have given you my message to come. A young man and a woman they were, and their happiness together led me to speak of old days and of a happiness that was mine. The girl's face stirred me strangely, and I spoke to her fully, as I have long wished, yet feared, to speak to you. You will show her this letter, and she will repeat to you all the tale which I no longer have strength to write. Then you will understand why I have been drawn to you so strangely; why I have called you "my dear boy"; why I would that I might call you "son."
There is no more--only, when you shall find me here asleep, make me a bed in the corner of my garden, where the hollyhocks come each year, and the squirrels frisk overhead, and the birds sing. Lay me not too deeply away from it all, and cover me only with boughs and the cool, gratifying earth which shall soothe away the fever. And bring no stone to mark the place, but only breathe a little word of prayer and leave me in the comfortable dark.
Neither Robin nor Frank spoke for a time after the reading of theletter. Then faithfully and wi
th a few words they carried out thehermit's wishes. Tenderly and gently they bore him to the narrowresting-place which they prepared for him, and when the task wasfinished they stood above the spot for a little space with bowed heads.After this they returned to the cabin and gathered up such articles ofRobin's inheritance as they would be able to carry down themountain--the books and field glass, which had been so much to him; thegun above the mantel, a trout rod and a package of articles from thelittle chest which they had brought to the door and opened. At the topof the package was a small, cheap ferrotype picture, such as youngpeople are wont to have made at the traveling photographer's. It was ofa sweet-faced, merry-lipped girl, and Robin scanned it long andthoughtfully.
"That is such a face as my mother had when young," he said at last. Thenturning to Frank, "Did he know my mother? Is that the story?"
Frank bent his head in assent.
"That is the story," he said, "but it is long. Besides, it is his wish,I am sure, that another should tell it to you."
He had taken from the chest some folded official-looking papers as hespoke, and glanced at them now, first hastily, then with growinginterest. They were a quantity of registered bonds--the hermit'sfortune, which in a few brief days had become, as he said, but a mockeryof scrolled engraving and gaudy seals. Frank had only a slight knowledgeof such matters, yet he wondered if by any possibility these oldsecurities of a shipwrecked company might be of value to-day. Thecorporation title, he thought, had a familiar sound. A vague impressiongrew upon him that this company had been one of the few to berehabilitated with time; that in some measure at least it had made goodits obligations.
"Suppose you let me take these," he suggested to Robin. "They may not bewholly worthless. At least, it will do no harm to send them to mysolicitor."
Robin nodded. He was still regarding the little tintype and the sweet,young face of the mother who had died so long ago.
The Lucky Piece: A Tale of the North Woods Page 12