"Thou brooklet, silver-bright and clear—Forever passing—always here—Upon thy brink I sit, and thinkWhence comest thou? Whence goest thou?"
"Thou brooklet, silver-bright and clear—Forever passing—always here—Upon thy brink I sit, and thinkWhence comest thou? Whence goest thou?"
He had not confessed it, but she suspected the translation to be his own, and it had exasperated her that one who could do a thing well and with such facility should set so little store by his gift, when another, with a heart hunger for achievement, should have been left so unfavored of the gods.
She walked rather more slowly when she had passed the brook—musing upon these things. Then presently the path became precipitous and narrow, and led through thick bushes, and over or under difficult obstructions. Constance drew on a thick pair of gloves to grapple with rough limbs and sharp points of rock. Here and there were fairly level stretches and easy going, but for the most part it was up and up—steeper and steeper—over stones and logs, through heavy bushes and vines that matted across the trail, so that one must stoop down and burrow like a rabbit not to miss the way.
Miss Deane began to realize presently that the McIntyre trail was somewhat less easy than she had anticipated.
"If Robin calls this an easy trail, I should like to know what he means by a hard one," she commented aloud, as she made her way through a great tumble of logs only to find that the narrow path disappeared into a clump of bushes beyond and apparently brought up plump against a plunging waterfall on the other side. "One would have to be a perfect salmon to scale that!"
But arriving at the foot of the fall, she found that the trail merely crossed the pool below and was clearly marked beyond. This was the brook which Frank had not reached. It was no great distance from the summit.
But now the climb became steeper than ever—a hand over hand affair, with scratched face and torn dress and frequent pauses for breath. There was no longer any tall timber, but only masses of dwarfed and twisted little oak trees—a few feet high, though gnarled and gray with age, and loaded with acorns. Constance knew these for the scrub-oak, that degenerate but persistent little scion of a noble race, that pushes its miniature forests to the very edge and into the last crevice of the barren mountain top. Soon this diminutive wilderness began to separate into segments and the trail reached a comparative level. Then suddenly it became solid rock, with only here and there a clump of the stunted oak, or a bit of grass. The girl realized that she must be on the summit and would presently reach the peak, where, from a crevice, grew the object of her adventure. She paused a moment for breath, and to straighten her disheveled hair. Also she turned for a look at the view which she thought must lie behind her. But she gave a little cry of disappointment. A white wraith of mist, like the very ghost of a cloud, was creeping silently along the mountain side and veiled the vision of the wide lands below. Where she stood the air was still clear, but she imagined the cloud was creeping nearer and would presently envelop the mountain-top. She would hurry to the peak and try to get a view from the other side, which after all was considered the best outlook.
The trail now led over solid granite and could be followed only by little cairns or heaps of stone, placed at some distance apart, but in the clear air easily seen from one to the other. She moved rapidly, for the way was no longer steep, and ere long the tripod which marked the highest point, and near which Robin had seen the strange waxen flower, was outlined against the sky. A moment later when she looked it seemed to her less clear. The air, too, had a chill damp feeling. She turned quickly to look behind her, and uttered a little cry of surprise that was almost terror. The cloud ghost was upon her—she was already enveloped in its trailing cerements. Behind, all was white, and when she turned again the tripod too had well-nigh disappeared. As if about to lose the object of her quest, she started to run, and when an instant later the beacon was lost in a thick fold of white she again opened her lips in a wild despairing cry. Yet she did not stop, but raced on, forgetting even the little guiding cairns which pointed the way. It would have made no difference had she remembered them, for the cloud became so dense that she could not have seen one from the other. How close it shut her in, this wall of white, as impalpable and as opaque as the smoke of burning grass!
It seemed a long way to the tripod. It must have been farther than she had thought. Suddenly she realized that the granite no longer rose a little before her, but seemed to drop away. She had missed the tripod, then, and was descending on the other side. Turning, she retraced her steps, more slowly now, trying to keep the upward slope before her. But soon she realized that in this thick and mystifying whiteness she could not be certain of the level—that by thinking so she could make the granite seem to slope a little up or down, and in the same manner, now, she could set the tripod in any direction from her at will. Confused, half terrified at the thought, she stood perfectly still, trying to think. The tripod, she knew, could not be more than a few yards distant, but surrounded by these enchanted walls which ever receded, yet always closed about her she must only wander helplessly and find it by mere chance. And suppose she found it, and suppose she secured the object of her search, how, in this blind spot, would she find her way back to the trail? She recalled now what Robin had said of keeping the trail in the fog. Her heart became cold—numb. The chill mist had crept into her very veins. She was lost—lost as men have been lost in the snow—to die almost within their own door-yards. If this dread cloud would only pass, all would be well, but she remembered, too, hopelessly enough, that she had told no one of her venture, that no one would know where to seek her.
And now the sun, also, must be obscured, for the world was darkening. An air that pierced her very marrow blew across the mountain and a drop of rain struck her cheek. Oh, it would be wretched without shelter to face a storm in that bleak spot. She must at least try—she must make every effort to find the trail. She set out in what she believed to be a wide circuit of the peak, and was suddenly rejoiced to come upon one of the little piles of stones which she thought must be one of the cairns, leading to the trail. But which way must she look for the next? She strained her eyes through the milky gloom, but could distinguish nothing beyond a few yards of granite at her feet. It did not avail her to remain by the cairn, yet she dreaded to leave a spot which was at least a point in the human path. She did so, at last, only to wander down into an unmarked waste, to be brought all at once against a segment of the scrub-oak forest and to find before her a sort of opening which she thought might be the trail. Eagerly in the gathering gloom she examined the face of the granite for some trace of human foot and imagined she could make out a mark here and there as of boot nails. Then she came to a bit of grass that seemed trampled down. Her heart leaped. Oh, this must be the trail, after all!
She hastened forward, half running in her eagerness. Branches slapped and tore at her garments—long, tenuous filaments, wet and web-like, drew across her face. Twice she fell and bruised herself cruelly. And when she rose the second time, her heart stopped with fear, for she lay just on the edge of a ghastly precipice—the bottom of which was lost in mist and shadows. It had only been a false trail, after all. Weak and trembling she made her way back to the open summit, fearing even that she might miss this now and so be without the last hope of finding the way, or of being found at last herself.
Back on the solid granite once more, she made a feeble effort to find one of the cairns, or the tripod, anything that had known the human touch. But now into her confused senses came the recollection that many parties climbed McIntyre, and she thought that one such might have chosen to-day and be somewhere within call. She stood still to listen for possible voices, but there was no sound, and the bitter air across the summit made her shrink and tremble. Then she uttered a loud, long, "Hoo-oo-woo-o!" a call she had learned of mountaineers as a child. She listened breathlessly for an answer. It was no use. Yet she would call again—at least it was an effort—a last hope.
"Hoo-oo-woo-oo!" and again "Hoo-oo-woo-oo!" And then her very pulses ceased, for somewhere, far away it seemed, from behind that wall of white her ear caught an answering cry. Once more she called—this time wildly, with every bit of power she could summon. Once more came the answering "Hoo-oo-woo-oo!" and now it seemed much nearer.
She started to run in the direction of the voice, stopping every few steps to call, and to hear the reassuring reply. She was at the brushy edge of the summit when through the mist came the words—it was a man's voice, and it made her heart leap——
"Stay where you are! Don't move—I will come to you!"
She stood still, for in that voice there was a commanding tone which she was only too eager to obey. She called again and again, but she waited, and all at once, right in front of her it seemed, the voice said:
"Well, Conny, it's a good thing I found you. If you had played around here much longer you might have got wet."
But Constance was in no mood to take the matter lightly.
"Frank! Oh, Frank!" she cried, and half running, half reeling forward, she fell into his arms.
And then for a little she gave way and sobbed on his shoulder, just as any girl might have done who had been lost and miserable and had all at once found the shoulder of a man she loved. Then, brokenly——
"Oh, Frank—how did you know I was here?"
His arm was about her and he was holding her close. But for the rest, he was determined to treat it lightly.
"Well, you know," he said, "you made a good deal of noise about it, and I thought I recognized the tones."
"But how did you come to set out to look for me? How did you know that I came? Oh, it was brave of you—in this awful fog and with no guide!"
She believed, then, that he had set out purposely to search for her. He would let her think so for the moment.
"Why, that's nothing," he said; "a little run up the mountain is just fun for me, and as for fogs, I've always had a weakness for fogs since a winter in London. I didn't really know you were up here, but that might be the natural conclusion if you weren't at home, or at the Lodge—after what happened yesterday, of course."
"Oh, Frank, forgive me—I was so horrid yesterday."
"Don't mention it—I didn't give it a second thought."
"But, Frank—" then suddenly she stopped, for her eye had caught the basket, and the great fish dangling at his side. "Frank!" she concluded, "where in the world did you get that enormous trout?"
It was no use after that, so he confessed and briefly told her the tale—how it was by accident that he had found her—how he had set out at daybreak to find the wonderful flower.
"And haven't you found it either?" he asked, glancing down at her basket.
Then, in turn, she told how she had missed the tripod just as the fog came down and could not get near it again.
"And oh, I have lost my luncheon, too," she exclaimed, "and you must be starving. I must have lost it when I fell."
"Then we'll waste no time in getting home. It's beginning to rain a little now. We'll be pretty miserable if we stay up here any longer."
"But the trail—how will you find it in this awful mist?"
"Well, it should be somewhere to the west, I think, and with the compass, you see——"
He had been feeling in a pocket and now stared at her blankly.
"I am afraid I have lost something, too," he exclaimed, "my compass. I had it a little while ago and put it in the change pocket of my coat to have it handy. I suppose the last time I fell down, it slipped out."
He searched hastily in his other pockets, but to no purpose.
"Never mind," he concluded, cheerfully. "All ways lead down the mountain. If we can't find the trail we can at least go down till we find something. If it's a brook or ravine we'll follow that till we get somewhere. Anything is better than shivering here."
They set out in the direction where it seemed to Frank the trail must lie. Suddenly a tall shape loomed up before them. It was the tripod.
"Oh!" Constance gasped, "and I hunted for it so long!"
"Those flowers, or whatever they were, should be over here, I think," Frank said, and Constance produced a little plan which Robin had given her. But when in the semi-dusk they groped to the spot only some wet, blackened pulp remained of the curious growth. The tender flower of the peak had perhaps bloomed and perished in a day. Frank lamented this misfortune, but Constance expressed a slighter regret. They made an effort now to locate the cairns, but with less success. They did not find even one, and after wandering about for a little could not find the tripod again, either.
"Never mind," consoled Frank, "we'll trust a little to instinct. Perhaps it will lead us to something." In fact, they came presently to the fringe of scrub-oak, and to what seemed an open way. But Constance shook her head.
"I do not think this is the beginning of the trail. I followed just such an opening, and it led me to that dreadful cliff."
Perhaps it was the same false lead, for presently an abyss yawned before them.
"I shouldn't wonder," speculated Frank, "if this isn't a part of the cliff that I climbed. If we follow along, it may lead us to the same place. Then we may be able to make our way over it and down to the river and so home. It's a long way, but a sure one, if we can only find it."
They proceeded cautiously along the brink for the light was dim and the way uncertain. They grew warmer now, for they were away from the bitter air of the mountain top, and in constant motion. When they had followed the cliff for perhaps half a mile, Frank suddenly stopped.
"What is it?" asked Constance, "is this where you climbed up?"
Her companion only pointed over the brink.
"Look," he said, "it is not a cliff, here, but one side of a chasm. I can see trees on the other side."
Sure enough, dimly through the gloom, not many feet away, appeared the outline of timber of considerable growth, showing that they had descended somewhat, also an increased depth of soil. It was further evident that the cañon was getting narrower, and presently they came upon two logs, laid across it side by side, forming a sort of bridge. Frank knelt and examined them closely.
"Some one has used this," he said. "This may be a trail. Do you think we can get over, Conny?"
The girl looked at the narrow crossing and at the darkening woods beyond. It was that period of stillness and deepening gloom which precedes a mountain storm. Still early in the day, one might easily believe that night was descending. Constance shuddered. She was a bit nervous and unstrung.
"There is something weird about it," she said. "It is like entering the enchanted forest. Oh, I can cross well enough—it isn't that," and stepping lightly on the little footway she walked as steadily and firmly as did Frank, a moment later.
"You're a brick, Conny," he said heartily.
An opening in the bushes at the end of the little bridge revealed itself. They entered and pushed along, for the way led downward. The darkness grew momentarily. Rain was beginning to fall. Yet they hurried on, single file, Frank leading and parting the vines and limbs to make the way easier for his companion. They came presently to a little open space, where suddenly he halted.
"There's a light," he said, "it must be a camp."
But Constance clung to his arm. It was now quite dark where they stood, and there came a low roll of thunder overhead.
"Oh, suppose it is something dreadful!" she whispered—"a robbers' den, or moonshiners. I've heard of such things."
"It's more likely to be a witch," said Frank, "or an ogre, but I think we must risk it."
The rain came faster and they hurried forward now and presently stood at the door of a habitation, though even in the mist and gloom it impressed them as being of a curious sort. There was a window and a light, certainly, but the window held no sash, and the single opening was covered with a sort of skin, or parchment. There was a door, too, and walls, but beyond this the structure seemed as a part of the forest itself, with growing trees forming the door and corner posts, while others rose apparently from the roof. Further outlines of this unusual structure were lost in the dimness. Under the low, sheltering eaves they hesitated.
"Shall we knock?" whispered Constance. "It is all so queer—so uncanny. I feel as if it might be the home of a real witch or magician, or something like that."
"Then we may at least learn our fate," Frank answered, and with his knuckles struck three raps on the heavy door.
At first there was silence, then a sound of movement within, followed by a shuffling step. A moment later the heavy door swung ajar, and in the dim light from within Frank and Constance beheld a tall bowed figure standing in the opening. In a single brief glance they saw that it was a man—also that his appearance, like that of his house, was unusual. He was dressed entirely in skins. His beard was upon his breast, and his straggling hair fell about his shoulders. He stood wordless, silently regarding the strangers, and Frank at first was at a loss for utterance. Then he said, hesitatingly:
"We missed our way on the mountain. We want shelter from the storm and directions to the trail that leads to Spruce Lodge."
Still the tall bent figure in the doorway made no movement and uttered no word. They could not see his face, but Constance felt that his eyes were fixed upon her, and she clung closer to Frank's arm. Yet when the strange householder spoke at last there was nothing to cause fear, either in his words or tone. His voice was gentle—not much above a whisper.
"I crave your pardon if I seem slow of hospitality," he said, quaintly, "but a visitor seldom comes to my door. Only one other has ever found his way here, and he comes not often." He pushed the rude door wider on its creaking withe hinges. "I bid you welcome," he added, then, as Constance came more fully into the light shed by a burning pine knot and an open fire, he stopped, stared at her still more fixedly and muttered something under his breath. But a moment later he said gently, his voice barely more than a whisper: "I pray you will pardon my staring, but in that light just now you recalled some one—a woman it was—I used to know. Besides, I have not been face to face with any woman for nearly a score of years."
Certainly the house of the hermit, for such he undoubtedly was, proved a remarkable place. There was no regular form to the room in which Frank and Constance found themselves, nor could they judge as to its size. Its outlines blended into vague shadows, evidently conforming to the position of the growing trees which constituted its supports. The walls were composed of logs of varying lengths, adjusted to the spaces between the trees, intermingled with stones and smaller branches, the whole cemented or mud-plastered together in a concrete mass. At the corner of the fireplace, and used as one end of it, was a larger flat stone, which became not only a part of the wall but served as a wide shelf or table within, and this, covered with skins, supported a large wooden bowl of nuts, a stone hammer somewhat resembling a tomahawk, a few well-worn books, also a field glass in a leather case, such as tourists use. On a heavy rustic mantel were numerous bits and tokens of the forest, and suspended above it, on wooden hooks, was a handsome rifle. On the hearth below was a welcome blaze, with a heavy wooden settle, wide of seat, upon which skins were thrown, drawn up comfortably before the fire. The other furniture in the room consisted of a high-backed armchair, a wooden table, and what might have been a bench, outlined in the dimness of a far corner where the ceiling seemed to descend almost to the ground, and did, in fact, join the top of a low mound which formed the wall on that side. But what seemed most remarkable in this singular dwelling-place were the living trees which here and there like columns supported the roof. The heavy riven shingles and a thatching of twisted grass had been fitted closely about them above, and the hewn or puncheon floor was carefully joined around them below. Lower limbs had been converted into convenient hooks, while attached here and there near the ceiling were several rustic, nest-like receptacles, showing a fringe of grass and leaves. As Frank and Constance entered this strange shelter there had been a light scurrying of shadowy forms, a whisking into these safe retreats, and now, as the strangers stood in the cheerful glow of the fire and the sputtering pine-knot, they were regarded not only by the hermit, but by a score or more of other half-curious, half-timid eyes that shone bright out of the vague dimness behind. The ghostly scampering, the shadowy flitting, and a small, subdued chatter from the dusk enhanced in the minds of the visitors a certain weird impression of the place and constrained their speech. There was no sensation of fear. It was only a vague uneasiness, or rather that they felt themselves harsh and unwarranted intruders upon a habitation and a life in which they had no part. Their host broke the silence.
"You must needs pardon the demeanor of my little friends," he said. "They are unaccustomed to strangers." He indicated the settle, and added: "Be seated. You are weary, without doubt, and your clothes seem damp." Then he noticed the basket and the large fish at Frank's belt. "A fine trout," he said; "I have not seen so large a one for years."
Frank nodded with an anxious interest.
"Would you like it?" he asked. "I have a basketful besides, and would it be possible—could we, I mean, manage to cook a few of them? I am very hungry, and I am sure my companion, Miss Deane, would like a bite also."
Constance had dropped down on the settle, and was leaning toward the fire—her hands outspread before it.
"I am famished," she confessed, and added, "oh, and will you let me cook the fish? I can do it quite well."
The hermit did not immediately reply to the question.
"Miss Deane," he mused; "that is your name, then?"
"Yes, Constance Deane, and this is Mr. Frank Weatherby. We have been lost on the mountain all day without food. We shall be so thankful if you will let us prepare something, and will then put us on the trail that leads to Spruce Lodge."
The hermit stirred the fire to a brighter blaze and laid on a fresh piece of wood.
"That will I do right gladly," he said, "if you will accept my humble ways. Let me take the basket; I will set about the matter."
Gladly enough Frank unloosed his burden, and surrendered the big trout and the basket to his host. As the latter turned away from the fire a dozen little forms frisked out of the shadows behind and ran over him lightly, climbing to his shoulders, into his pockets, clinging on to his curious dress wherever possible—chattering, and still regarding the strange intruders with bright, inquisitive eyes. They were tiny red squirrels, it seemed, and their home was here in this nondescript dwelling with this eccentric man. Suddenly the hermit spoke to them—an unknown word with queer intonation. In an instant the little bevy of chatterers leaped away from him, scampering back to their retreats. Frank, who stood watching, saw a number of them go racing to a tree of goodly size and disappear into a hole near the floor.
The hermit turned, smiling a little, and the firelight fell on his face. For the first time Frank noticed the refinement and delicacy of the meager features. The hermit said:
"That is their outlet. The tree is hollow, and there is another opening above the roof. In winter the birds use it, too."
He disappeared now into what seemed to be another apartment, shutting a door behind. Frank dropped down on the settle by Constance, thoroughly tired, stretched out his legs, and gave himself up to the comfort of the warm glow.
"Isn't it all wonderful?" murmured Constance. "It is just a dream, of course. We are not really here, and I shall wake up presently. I had just such fancies when I was a child. Perhaps I am still wandering in that awful mist, and this is the delirium. Oh, are you sure we are really here?"
"Quite sure," said Frank. "And it seems just a matter of course to me. I have known all along that this wood was full of mysteries—enchantments, and hermits, and the like. Probably there are many such things if we knew where to look for them."
The girl's voice dropped still lower.
"How quaintly he talks. It is as if he had stepped out of some old book."
Frank nodded toward the stone shelf by the fire.
"He lives chiefly in books, I fancy, having had but one other visitor."
The young man lifted one of the worn volumes and held it to the light. It was a copy of Shakespeare's works—a thick book, being a complete edition of the plays. He laid it back tenderly.
"He dwells with the men and women of the master," he said, softly.
There followed a little period of silence, during which they drank in the cheer and comfort of the blazing hearth. Outside, the thunder rolled heavily now and then, and the rain beat against the door. What did it matter? They were safe and sheltered, and together. Constance asked presently: "What time is it?" And, looking at his watch, Frank replied:
"A little after three. An hour ago we were wandering up there in the mist. It seems a year since then, and a lifetime since I took that big trout."
"It is ages since I started this morning," mused Constance. "Yet we divide each day into the same measurements, and by the clock it is only a little more than six hours."
"It is nine since I left the Lodge," reflected Frank, "after a very light and informal breakfast at the kitchen door. Yes, I am willing to confess that such time should not be measured in the ordinary way."
There was a sharper crash of thunder and a heavier gust of rain. Then a fierce downpour that came to them in a steady, muffled roar.
"When shall we get home?" Constance asked, anxiously.
"We won't worry, now. Likely this is only a shower. It will not take long to get down the mountain, once we're in the trail, and it's light, you know, until seven."
The door behind was pushed open and the hermit re-entered. He bore a flat stone and a wooden bowl, and knelt down with them before the fire. The glowing embers he heaped together and with the aid of a large pebble set the flat stone at an angle before them. Then from the wooden bowl he emptied a thick paste of coarse meal upon the baking stone, and smoothed it with a wooden paddle.
Rising he said:
"I fear my rude ways will not appetize you, but I can only offer you what cheer I have."
The aroma of the cooking meal began to fill the room.
"Please don't apologize," pleaded Constance. "My only hope is that I can restrain myself until the food is ready."
"I'll ask you to watch the bread for a moment," the hermit said, turning the stone a little.
"And if I let it burn you may punish me as the goodwife did King Alfred," answered Constance. Then a glow came into her cheeks that was not all of the fire, for the man's eyes—they were deep, burning eyes—were fixed upon her, and he seemed to hang on her every word. Yet he smiled without replying, and again disappeared.
"Conny," admonished Frank, "if you let anything happen to that cake I'll eat the stone."
So they watched the pone carefully, turning it now and then, though the embers glowed very hot and a certain skill was necessary.
The hermit returned presently with a number of the trout dressed, and these were in a frying-pan that had a long wooden handle, which Constance and Frank held between them, while their host installed two large potatoes in the hot ashes. Then he went away for a little and placed some things on the table in the middle of the room, returning now and then to superintend matters. And presently the fish and the cakes and the potatoes were ready, and the ravenous wanderers did not wait to be invited twice to partake of them. The thunder still rolled at intervals and the rain still beat at the door, but they did not heed. Within, the cheer, if not luxurious, was plenteous and grateful. The table furnishings were rude and chiefly of home make. But the guests were young, strong of health and appetite, and no king's table could have supplied goodlier food. Oh, never were there such trout as those, never such baked potatoes, nor never such hot, delicious hoecake. And beside each plate stood a bowl of fruit—berries—delicious fresh raspberries of the hills.
Presently their host poured a steaming liquid into each of the empty cups by their plates.
"Perhaps you will not relish my tea," he said, "but it is soothing and not harmful. It is drawn from certain roots and herbs I have gathered, and it is not ill-tasting. Here is sweet, also; made from the maple tree."
An aromatic odor arose from the cups, and, when Constance tasted the beverage and added a lump of the sugar, she declared the result delicious—a decision in which Frank willingly concurred.
The host himself did not join the feast, and presently fell to cooking another pan of trout. It was a marvel how they disappeared. Even the squirrels came out of their hiding places to witness this wonderful feasting, a few bolder ones leaping upon the table, as was their wont, to help themselves from a large bowl of cracked nuts. And all this delighted the visitors. Everything was so extraordinary, so simple and near to nature, so savoring of the romance of the old days. This wide, rambling room with its recesses lost in the shadows; the low, dim roof supported by its living columns; the glowing fireplace and the blazing knot; the wild pelts scattered here and there, and the curious skin-clad figure in the firelight—certainly these were things to stir delightfully the heart of youth, to set curious fancies flitting through the brain.
"Oh," murmured Constance, "I wish we might stay in a place like this forever!" Then, reddening, added hastily, "I mean—I mean——"
"Yes," agreed Frank, "I mean that, too—and I wish just the same. We could have fish every day, and such hoecake, and this nice tea, and I would pick berries like these, and you could gather mushrooms. And we would have squirrels to amuse us, and you would read to me, and perhaps I should write poems of the hills and the storms and the haunted woods, and we could live so close to nature and drink so deeply of its ever renewing youth that old age could not find us, and we should live on and on and be always happy—happy ever after."
The girl's hand lay upon the table, and when his heavier palm closed over it she did not draw it away.
"I can almost love you when you are like this," she whispered.
"And if I am always like this——?"
They spoke very low, and the hermit sat in the high-back chair, bowed and staring into the blaze. Yet perhaps something of what they said drifted to his ear—perhaps it was only old and troubling memories stirring within him that caused him to rise and walk back and forth before the fire.
His guests had finished now, and they came back presently to the big, deep settle, happy in the comfort of plenteous food, the warmth and the cosy seat, and the wild unconvention of it all. The beat of the rain did not trouble them. Secretly they were glad of any excuse for remaining by the hermit's hearth.
Their host did not appear to notice them at first, but paced a turn up and down, then seated himself in the high-backed chair and gazed into the embers. A bevy of the little squirrels crept up and scaled his knees and shoulders, but with that curious note of warning he sent them scampering. The pine knot sputtered low and he tossed it among the coals, where it renewed its blaze. For a time there was silence, with only the rain sobbing at the door. Then by and by—very, very softly, as one who muses aloud—he spoke: "I, too, have had my dreams—dreams which were ever of happiness for me—and for another; happiness that would not end, yet which was to have no more than its rare beginning.
"That was a long time ago—as many as thirty years, maybe. I have kept but a poor account of time, for what did it matter here?"
He turned a little to Constance.
"Your face and voice, young lady, bring it all back now, and stir me to speak of it again—the things of which I have spoken to no one before—not even to Robin."
"To Robin!" The words came involuntarily from Constance.
"Yes, Robin Farnham, now of the Lodge. He found his way here once, just as you did. It was in his early days on the mountains, and he came to me out of a white mist, just as you came, and I knew him for her son."
Constance started, but the words on her lips were not uttered.
"I knew him for her son," the hermit continued, "even before he told me his name, for he was her very picture, and his voice—the voice of a boy—was her voice. He brought her back to me—he made her live again—here, in this isolated spot, even as she had lived in my dreams—even as a look in your face and a tone in your voice have made her live for me again to-day."
There was something in the intensity of the man's low speech, almost more than in what he said, to make the listener hang upon his words. Frank, who had drawn near Constance, felt that she was trembling, and he laid his hand firmly over hers, where it rested on the seat beside him.
"Yet I never told him," the voice went on, "I never told Robin that I knew him—I never spoke his mother's name. For I had a fear that it might sadden him—that the story might send him away from me. And I could have told nothing unless I told it all, and there was no need. So I spoke to him no word of her, and I pledged him to speak to no one of me. For if men knew, the curious would come and I would never have my life the same again. So I made him promise, and after that first time he came as he chose. And when he is here she who was a part of my happy dream lives again in him. And to you I may speak of her, for to you it does not matter, and it is in my heart now, when my days are not many, to recall old dreams."
The hermit paused and gazed into the bed of coals on the hearth. His listeners waited without speaking. Constance did not move—scarcely did she breathe.
"As I said, it may have been thirty years ago," the gentle voice continued. "It may have been more than that—I do not know. It was on the Sound shore, in one of the pretty villages there—it does not matter which.
"I lived with my uncle in the adjoining village. Both my parents were dead—he was my guardian. In the winter, when the snow fell, there was merry-making between these villages. We drove back and forth in sleighs, and there were nights along the Sound when the moon path followed on the water and the snow, and all the hills were white, and the bells jingled, and hearts were gay and young.
"It was on such a night that I met her who was to become Robin's mother. The gathering was in our village that night, and, being very young, she had come as one of a merry sleighful. Half way to our village their sleigh had broken down, and the merry makers had gayly walked the remainder, trusting to our hospitality to return them to their homes. I was one of those to welcome them and to promise conveyance, and so it was that I met her, and from that moment there was nothing in all the world for me but her."
The hermit lifted his eyes from the fire and looked at Constance.
"My girl," he said, "there are turns of your face and tones of your voice that carry me back to that night. But Robin, when he first came here to my door, a stripling, he was her very self.
"I recall nothing of that first meeting but her. I saw nothing but her. I think we danced—we may have played games—it did not matter. There was nothing for me but her face. When it was over, I took her in my cutter and we drove together across the snow—along the moonlit shore. I do not remember what we said, but I think it was very little. There was no need. When I parted from her that night the heritage of eternity was ours—the law that binds the universe was our law, and the morning stars sang together as I drove homeward across the hills.
"That winter and no more holds my happiness. Yet if all eternity holds no more for me than that, still have I been blest as few have been blest, and if I have paid the price and still must pay, then will I pay with gladness, feeling only that the price of heaven is still too small, and eternity not too long for my gratitude."
The hermit's voice had fallen quite to a whisper, and he was as one who muses aloud upon a scene rehearsed times innumerable. Yet in the stillness of that dim room every syllable was distinct, and his listeners waited, breathless, at each pause for him to continue. Into Frank's eyes had come the far-away look of one who follows in fancy an old tale, but the eyes of Constance shone with an eager light and her face was tense and white against the darkness.
"It was only that winter. When the spring came and the wild apple was in bloom, and my veins were all a-tingle with new joy, I went one day to tell her father of our love. Oh, I was not afraid. I have read of trembling lovers and halting words. For me the moments wore laggingly until he came, and then I overflowed like any other brook that breaks its dam in spring.
"And he—he listened, saying not a single word; but as I talked his eyes fell, and I saw tears gather under his lids. Then at last they rolled down his cheeks and he bowed his head and wept. And then I did not speak further, but waited, while a dread that was cold like death grew slow upon me. When he lifted his head he came and sat by me and took my hand. 'My boy,' he said, 'your father was my friend. I held his hand when he died, and a year later I followed your mother to her grave. You were then a little blue-eyed fellow, and my heart was wrung for you. It was not that you lacked friends, or means, for there were enough of both. But, oh, my boy, there was another heritage! Have they not told you? Have you never learned that both your parents were stricken in their youth by that scourge of this coast—that fever which sets a foolish glow upon the cheek while it lays waste the life below and fills the land with early graves? Oh, my lad! you do not want my little girl.'"
The hermit's voice died, and he seemed almost to forget his listeners. But all at once he fixed his eyes on Constance as if he would burn her through.
"Child," he said, "as you look now, so she looked in the moment of our parting. Her eyes were like yours, and her face, God help me! as I saw it through the dark that last night, was as your face is now. Then I went away. I do not remember all the places, but they were in many lands, and were such places as men seek who carry my curse. I never wrote—I never saw her, face to face, again.
"When I returned her father was dead, and she was married—to a good man, they told me—and there was a child that bore my name, Robin, for I had been called Robin Gray. And then there came a time when a stress was upon the land—when fortunes tottered and men walked the streets with unseeing eyes—when his wealth and then hers vanished like smoke in the wind—when my own patrimony became but worthless paper—a mockery of scrolled engravings and gaudy seals. To me it did not matter—nothing matters to one doomed. To them it was shipwreck. John Farnham, a high-strung, impetuous man, was struck down. The tension of those weeks, and the final blow, broke his spirit and undermined his strength. They had only a pittance and a little cottage in these mountains, which they had used as a camp for summer time. It stood then where it stands to-day, on the North Elba road, in view of this mountain top. There they came in the hope that Robin's father might regain health to renew the fight. There they remained, for the father had lost courage and only found a little health by tilling the few acres of ground about the cottage. There, that year, a second child—a little girl—was born."
It had grown very still in the hermitage. There was only a drip of the rain outside—the thunder had rolled away. The voice, too, ceased for a little, as if from weariness. The others made no sign, but it seemed to Frank that the hand locked closely in his had become quite cold.
"The word of those things drifted to me," so the tale went on, "and it made me sad that with my own depleted fortune and failing health I could do nothing for their comfort or relief. But one day my physician said to me that the air and the altitude of these mountains had been found beneficial for those stricken like me. He could not know how his words made my heart beat. Now, indeed, there was a reason for my coming—an excuse for being near her—with a chance of seeing her, it might be, though without her knowledge. For I decided that she must not know. Already she had enough burden without the thought that I was near—without the sight of my doleful, wasting features.
"So I sold the few belongings that were still mine—such things as I had gathered in my wanderings—my books, save those I loved most dearly—my furnishings, my ornaments, even to my apparel—and with the money I bought the necessaries of mountain life—implements, rough wear and a store of food. These, with a tent, my gun, the few remaining volumes, and my field glass—the companion of all my travels—I brought to the hills."
He pointed to the glass and the volumes lying on the stone at his hand.
"Those have been my life," he went on. "The books have brought me a world wherein there was ever a goodly company, suited to my mood. For me, in that world, there are no disappointments nor unfulfilled dreams. King, lover, courtier and clown—how often at my bidding have they trooped out of the shadows to gather with me about this hearth! Oh, I should have been poor indeed without the books! Yet the glass has been to me even more, for it brought me her.
"I have already told you that their cottage could be seen from this mountain top. I learned this when I came stealthily to the hills and sought out their home, and some spot amid the overhanging peaks where I might pitch my camp and there unseen look down upon her life. This is the place I found. I had my traps borne up the trail to the foot of the little fall, as if I would camp there. Then when the guides were gone I carried them here, and reared my small establishment, away from the track of hunters, on this high finger of rock which commanded the valley and her home. There is a spring here and a bit of fertile land. It was State land and free, and I pitched my tent here, and that summer I cleared an open space for tillage and built a hut for the winter. The sturdy labor and the air of the hills strengthened my arm and renewed my life. But there was more than that. For often there came a clear day, when the air was like crystal and other peaks drew so near that it seemed one might reach out and stroke them with his hand. On such a day, with my glass, I sought a near-by point where the mountain's elbow jutted out into the sky, and when from that high vantage I gazed down on the roof which covered her, my soul was filled with strength to tarry on. For distance became as nothing to my magic glass. Three miles it may be as the crow flies, but I could bring the tiny cottage and the door-yard, as it stood there at the turn of the road above the little hill, so close to me that it seemed to lie almost at my very feet."
Again the speaker rested for a moment, but presently the tale went on.
"You can never know what I felt when I first sawher. I had watched for her often, and I think she had been ill. I had seen him come and go, and sometimes I had seen a child—Robin it was—playing about the yard. But one day when I had gone to my point of lookout and had directed my glass—there, just before me, she stood. There she lived and moved—she who had been, who was still my life—who had filled my being with a love that made me surrender her to another, yet had lured me at last to this lonely spot, forever away from men, only that I might now and again gaze down across the tree tops, and all unseen, unknown to her, make her the companion of my hermit life.
"She walked slowly and the child walked with her, holding her hand. When presently she looked toward me, I started and shrank, forgetting for the moment that she could not see me. Not that I could distinguish her features at such a range, only her dear outline, but in my mind's eyes her face was there before me just as I had seen it that last time—just as I have seen yours in the firelight."
He turned to Constance, whose features had become blurred in the shadows. Frank felt her tremble and caught the sound of a repressed sob. He knew the tears were streaming down her cheeks, and his own eyes were not dry.
"After that I saw her often, and sometimes the infant, Robin's sister, was in her arms. When the autumn came, and the hills were glorified, and crowned with snow, she stood many times in the door-yard to behold their wonder. When at last the leaves fell, and the trees were bare, I could watch even from the door of my little hut. The winter was long—the winter is always long up here—from November almost till May—but it did not seem long to me, when she was brought there to my door, even though I might not speak to her.
"And so I lived my life with her. The life in that cottage became my life—day by day, week by week, year by year—and she never knew. After that first summer I never but once left the mountain top. All my wants I supplied here. There was much game of every sort, and the fish near by were plentiful. I had a store of meal for the first winter, and during the next summer I cultivated my bit of cleared ground, and produced my full need of grain and vegetables and condiments. One trip I made to a distant village for seeds, and from that day never left the mountain again.
"It was during the fifth winter, I think, after I came here, that a group of neighbors gathered in the door-yard of the cottage, and my heart stood still, for I feared that she was dead. The air dazzled that day, but when near evening I saw a woman with a hand to each child re-enter the little house I knew that she still lived—and had been left alone.
"Oh, then my heart went out to her! Day and night I battled with the impulse to go to her, with love and such comfort and protection as I could give. Time and again I rose and made ready for the journey to her door. Then, oh, then I would remember that I had nothing to offer her—nothing but my love. Penniless, and a dying man, likely to become a helpless burden at any time, what could I bring to her but added grief. And perhaps in her unconscious heart she knew. For more than once that winter, when the trees were stripped and the snow was on the hills, I saw her gaze long and long toward this mountain, as if she saw the speck my cabin made, and once when I stretched my arms out to her across the waste of deadly cold, I saw a moment later that her arms, too, were out-stretched, as if somehow she knew that I was there."
A low moan interrupted the tale. It was from Constance.
"Don't, oh, don't," she sobbed. "You break my heart!" But a moment later she added, brokenly, "Yes, yes—tell me the rest. Tell me all. Oh, she was so lonely! Why did you never go to her?"
"I would have gone then. I went mad and cried out, 'My wife! my wife! I want my wife!' And I would have rushed down into the drifts of the mountain, but in that moment the curse of my heritage fell heavily upon me and left me powerless."
The hermit's voice had risen—it trembled and died away with the final words. In the light of the fading embers only his outline could be seen—wandering into the dusk and silence. When he spoke again his tone was low and even.
"And so the years went by. I saw the sturdy lad toil with his mother for a while, and then alone, and I knew by her slow step that the world was slipping from her grasp. I did not see the end. I might have gone, then, but it came at a time when the gloom hung on the mountains and I did not know. When the air cleared and for days I saw no life, I knew that the little house was empty—that she had followed him to rest. They two, whose birthright had been health and length of days, both were gone, while I, who from the cradle had made death my bed-fellow, still lingered and still linger through the years.
"I put the magic glass aside after that for my books. Nothing was left me but my daily round, with them for company. Yet from a single volume I have peopled all the woods about, and every corner of my habitation. Through this forest of Arden I have walked with Orlando, and with him hung madrigals on the trees, half believing that Rosalind might find them. With Nick the Weaver on a moonlit bank I have waited for Titania and Puck and all that lightsome crew. On the wild mountain top I have met Lear, wandering with only a fool for company, and I have led them in from the storm and warmed them at this hearthstone. In that recess Romeo has died with Juliet in the Capulets' tomb. With me at that table Jack Falstaff and Prince Hal have crossed their wit and played each the rôle of king. Yonder, beneath the dim eaves, in the moment just before you came, Macbeth had murdered Duncan, and I saw him cravenly vanish at the sound of your fearsome knocking.
"But what should all this be to you? It is but my shadow world—the only world I had until one day, out of the mist as you have come, so Robin came to me—her very self, it seemed—from heaven. At first it lay in my heart to tell him. But the fear of losing him held me back, as I have said. And of himself he told me as little. Rarely he referred to the past. Only once, when I spoke of kindred, he said that he was an orphan, with only a sister, who had found a home with kind people in a distant land. And with this I was content, for I had wondered much concerning the little girl."
The voice died away. The fire had become ashes on the hearth. The drip of the rain had ceased—light found its way through the parchment-covered window. The storm had passed. The hermit's story was ended.
Neither Constance nor Frank found words, and for a time their host seemed to have forgotten their presence. Then, arousing, he said:
"You will wish to be going now. I have detained you too long with my sad tale. But I have always hungered to pour it into some human ear before I died. Being young, you will quickly forget and be merry again, and it has lifted a heaviness from my spirit. I think we shall find the sun on the hills once more, and I will direct you to the trail. But perhaps you will wish to pause a moment to see something of my means of providing for life in this retreat. I will ask of you, as I did of Robin, to say nothing of my existence here to the people of the world. Yet you may convey to Robin that you have been here—saying no more than that. And you may say that I would see him when next he builds his campfire not far away, for my heart of hearts grows hungry for his face."
Rising, he led them to the adjoining room.
"This was my first hut," he said. "It is now my storehouse, where, like the squirrels, I gather for the winter. I hoard my grain here, and there is a pit below where I keep my other stores from freezing. There in the corner is my mill—the wooden mortar and pestle of our forefathers—and here you see I have provided for my water supply from the spring. Furs have renewed my clothing, and I have never wanted for sustenance—chiefly nuts, fruits and vegetables. I no longer kill the animals, but have made them my intimate friends. The mountains have furnished me with everything—companions, shelter, clothing and food, savors—even salt, for just above a deer lick I found a small trickle from which I have evaporated my supply. Year by year I have added to my house—making it, as you have seen, a part of the forest itself—that it might be less discoverable; though chiefly because I loved to build somewhat as the wild creatures build, to know the intimate companionship of the living trees, and to be with the birds and squirrels as one of their household."
They passed out into the open air, and to a little plot of cultivated ground shut in by the thick forest. It was an orderly garden, with well-kept paths, and walks of old-fashioned posies.
Bright and fresh after the summer rain, it was like a gay jewel, set there on the high mountain side, close to the bending sky.
It was near sunset, and a chorus of birds were shouting in the tree tops. Coming from the dim cabin, with its faded fire and its story of human sorrow, into this bright living place, was stepping from enchantment of the play into the daylight of reality. Frank praised the various wonders in a subdued voice, while Constance found it difficult to speak at all. Presently, when they were ready to go, the hermit brought the basket and the large trout.
"You must take so fine a prize home," he said. "I do not care for it." Then he looked steadily at Constance and added: "The likeness to her I loved eludes me by daylight. It must have been a part of my shadows and my dreams."
Constance lifted her eyes tremblingly to the thin, fine, weather-beaten face before her. In spite of the ravage of years and illness she saw, beneath it all, the youth of long ago, and she realized what he had suffered.
"I thank you for what you have told us to-day," she said, almost inaudibly. "It shall be—it is—very sacred to me."
"And to me," echoed Frank, holding out his hand.
He led them down the steep hillside by a hidden way to the point where the trail crossed the upper brook, just below the fall.
"I have sometimes lain concealed here," he said, "and heard mountain climbers go by. Perhaps I caught a glimpse of them. I suppose it is the natural hunger one has now and then for his own kind." A moment later he had grasped their hands, bidden them a fervent godspeed, and disappeared into the bushes. The sun was already dipping behind the mountain tops and they did not linger, but rapidly and almost in silence made their way down the mountain.
Yet the adventure on the mountain was not without its ill effects. It happened that day that Mr. and Mrs. Deane had taken one of their rare walks over to Spruce Lodge. They had arrived early after luncheon, and learning that Frank and Constance had not been seen there during the morning, Mrs. Deane had immediately assured herself that dire misfortune had befallen the absent ones.
The possibility of their having missed their way was the most temperate of her conclusions. She had visions of them lying maimed and dying at the foot of some fearful precipice; she pictured them being assailed by wild beasts; she imagined them tasting of some strange mushroom and instantly falling dead as a result. Fortunately, the guide who had seen Frank set out alone was absent. Had the good lady realized that Constance 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 the afternoon, during which period Mr. Deane, who was not seriously disturbed by the absence of the young people, endeavored to convince his wife that it was more than likely they had gone directly to the camp and would be there when the storm was over.
The nervous mother was far from reassured, and was for setting out immediately through the rain to see. It became a trying afternoon for her comforters, and the lugubrious croaking of the small woman in black and the unflagging optimism of Miss Carroway, as the two wandered from group to group throughout the premises, gave the episode a general importance 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 sun was on the mountain long before the rain had ceased below, and as they made straight for the Deane camp they arrived almost as soon as Mrs. Deane herself, who, bundled in waterproofs and supported by her husband and an obliging mountain climber, had insisted on setting out the moment the rain ceased.
It was a cruel blow not to find the missing ones at the moment of arrival, and even their prompt appearance, in full health and with no tale of misfortune, but only the big trout and a carefully prepared story of being confused in the fog but safely sheltered in the forest, did not fully restore her. She was really ill next day, and carried Constance off for a week to Lake Placid, where she could have medical attention close at hand and keep her daughter always in sight.
It began by being a lonely week for Frank, for he had been commanded by Constance not to come to Lake Placid, and to content himself with sending occasional brief letters—little more than news bulletins, in fact. Yet presently he became less forlorn. He went about with a preoccupied look that discouraged the attentions of Miss Carroway. For the most part he spent his mornings at the Lodge, in his room. Immediately after luncheon he usually went for an extended walk in the forest, sometimes bringing up at the Deane camp, where perhaps he dined with Mr. Deane, a congenial spirit, and remained for a game of cribbage, the elder man's favorite diversion. Once Frank set out to visit the hermitage, but thought better of his purpose, deciding that Constance might wish to accompany him there on her return. One afternoon he spent following a trout brook and returned with a fine creel of fish, though none so large as the monster of that first day.
Robin Farnham was absent almost continuously during this period, and Edith Morrison Frank seldom saw, for the last weeks in August brought the height of the season, and the girl's duties were many and imperative. There came no opportunity for the talk he had meant to have with her, and as she appeared always pleasant of manner, only a little thoughtful—and this seemed natural with her responsibilities—he believed 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 his eyes, and it somehow spoke a renewed purpose in his heart. Even his step and carriage were different. When he went swinging through the forest alone it was with his head thrown back, and sometimes with his arms outspread he whistled and sang to the marvelous greenery above and about him. And he could sing. Perhaps his was not a voice that would win fame or fortune for its possessor, but there was in it a note of ecstasy which answered back to the call of the birds, to the shout or moan of the wind, to every note of the forest—that was, in fact, a tone in the deep 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 for the mountains, such as Constance had echoed to him that wild day in March, grew upon him and possessed him, and he did not pause to remember that it ever had been otherwise. When the storm came down from the peaks, 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 leaves to smell the ground. And was it no more than the happiness of a lover who believes himself beloved that had wrought this change, or was there in this renewal of the mad joy of living the reopening and the flow of some deep and half-forgotten spring?
From that day on the mountain he had not been the same. That morning with its new resolve; the following of the brook which had led him back to boyhood; the capture of the great trout; the battle with the mountain and the mist; the meeting with Constance at the top; the hermit's cabin with its story of self-denial and abnegation—its life so close to the very heart of nature, so far from idle pleasure and luxury—with that eventful day had come the change.
In his letters to Constance, Frank did not speak of these things. He wrote of his walks, it is true, and he told her of his day's fishing—also of his visits to her father at the camp—but of any change or regeneration in himself, any renewal of old dreams and effort, he spoke not at all.
The week lengthened before Constance returned, though it was clear from her letters that she was disinclined to linger at a big conventional hotel, when so much of the summer was slipping away in her beloved forest. From day to day they had expected to leave, she wrote, but as Mrs. Deane had persuaded herself that the Lake Placid practitioner had acquired some new and subtle understanding of nerve disorders, they were loath to hurry. The young lady ventured a suggestion that Mr. Weatherby was taking vast comfort in his freedom from the duties and responsibilities of accompanying a mushroom enthusiast in her daily rambles, especially a very exacting young person, with a predilection for trying new kinds upon him, and for seeking strange and semi-mythical specimens, peculiar to hazy and lofty altitudes.
"I am really afraid I shall have to restrain my enthusiasm," she wrote in one of these letters. "I am almost certain that Mamma's improvement and desire to linger here are largely due to her conviction that so long as I am here you are safe from the baleful Amanita, not to mention myself. Besides, it is a little risky, sometimes, and one has to know a very great deal to be certain. I have had a lot of time to study the book here, and have attended a few lectures on the subject. Among other things I have learned that certain Amanitas are not poison, even when they have the cup. One in particular that I thought deadly is not only harmless, but a delicacy which the Romans called 'Cæsar's mushroom,' and of which one old epicure wrote, 'Keep your corn, O Libya—unyoke your oxen, provided only you send us mushrooms.'" She went on to set down the technical description from the text-book and a simple rule for distinguishing the varieties, adding, "I don't suppose you will gather any before my return—you would hardly risk such a thing without my superior counsel—but should you do so, keep the rule in mind. It is taken word for word from the book, so if anything happens to you while I am gone, either you or the book will be to blame—not I. When I come back—if I ever do—I mean to try at least a sample of that epicurean delight, which one old authority called 'food of the gods,' provided I can find any of them growing outside of that gruesome 'Devil's Garden.'"
Frank gave no especial attention to this portion of her letter. His interest in mushrooms was confined chiefly to the days when Constance could be there to expatiate on them in person.
In another letter she referred to their adventure on the mountain, and to the fact that Frank would be likely to see Robin before her return.
"You may tell Robin Farnham," she said, "about our visit to the hermit, and of the message he sent. Robin may be going in that direction very soon, and find time to stop there. Of course you will be careful not to let anything slip about the tale he told us. I am sure it would make no difference, but I know you will agree with me that his wishes should be sacred. Dear me, what a day that was, and how I did love that wonderful house! Here, among all these people, in this big modern hotel, it seems that it must have been all really enchantment. Perhaps you and Robin could make a trip up there together. I know, if there truly is a hermit, he will be glad to see you again. I wonder if he would like to seemeagain. I brought up all those sad memories. Poor old man! My sympathy for him is deeper than you can guess."
It happened that Robin returned to the Lodge that same afternoon. A little later Frank found him in the guide's cabin, and recounted to him his recent adventures with Constance on the mountain—how they had wandered at last to the hermitage, adding the message which their host had 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 was once, and that you should have drifted to the same place. You took a little different path from mine. I followed the chasm to the end, while you crossed on the two logs which the old fellow and I put there afterward to save me time. I usually have to make short visits, because few parties care to stay on McIntyre over night, and it's only now and then that I can get away at all. I have been thinking about the old chap a good deal lately, but I'm afraid it would mean a special trip just now, and it would be hard to find a day for that."
"I will arrange it," said Frank. "In fact, I have already done so. I spoke to Morrison this morning, and engaged you for a day as soon as you got in. I want to make another trip up the mountain, myself. We'll go to-morrow morning—directly to the cabin—and I'll see that you have plenty of time for a good visit. What I want most is another look around the place itself and its surroundings. I may want to construct a place like that some day—in imagination, at least."
So it was arranged that the young men should visit the hermitage together. They set out early next morning, following the McIntyre trail to the point below the little fall where the hermit had bidden good-by to mankind so many years before. Here they turned aside and ascended the cliff by the hidden path, presently reaching the secluded and isolated spot where the lonely, stricken man had established his domain.
As they drew near the curious dwelling, which because of its construction was scarcely noticeable until they were immediately upon it, they spoke in lowered voices, and presently not at all. It seemed to them, too, that there was a hush about the spot which they had not noticed elsewhere. Frank recalled the chorus of birds which had filled the little garden with song, and wondered at their apparent absence now. The sun was bright, the sky above was glorious, the gay posies along the garden paths were as brilliant as before, but so far as he could see and hear, the hermit's small neighbors and companions had vanished.
"There is a sort of Sunday quiet about it," whispered Frank. "Perhaps the 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 and have 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 eyes wander up and down among the beds which the hermit had planted. It was late summer now, and many of the things were already ripening. In a little more the blackening frost would come and the heavy snow drift in. What a strange life it had been there, winter and summer, with only nature and a pageantry of dreams for companionship. There must have been days when, like the Lady of Shalott, he had cried out, "I am sick of shadows!" and it may have been on such days that he had watched by the trail to hear and perhaps to see real men and women. And when the helplessness of very old age should come—what then? Within his mind Frank had a half-formed plan to persuade the hermit to return to the companionship of men. There were many retreats now in these hills—places where every comfort and the highest medical skill could be obtained for patients such as he. Frank had conceived the idea of providing for the hermit's final days in some such home, and he had partly confided his plan to Robin as they had followed the trail together. 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 countenance that 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 curious dwelling. Light came through the open door and the parchment-covered window. In the high-backed chair before the hearth the hermit sat, his chin dropped forward on his breast. His years of exile were ended. All the heart-yearning and loneliness had slipped away. He had become one with the shadows among which he had dwelt so long.
Nor was there any other life in the room. As the birds outside had vanished, so the flitting squirrels had departed—who shall say whither? Yet the change had come but recently—perhaps on that very morning—for though the fire had dropped to ashes on the hearth, a tiny wraith of smoke still lingered and drifted waveringly up the chimney.
The intruders moved softly about the room without speaking. Presently Frank beckoned to Robin, and pointed to something lying on the table. It was a birch-bark envelope, and in a dark ink, doubtless made from some root or berry, was addressed to Robin. The guide opened it and, taking it 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.
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.