Regarding her curiously, Frank said:
"I remember your own hunger for the mountains, even in March. One might almost think you native to them, yourself."
"My love for them makes me understand," she said, after a pause; then in lighter tone added, "and I should not wish to get in Edith Morrison's way, especially where it related to Robin Farnham."
"By which same token I shall avoid getting in Robin Farnham's way," Frank said, as they entered the Lodge hall—a wide room, which in some measure carried out the Anglo-Saxon feudal idea. The floor was strewn with skins, the dark walls of unfinished wood were hung with antlers and other trophies of the chase. At the farther end was a deep stone fireplace, and above it the mounted head of a wild boar.
"You see," murmured Constance, "being brought up among these things and in the life that goes with them, one is apt to imbibe a good deal of nature and a number of elementary ideas, in spite of books."
A door by the wide fireplace opened just then, and a girl with jetty hair and glowing black eyes—slender and straight as a young birch—came toward them with step as lithe and as light as an Indian's. There was something of the type, too, in her features. Perhaps in a former generation a strain of the native American blood had mingled and blended with the fairer flow of the new possessors. Constance Deane went forward to meet her.
"Miss Morrison," she said cordially, "this is Mr. Weatherby, of New York—a friend of ours."
The girl took Frank's extended hand heartily. Indeed, it seemed to the young man that there was rather more warmth in her welcome than the occasion warranted. Her face, too, conveyed a certain gratification in his arrival—almost as if here were an expected friend. He could not help wondering if this was her usual manner of greeting—perhaps due to the primitive life she had led—the untrammeled freedom of the hills. But Constance, when she had passed them, said:
"I think you are marked for especial favor. Perhaps, after all, Robin is to have a rival."
Yet not all is to be read upon the surface, even when one is so unskilled at dissembling as Edith Morrison. We may see signs, but we may not always translate their meaning. Her love affair had been one of long standing, begun when Robin had guided his first party over Marcy to the Lodge, then just built—herself a girl of less than a dozen years, trying to take a dead mother's place. How many times since then he had passed to and fro, with tourists in summer and hunting parties in winter. Often during fierce storms he had stayed at the Lodge for a week or more—gathered with her father and herself before the great log fire in the hall while the winds howled and the drifts banked up against the windows, gleaning from the Lodge library a knowledge of such things as books can teach—history, science and the outside world. Then had come the time when he had decided on a profession, when, with his hoarded earnings and such employment as he could find in the college town, he had begun his course in a school of engineering. The mountain winters without Robin had been lonely ones, but with her father she had devoted them to study, that she might not be left behind, and had taken the little school at last on the North Elba road in order to feel something of the independence which Robin knew. In this, the last summer of his mountain life, he had come to her father as chief guide, mainly that they might have more opportunity to perfect their plans for the years ahead. All the trails carried their story, and though young men still fell in love with Edith Morrison and maids with Robin Farnham, no moment of distrust had ever entered in.
But there would appear to be some fate which does not fail to justify the old adage concerning true love. With the arrival of Constance Deane at the Lodge, it became clear to Edith that there had been some curious change in Robin. It was not that he became in the least degree indifferent—if anything he had been more devoted than before. He made it a point to be especially considerate and attentive when Miss Deane was present—and in this itself there lay a difference. No other guest had ever affected his bearing toward her, one way or the other. Edith remembered, of course, that he had known the Deanes, long before, when the Lodge was not yet built. Like Constance, she had only been a little girl then, her home somewhere beyond the mountains where she had never heard of Robin. Yet her intuition told her that the fact of a long ago acquaintance between a child of wealthy parents and the farm boy who had sold them produce and built toy boats for the little girl could not have caused this difference now. It was nothing that Constance had engaged Robin to guide her about the woods and carry her book or her basket of specimens. Edith had been accustomed to all that, but this time there was a different attitude between guide and guest—something so subtle that it could hardly be put into words, yet wholly evident to the eyes of love. Half unconsciously, at first, Edith revolved the problem in her mind, trying to locate the cause of her impression. When next she saw them alone together, she strove to convince herself that it was nothing, after all. The very effort had made her the more conscious of a reality.
Now had come the third time—to-day—the moment before Frank Weatherby's arrival. They were approaching the house and did not see her, while she had lost not a detail of the scene. Robin's very carriage—and hers—the turn of a face, the manner of a word she could not hear, all spoke of a certain tenderness, an understanding, a sort of ownership, it seemed—none the less evident because, perhaps, they themselves were all unconscious of it. The mountain girl remarked the beauty of that other one and mentally compared it with her own. This girl was taller than she, and fairer. Her face was richer in its coloring—she carried herself like one of the noble ladies in the books. Oh, they were a handsome pair—and not unlike, she thought. Not that they resembled, yet something there was common to both. It must be that noble carriage of which she had been always so proud in Robin. There swept across her mental vision a splendid and heart-sickening picture of Robin going out into the world with this rich, cultured girl, and not herself, his wife. The Deanes were not pretentious people, and there was wealth enough already. They might well be proud of Robin. Edith cherished no personal bitterness toward either Constance or Robin—not yet. Neither did she realize to what lengths her impetuous, untrained nature might carry her, if really aroused. Her only conscious conclusion thus far was that Robin and Constance, without knowing it themselves, were drifting into a dangerous current, and that this new arrival might become a guide back to safety. Between Frank Weatherby and herself there was the bond of a common cause.
Prosperous days came to the Lodge. Hospitable John Morrison had found a calling suited to his gifts when he came across the mountain and built the big log tavern at the foot of McIntyre. With July, guests multiplied, and for those whose duty it was to provide entertainment the problem became definite and practical. Edith Morrison found her duties each day heavier and Robin Farnham was seldom unemployed. Usually he was away with his party by daybreak and did not return until after nightfall. Wherever might lie his inclination there would seem to be little time for love making in such a season.
By the middle of the month the Deanes had taken possession of their camp on the west branch of the Au Sable, having made it habitable with a consignment of summer furnishings from New York, and through the united efforts of some half dozen mountain carpenters, urged in their deliberate labors by the owner, Israel Deane, an energetic New Englander who had begun life a penniless orphan and had become chief stockholder in no less than three commercial enterprises on lower Broadway.
With the removal of the Deanes Mr. Weatherby also became less in evidence at the Lodge. The walk between the Lodge and the camp was to him a way of enchantment. He had been always a poet at heart, and this wonderful forest reawakened old dreams and hopes and fancies which he had put away for the immediate and gayer things of life, hardly more substantial and far less real. To him this was a veritable magic wood—the habitation of necromancy—where robber bands of old might lurk; where knights in silver armor might do battle; where huntsmen in gold and green might ride, the vanished court of some forgotten king.
And at the end of the way there was always the princess—a princess that lived and moved, and yet, he thought, was not wholly awake—at least not to the reality of his devotion to her, or, being so, did not care, save to test it at unseemly times and in unusual ways. Frank was quite sure that he loved Constance. He was certain that he had never cared so much for anything in the world before, and that if there was a real need he would make any sacrifice at her command. Only he did not quite comprehend why she was not willing to put by all stress and effort to become simply a part of this luminous summer time, when to him it was so good to rest by the brook and listen to her voice following some old tale, or to drift in a boat about the lake shore, finding a quaint interest in odd nooks and romantic corners or in dreaming idle dreams.
Indeed, the Lodge saw him little. Most days he did not appear between breakfast and dinner time. Often he did not return even for that function. Yet sometimes it happened that with Constance he brought up there about mail time, and on these occasions they were likely to remain for luncheon. Constance had by no means given up her nature study, and these visits usually resulted from the discovery of some especial delicacy of the woods which, out of consideration for her mother's nervous views on the subject, was brought to the Lodge for preparation. Edith Morrison generally superintended in person this particular cookery, Constance often assisting—or "hindering," as she called it—and in this way the two had become much better acquainted. Of late Edith had well-nigh banished—indeed, she had almost forgotten—her heart uneasiness of those earlier days. She had quite convinced herself that she had been mistaken, after all. Frank and Constance were together almost continually, while Robin, during the brief stay between each coming and going, had been just as in the old time—natural, kind and full of plans for the future. Only once had he referred more than casually to Constance Deane.
"I wish you two could see more of each other," he had said. "Some day we may be in New York, you and I, and I am sure she would be friendly to us."
And Edith, forgetting all her uneasiness, had replied:
"I wish we might"; and added, "of course, I do see her a good deal—one way and another. She comes quite often with Mr. Weatherby, but then I have the household and she has Mr. Weatherby. Do you think, Robin, she is going to marry him?"
Robin paused a little before replying.
"I don't know. I think he tries her a good deal. He is rich and rather spoiled, you know. Perhaps he has become indifferent to a good many of the things she thinks necessary."
Edith did not reflect at the moment that this knowledge on Robin's part implied confidential relations with one of the two principals. Robin's knowledge was so wide and varied it was never her habit to question its source.
"She would rather have him poor and ambitious, I suppose," she speculated thoughtfully. Then her hand crept over into his broad palm, and, looking up, she added: "Do you know, Robin, that for a few days—the first few days after she came—when you were with her a good deal—I almost imagined—of course, I was very foolish—but she is so beautiful and—superior, like you—and somehow you seemed different toward her, too—I imagined, just a little, that you might care for her, and I don't know—perhaps I was just the least bit jealous. I never was jealous before—maybe I wasn't then—but I felt a heavy, hopeless feeling coming around my heart. Is that jealousy?"
His strong arm was about her and her face hidden on his shoulder. Then she thought that he was laughing—she did not quite see why—but he held her close. She thought it must all be very absurd or he would not laugh. Presently he said:
"I do care for her a great deal, and always have—ever since she was a little girl. But I shall never care for her any more than I did then. Some day you will understand just why."
If this had not been altogether explicit it at least had a genuine ring, and had laid to sleep any lingering trace of disquiet. As for the Lodge, it accepted Frank and Constance as lovers and discussed them accordingly, all save a certain small woman in black whose mission in life was to differ with her surroundings, and who, with a sort of rocking-chair circle of industry, crocheted at one end of the long veranda, where from time to time she gave out vague hints that things in general were not what they seemed, thereby fostering a discomfort of the future. For the most part, however, her pessimistic views found little acceptance, especially as they concerned the affairs of Mr. Weatherby and Miss Deane. Miss Carroway, who for some reason—perhaps because of the nephew whose youthful steps she had guided from the cradle to a comfortable berth in the electric works at Haverford—had appointed herself a sort of guardian of the young man's welfare, openly pooh-poohed the small woman in black, and announced that she shouldn't wonder if there was going to be a wedding "right off." It may be added that Miss Carroway was usually the center of the rocking-chair circle, and an open rival of the small woman in black as its directing manager.
The latter, however, had the virtue of persistence. She habitually elevated her nose and crochet work at Miss Carroway's opinions, avowing that there was many a slip and that appearances were often deceitful. For her part, she didn't think Miss Deane acted much like a girl in love unless—she lowered her voice so that the others had to lean forward that no syllable might escape—unless it was withsome other man. For her part, she thought Miss Deane had seemed happier the first few days, before Mr. Weatherby came, going about with Robin Farnham. Anyhow, she shouldn't be surprised if something strange happened before the summer was over, at which prediction Miss Carroway never failed to sniff indignantly, and was likely to drop a stitch in the wristlets she was knitting for Charlie's Christmas.
It was about the mail hour, at the close of one such discussion, that the circle became aware of the objects of their debate approaching from the boat landing. They made a handsome picture as they came up the path, and even the small woman in black was obliged to confess that they were well suited enough "so far as looks were concerned." As usual they carried the book and basket, and waved them in greeting as they drew near. Constance lifted the moss and ferns as she passed Miss Carroway to display, as she said, the inviting contents, which the old lady regarded with evident disapproval, though without comment. Miss Deane carried the basket into the Lodge, and when she returned brought Edith Morrison with her. The girl was rosy with the bustle going on indoors, and her bright color, with her black hair and her spotless white apron, made her a striking figure. Constance admired her openly.
"I brought her out to show you how pretty she looks," she said gayly. "Oh, haven't any of you a camera?"
This was unexpected to Edith, who became still rosier and started to retreat. Constance held her fast.
"Miss Morrison and I are going to do the russulas—that's what they were, you know—ourselves," she said. "Of course, Miss Carroway, you need not feel that you are obliged to have any of them, but you will miss something very nice if you don't."
"Well, mebbe so," agreed the old lady. "I suppose I've missed a good deal in my life by not samplin' everything that came along, but mebbe I've lived just as long by not doin' it. Isn't that Robin Farnham yonder? I haven't seen him for days."
He had come in the night before, Miss Morrison told them. He had brought a party through Indian Pass and would not go out again until morning.
Constance nodded.
"I know. They got their supper at the fall near our camp. Robin came over to call on us. He often runs over for a little while when he comes our way."
She spoke quite unconcernedly, and Robin's name came easily from her lips. The little woman in black shot a triumphant look at Miss Carroway, who did not notice the attention or declined to acknowledge it. Of the others only Edith Morrison gave any sign. The sudden knowledge that Robin had called at the Deane camp the night before—that it was his habit to do so when he passed that way—a fact which Robin himself had not thought it necessary to mention—and then the familiar use of his name—almost caressing, it had sounded to her—brought back with a rush that heavy and hopeless feeling about her heart. She wanted to be wise and sensible and generous, but she could not help catching the veranda rail a bit tighter, while the rich color faded from her cheek. Yet no one noticed, and she meant that no one, not even Robin, should know. No doubt she was a fool, unable to understand, but she could not look toward Robin, nor could she move from where she stood, holding fast to the railing, trying to be wise and as self-possessed as she felt that other girl would be in her place.
Robin, meantime, had bent his steps in their direction. In his genial manner and with his mellow voice he acknowledged the greetings of this little group of guests. He had just recalled, he said to Constance, having seen something, during a recent trip over McIntyre, which he had at first taken for a very beautiful and peculiar flower. Later he had decided it might be of special interest to her. It had a flower shape, he said, and was pink in color, but was like wax, resembling somewhat the Indian pipe, but with more open flowers and much more beautiful. He did not recall having seen anything of the sort before, and would have brought home one of the waxen blooms, only that he had been going the other way and they seemed too tender to carry. He thought it a fungus growth.
Constance was deeply interested in his information, and the description of what seemed to her a possible discovery of importance. She made him repeat the details as nearly as he could recollect, and with the book attempted to classify the species. Her failure to do so only stimulated her enthusiasm.
"I suppose you could find the place, again," she said.
"Easily. It is only a few steps from the tripod at the peak," and he drew with his pencil a plan of the spot.
"I've heard the McIntyre trail is not difficult to keep," Constance reflected.
"No—provided, of course, one does not get into a fog. It's harder then. I lost the trail myself up there once in a thick mist."
The girl turned to Frank, who was lounging comfortably on the steps, idly smoking.
"Suppose we try it this afternoon," she said.
Mr. Weatherby lifted his eyes to where Algonquin lay—its peaks among the clouds.
"It looks pretty foggy up there—besides, it will be rather late starting for a climb like that."
Miss Deane seemed a bit annoyed.
"Yes," she said, rather crossly, "it will always be too foggy, or too late, or too early for you. Do you know," she added, to the company at large, "this young man hasn't offered to climb a mountain, or to go trouting, once since he's been here. I don't believe he means to, all summer. He said the other day that mountains and streams were made for scenery—not to climb and fish in."
The company discussed this point. Miss Carroway told of a hill near Haverford which she used to climb, as a girl. Frank merely smiled good-naturedly.
"I did my climbing and fishing up here when I was a boy," he said. "I think the fish are smaller now——"
"And the mountains taller—poor, decrepit old man!"
"Well, I confess the trails do look steeper," assented Frank, mildly; "besides, with the varied bill of fare we have been enjoying these days, I don't like to get too far from Mrs. Deane's medicine chest. I should not like to be seized with the last agonies on top of a high mountain."
Miss Deane assumed a lofty and offended air.
"Never you mind," she declared; "when I want to scale a high mountain I shall engage Mr. Robin Farnham to accompany me. Can you take me this afternoon?" she added, addressing Robin.
The young man started to reply, reddened a little and hesitated. Edith, still lingering, holding fast to the veranda rail, suddenly spoke.
"He can go quite well," she said, and there was a queer inflection in her voice. "There is no reason——"
But Constance had suddenly arisen and turned to her.
"Oh, I beg your pardon!" she pleaded hastily. "He has an engagement with you, of course. I did not think—I can climb McIntyre any time. Besides, Mr. Weatherby is right. It is cloudy up there, and we would be late starting."
She went over close to Edith. The latter was pale and constrained, though she made an effort to appear cordial, repeating her assurance that Robin was quite free to go—that she really wished him to do so. Robin himself did not find it easy to speak, and Edith a moment later excused herself, on the plea that she was needed within. Constance followed her, presently, while Frank, lingering on the steps, asked Robin a few questions concerning his trip through the Pass. Of the rocking-chair circle, perhaps only the small woman in black found comfort in what had just taken place. A silence had fallen upon the little company, and it was a relief to all when the mail came and there was a reason for a general breaking-up. As usual, Frank and Constance had a table to themselves at luncheon and ate rather quietly, though the russulas, by a new recipe, were especially fine. When it was over at last they set out to explore the woods back of the Lodge.
Constance Deane had developed a definite ambition. At all events she believed it to be such, which, after all, is much the same thing in the end. It was her dream to pursue this new study of hers until she had made a definite place for herself, either as a recognized authority or by some startling discovery, in mycological annals—in fact, to become in some measure a benefactor of mankind. The spirit of unrest which had possessed her that afternoon in March, when she had lamented that the world held no place for her, had found at least a temporary outlet in this direction. We all have had such dreams as hers. They are a part of youth. Often they seem paltry enough to others—perhaps to us, as well, when the morning hours have passed by. But those men and women who have made such dreams real have given us a wiser and better world. Constance had confided something of her intention to Frank, who had at least assumed to take it seriously, following her in her wanderings—pushing through tangle and thicket and clambering over slippery logs into uncertain places for possible treasures of discovery. His reluctance to scale McIntyre, though due to the reasons given rather than to any thought of personal discomfort, had annoyed her, the more so because of the unpleasant incident which followed. There had been a truce at luncheon, but once in the woods Miss Deane did not hesitate to unburden her mind.
"Do you know," she began judicially, as if she had settled the matter in her own mind, "I have about concluded that you are hopeless, after all."
The culprit, who had just dragged himself from under a rather low-lying wet log, assumed an injured air.
"What can I have done, now?" he asked.
"It's not what you have done, but what you haven't done. You're so satisfied to be just comfortable, and——"
Frank regarded his earthy hands and soiled garments rather ruefully.
"Of course," he admitted, "I may have looked comfortable just now, rooting and pawing about in the leaves for that specimen, but I didn't really feel so."
"You know well enough what I mean," Constance persisted, though a little more pacifically. "You go with me willingly enough on such jaunts as this, where it doesn't mean any very special exertion, though sometimes I think you don't enjoy them very much. I know you would much rather drift about in a boat on the lake, or sit under a tree, and have me read to you. Do you know, I've never seen any one who cared so much for old tales of knights and their deeds of valor and strove so little to emulate them in real life."
Frank waited a little before replying. Then he said gently:
"I confess that I would rather listen to the tale of King Arthur in these woods, and as you read it, Conny, than to attempt deeds of valor on my own account. When I am listening to you and looking off through these wonderful woods I can realize and believe in it all, just as I did long ago, when I was a boy and read it for the first time. These are the very woods of romance, and I am expecting any day we shall come upon King Arthur's castle. When we do I shall join the Round Table and ride for you in the lists. Meantime I can dream it all to the sound of your voice, and when I see the people here climbing these mountains and boasting of such achievements I decide that my dream is better than their reality."
But Miss Deane's memory of the recent circumstances still rankled. She was not to be easily mollified.
"And while you dream, I am to find my reality as best I may," she said coldly.
"But, Constance," he protested, "haven't I climbed trees, and gone down into pits, and waded through swamps, and burrowed through vines and briars at your command; and haven't I more than once tasted of the things that you were not perfectly sure of, because the book didn't exactly cover the specimen? Now, here I'm told that I'm hopeless, which means that I'm a failure, when even at this moment I bear the marks of my devotion." He pointed at the knees of his trousers, damp from his recent experience. "I've done battle with nature," he went on, "and entered the lists with your detractors. You said once there are knights we do not recognize and armor we do not see. Now, don't you think you may be overlooking one of those knights, with a suit of armor a little damp at the knees, perhaps, but still stout and serviceable?"
The girl did not, as usual, respond to his gayety and banter.
"You may joke about it, if you like," she said, "but true knights, even in the garb of peasants, have been known to scale dizzy heights for a single flower. I have never known of one who refused to accompany a lady on such an errand, especially when it was up an easy mountain trail which even children have climbed."
"Then this is a notable day, for you have met two."
She nodded.
"But one was without blame, and but for the first there could not have occurred the humiliation of the second, and that, too"—she smiled in spite of herself—"in the presence of my detractors. It will be hard for you to rectify that, Sir Knight!"
There was an altered tone in the girl's voice. The humorous phase was coming nearer the surface. Frank brightened.
"Really, though," he persisted, "I was right about it's being foggy up there. Farnham would have said so, himself."
"No doubt," she agreed, "but we could have reached that conclusion later. An expressed willingness to go would have spared me and all of us what followed. As it is, Edith Morrison thinks I wanted to deprive her of Robin on his one day at home, while he was obliged to make himself appear foolish before every one."
"I wish you had as much consideration for me as you always show for Robin," said Frank, becoming suddenly aggrieved.
"And why not for Robin?" The girl's voice became sharply crisp and defiant. "Who is entitled to it more than he—a poor boy who struggled when no more than a child to earn bread for his invalid mother and little sister; who has never had a penny that he did not earn; who never would take one, but in spite of all has fought his way to recognition and respect and knowledge? Oh, you don't know how he has struggled—you who have had everything from birth—who have never known what it is not to gratify every wish, nor what it feels like to go hungry and cold that some one else might be warm and fed." Miss Deane's cheeks were aglow, and her eyes were filled with fire. "It is by such men as Robin Farnham," she went on, "that this country has been built, with all its splendid achievements and glorious institutions, and the possibilities for such fortunes as yours. Why should I not respect him, and honor him, and love him, if I want to?" she concluded, carried away by her enthusiasm.
Frank listened gravely to the end. Then he said, very gently:
"There is no reason why you should not honor and respect such a man, nor, perhaps, why you should not love him—if you want to. I am sure Robin Farnham is a very worthy fellow. But I suppose even you do not altogether realize the advantage of having been born poor——"
The girl was about to break in, but checked herself.
"Of having been born poor," he repeated, "and compelled to struggle from the beginning. It gets to be a habit, you see, a sort of groundwork for character. Perhaps—I do not say it, mind, I only say perhaps—if Robin Farnham had been born with my advantages and I with his, it might have made a difference, don't you think, in your very frank and just estimate of us to-day? I have often thought that it is a misfortune to have been born with money, but I suppose I didn't think of it soon enough, and it seems pretty late now to go back and start all over. Besides, I have no one in need to struggle for. My mother is comfortably off, and I have no little suffering sister——"
She checked him a gesture.
"Don't—oh, don't!" she pleaded. "Perhaps you are right about being poor, but that last seems mockery and sacrilege—I cannot bear it! You don't know what you are saying. You don't know, as I do, how he has gone out in the bitter cold to work, without his breakfast, because there was not enough for all, and how—because he had cooked the breakfast himself—he did not let them know. No, you do not realize—you could not!"
Mr. Weatherby regarded his companion rather wonderingly. There was something in her eyes which made them very bright. It seemed to him that her emotion was hardly justified.
"I suppose he has told you all about it," he said, rather coldly.
She turned upon him.
"He? Never! He would never tell any one! I found it out—oh, long ago—but I did not understand it all—not then."
"And the mother and sister—what became of them?"
The girl's voice steadied itself with difficulty.
"The mother died. The little girl was taken by some kind people. He was left to fight his battle alone."
Neither spoke after this, and they walked through woods that were like the mazy forests of some old tale. If there had been a momentary rancor between them it was presently dissipated in the quiet of the gold-lit greenery about them, and as they wandered on there grew about them a peace which needed no outward establishment. They held their course by a little compass, and did not fear losing their way, though it was easy enough to become confused amid those barriers of heaped bowlders and tangled logs. By and by Constance held up her hand.
"Listen," she said, "there are voices."
They halted, and a moment later Robin Farnham and Edith Morrison emerged from a natural avenue just ahead. They had followed a different way and were returning to the Lodge. Frank and Constance pushed forward to meet them.
"We have just passed a place that would interest you," said Robin to Miss Deane. "A curious shut-in place where mushrooms grow almost as if they had been planted there. We will take you to it."
Robin spoke in his usual manner. Edith, though rather quiet, appeared to have forgotten the incident of the veranda. Frank and Constance followed a little way, and then all at once they were in a spot where the air seemed heavy and chill, as though a miasma rose from the yielding soil. Thick boughs interlaced overhead, and the sunlight of summer never penetrated there. Such light as came through seemed dim and sorrowful, and there was about the spot a sinister aspect that may have been due to the black pool in the center and the fungi which grew about it. Pale, livid growths were there, shading to sickly yellow, and in every form and size. So thick were they they fairly overhung and crowded in that gruesome bed. Here a myriad of tiny stems, there great distorted shapes pushed through decaying leaves—or toppled over, split and rotting—the food of buzzing flies, thousands of which lay dead upon the ground. A sickly odor hung about the ghastly place. No one spoke at first. Then Constance said:
"I believe they are all deadly—every one." And Frank added:
"I have heard of the Devil's Garden. I think we have found it."
Edith Morrison shuddered. Perhaps the life among the hills had made her a trifle superstitious.
"Let us be going," Constance said. "Even the air of such a place may be dangerous." Then, curiosity and the collecting instinct getting the better of her, she stooped and plucked one of the yellow fungi which grew near her foot. "They seem to be all Amanitas," she added, "the most deadly of toadstools. Those paler ones areAmanita Phalloides. There is no cure for their poison. These are called the Fly Amanita because they attract flies and slay them, as you see. This yellow one is an Amanita, too—see its poison cup. I do not know its name, and we won't stop here to find it, but I think we might call it the Yellow Danger."
She dropped it into the basket and all turned their steps homeward, the two girls ahead, the men following. The unusual spot had seemed to depress them all. They spoke but little, and in hushed voices. When they emerged from the woods the sun had slipped behind the hills and a semi-twilight had fallen. Day had become a red stain in the west. Constance turned suddenly to Robin Farnham.
"I think I will ask you to row me across the lake," she said. "I am sure Mr. Weatherby will be glad to surrender the privilege. I want to ask you something more about those specimens you saw on McIntyre."
There was no hint of embarrassment in Miss Deane's manner of this request. Indeed, there was a pleasant, matter-of-fact tone in her voice that to the casual hearer would have disarmed any thought of suspicion. Yet to Edith and Frank the matter seemed ominously important. They spoke their adieus pleasantly enough, but a curious spark glittered a little in the girl's eyes and the young man's face was grave as they two watched the handsome pair down the slope, and saw them enter the Adirondack canoe and glide out on the iridescent water. Suddenly Edith turned to her companion. She was very pale and the spark had become almost a blaze.
"Mr. Weatherby," she said fiercely, "you and I are a pair of fools. You may not know it—perhaps even they do not know it, yet. But it is becoming very clear to me!"
Frank was startled by her unnatural look and tone. As he stood regarding her, he saw her eyes suddenly flood with tears. The words did not come easily either to deny or acknowledge her conclusions. Then, very gently, as one might speak to a child, he said:
"Let us not be too hasty in our judgments. Very sad mistakes have been made by being too hasty." He looked out at the little boat, now rapidly blending into the shadows of the other shore, and added—to himself, as it seemed—"I have made so little effort to be what she wished. He is so much nearer to her ideal."
He turned to say something more to the girl beside him, but she had slipped away and was already halfway to the Lodge. He followed, and then for a time sat out on the veranda, smoking, and reviewing what seemed to him now the wasted years. He recalled his old ambitions. Once they had been for the sea—the Navy. Then, when he had become associated with the college paper he had foreseen in himself the editor of some great journal, with power to upset conspiracies and to unmake kings. Presently he had begun to write—he had always dabbled in that—and his fellow-students had hailed him not only as their leader in athletic but literary pursuits. As editor-in-chief of the college paper and valedictorian of his class, he had left them at last, followed by prophecies of a career in the world of letters. Well, that was more than two years ago, and he had never picked up his pen since that day. There had been so many other things—so many places to go—so many pleasant people—so much to do that was easier than to sit down at a remote desk with pen and blank paper, when all the world was young and filled with gayer things. Then, presently, he had reasoned that there was no need of making the fight—there were too many at it, now. So the flower of ambition had faded as quickly as it had bloomed, and the blossoms of pleasure had been gathered with a careless hand. His meeting with Constance had been a part of the play-life of which he had grown so fond. Now that she had grown into his life he seemed about to lose her, because of the flower he had let die.
The young man ate his dinner silently—supplying his physical needs in the perfunctory manner of routine. He had been late coming in, and the dining-room was nearly empty. Inadvertently he approached the group gathered about the wide hall fireplace as he passed out. Miss Carroway occupied the center of this little party and, as usual, was talking. She appeared to be arranging some harmless evening amusement.
"It's always pleasant after supper," she was saying—Miss Carroway never referred to the evening meal as dinner—"to ask a few conundrums. My Charlie that I raised and is now in the electric works at Haverford used to say it helped digestion. Now, suppose we begin. I'll ask the first one, and each one will guess in turn. The first one who guesses can ask the next."
Becoming suddenly conscious of the drift of matters, Frank started to back out, silently, but Miss Carroway had observed his entrance and, turning, checked him with her eye.
"You're just in time," she said. "We haven't commenced yet. Oh, yes, you must stay. It's good for young people to have a little diversion in the evening and not go poking off alone. I am just about to ask the first conundrum. Mebbe you'll get the next. This is one that Charlie always liked. What's the difference between a fountain and the Prince of Wales? Now, you begin, Mr. Weatherby, and see if you can guess it."
The feeling was borne in upon Frank that this punishment was rather more than he could bear, and he made himself strong for the ordeal. Dutifully he considered the problem and passed it on to the little woman in black, who sat next. Miss Carroway's rival was consumed with an anxiety to cheapen the problem with a prompt answer.
"That's easy enough," she said. "One's the son of the queen, and the other's a queen of the sun. Of course," she added, "a fountain isn't really a queen of the sun, but it shines and sparkles andmightbe called that."
Miss Carroway regarded her with something of disdain.
"Yes," she said, with decision, "it might be, but it ain't. You guessed wrong. Next!"
"One's always wet, and the other's always dry," volunteered an irreverent young person outside the circle, which remark won a round of ill-deserved applause.
"You ought to come into the game," commented Miss Carroway, "but that ain't it, either."
"I'm sure it has something with 'shine' and 'line,'" ventured the young lady from Utica, who was a school-mistress, "or 'earth' and 'birth.' I know I've heard it, but I can't remember."
"Humph!" sniffed Miss Carroway, and passed it on. Nobody else ventured a definition and the problem came back to its proposer. She sat up a bit straighter, and swept the circle with her firelit glasses.
"One's thrown to the air, and the other's heir to the throne," she declared, as if pronouncing judgment. "I don't think this is much of a conundrum crowd. My Charlie would have guessed that the first time. But I'll give you one more—something easier, and mebbe older."
When at last he was permitted to go Frank made his way gloomily to his room and to bed. The day's events had been depressing. He had lost ground with Constance, whom, of late, he had been trying so hard to please. He had been willing enough, he reflected, to go up the mountain, but it really had been cloudy up there and too late to start. Then Constance had blamed him for the unpleasant incident which had followed—it seemed to him rather unjustly. Now, Edith Morrison had declared openly what he himself had been almost ready, though rather vaguely, to suspect. He had let Constance slip through his fingers after all. He groaned aloud at the thought of Constance as the wife of another. Was it, after all, too late? If he should begin now to do and dare and conquer, could he regain the lost ground? And how should he begin? Half confused with approaching sleep, his thoughts intermingled with strange fancies, that one moment led him to the mountain top where in the mist he groped for mushrooms, while the next, as in a picture, he was achieving some splendid triumph and laying the laurels at her feet. Then he was wide awake again, listening to the whisper of the trees that came through his open window and the murmur of voices from below. Presently he found himself muttering, "What is the difference between a fountain and the Prince of Wales?"—a question which immediately became a part of his perplexing sleep-waking fancies, and the answer was something which, like a boat in the mist, drifted away, just out of reach. Whatwasthe difference between a fountain and the Prince of Wales? It seemed important that he should know, and then the query became visualized in a sunlit plume of leaping water with a diadem at the top, and this suddenly changed into a great mushroom, of the color of gold, and of which some one was saying, "Don't touch it—it's the Yellow Danger." Perhaps that was Edith Morrison, for he saw her dark, handsome face just then, her eyes bright with tears and fierce with the blaze of jealousy. Then he slept.
The sun was not yet above the hills when Frank Weatherby left the Lodge next morning. He halted for a moment to procure some convenient receptacle and was supplied with a trout basket which, slung across his shoulder, gave him quite the old feeling of preparation for a day's sport, instead of merely an early trip up McIntyre. Robin Farnham was already up and away with his party, but another guide loitered about the cabin and showed a disposition to be friendly.
"Better wait till after breakfast," he said. "It don't take long to run up McIntyre and back. You'll have plenty of time."
"But it looks clear up there, now. It may be foggy, later on. Besides, I've just bribed the cook to give me a bite, so I'm not afraid of getting hungry."
The guide brought out a crumpled, rusty-looking fly-hook and a little roll of line.
"Take these," he urged. "You'll cross a brook or two where there's some trout. Mebbe you can get a few while you're resting. I'd lend you a rod if we had one here, but you can cut a switch that will do. The fish are mostly pretty small."
The sight of the gayly colored flies, the line and the feeling of the basket at his side was a combination not to be resisted. The years seemed to roll backward, and Frank felt the old eager longing to be following the tumbling, swirling water—to feel the sudden tug at the end of a drifting line.
It was a rare morning. The abundant forest was rich with every shade of green and bright with dew. Below, where the path lay, it was still dim and silent, but the earliest touch of sunrise had set the tree-tops aglow and started a bird concert in the high branches.
The McIntyre trail was not a hard one to follow. Neither was it steep for a considerable distance, and Frank strode along rapidly and without fatigue. In spite of his uneasiness of spirit the night before, he had slept the sleep of youth and health, and the smell of the morning woods, the feel of the basket at his side, the following of this fascinating trail brought him nearer to boyhood with every forward step. He would go directly to the top of the mountain, he thought, find the curious flower or fungus which Robin had seen, and on his return trip would stop at the brooks and perhaps bring home a basket of trout; after which he would find Constance and lay the whole at her feet as a proof that he was not altogether indifferent to her wishes. Also, it might be, as a token that he had renewed his old ambition to be something more than a mere lover of ease and pleasure and a dreamer of dreams.
The suspicions stirred by Edith Morrison the night before had grown dim—indeed had almost vanished in the clear glow of morning. Constance might wish to punish him—that was quite likely—though it was highly improbable that she should have selected this method. In fact, it was quite certain that any possibility of causing heartache, especially where Edith Morrison was concerned, would have been most repugnant to a girl of the character and ideals of Constance Deane. She admired Robin and found pleasure in his company. That she made no concealment of these things was the best evidence that there was nothing to be concealed. That unconsciously she and Robin were learning to care for each other, he thought most unlikely. He remembered Constance as she had seemed during the days of their meeting at Lenox, when she had learned to know, and he believed to care for him. It had never been like that. It would not be like that, now, with another. There would be no other. He would be more as she would have him—more like Robin Farnham. Why, he was beginning this very moment. Those years of idleness had dropped away. He had regarded himself as beyond the time of beginning! What nonsense! At twenty-four—full of health and the joy of living—swinging up a mountain trail to win a flower for the girl he loved, with a cavalcade of old hopes and dreams and ambitions once more riding through his heart. To-day was life. Yesterday was already with the vanished ages. Then for a moment he recalled the sorrow of Edith Morrison and resolved within him to see her immediately upon his return, to prove to her how groundless and unjust had been her conclusions. She was hardly to blame. She was only a mountain girl and did not understand. It was absurd that he, who knew so much of the world and of human nature, should have allowed himself even for a moment to be influenced by the primitive notions of this girl of the hills.
The trail grew steeper now. The young man found himself breathing a trifle quicker as he pushed upward. Sometimes he seized a limb to aid him in swinging up a rocky steep—again he parted dewy bushes that locked their branches across the way. Presently there was a sound of water falling over stones, and a moment later he had reached a brook that hurried down the mountain side, leaping and laughing as it ran. There was a narrow place and a log where the trail crossed, with a little fall and a deep pool just below it. Frank did not mean to stop for trout now, but it occurred to him to try this brook, that he might judge which was the better to fish on his return. He looked about until he found a long, slim shoot of some tough wood, and this he cut for a rod. Then he put on a bit of the line—a longer piece would not do in this little stream—and at the end he strung a short leader and two flies. It was queer, but he found his fingers trembling just a little with eagerness as he adjusted those flies; and when he held the rig at arm's length and gave it a little twitch in the old way it was not so bad, after all, he thought. As he stealthily gained the exact position where he could drop the lure on the eddy below the fall and poised the slender rod for the cast, the only earthly thing that seemed important was the placing of those two tiny bits of gimp and feathers just on that spot where the water swirled under the edge of the black overhanging rock. Gently, now—so. A quick flash, a swish, a sharp thrilling tug, an instinctive movement of the wrist, and something was leaping and glancing on the pebbles below—something dark and golden and gayly red-spotted—something which no man who has ever trailed a brook can see without a quickening heart—a speckled trout! Certainly it was but a boy who leaped down and disentangled the captured fish and held it joyously for a moment, admiring its markings and its size before dropping it into the basket at his side.
"Pretty good for such a little brook," he said aloud. "I wonder if there are many like that."
He made another cast, but without result.
"I've frightened them," he thought. "I came lumbering down like a duffer. Besides, they can see me, here."
He turned and followed the stream with his eye. It seemed a succession of falls and fascinating pools, and the pools grew even larger and more enticing. He could not resist trying just once more, and when another goodly trout was in his creel and then another, all else in life became hazy in the joy of following that stream from fall to fall and from pool to pool—of dropping those gay little flies just in the particular spot which would bring that flash and swish, that delightful tug, and the gayly speckled capture that came glancing to his feet. Why not do his fishing now, in these morning hours when the time was right? Later, the sport might be poor, or none at all. At this rate he could soon fill his creel and then make his way up the mountain. He halted a moment to line the basket with damp moss and water grasses to keep his catch fresh. Then he put aside every other purpose for the business of the moment, creeping around bushes, or leaping from stone to stone—sometimes slipping to his knees in the icy water, caring not for discomfort or bruises—heedless of everything except the zeal of pursuit and the zest of capture—the glory of the bright singing water, spilling from pool to pool—the filtering sunlight—the quiring birds—the resinous smell of the forest—all the things which lure the feet of young men over the paths trod by their fathers in the long-forgotten days.
The stream widened. The pools grew deeper and the trout larger as he descended. Soon he decided to keep only the larger fish. All others he tossed back as soon as taken. Then there came a break ahead and presently the brook pitched over a higher fall than any he had passed, into a larger stream—almost a river. A great regret came upon the young man as he viewed this fine water that rushed and swirled among a thousand bowlders, ideal stepping stones with ideal pools below. Oh, now, for a rod and reel, with a length of line to cast far ahead into those splendid pools!
The configuration of the land caused this larger stream to pursue a course around, rather than down the mountain side, and Frank decided that he could follow it for a distance, and then, with the aid of his compass, strike straight for the mountain top without making his way back up stream.
But first he must alter his tackle. He looked about and presently cut a much longer and stronger rod and lengthened his line accordingly. Then he made his way among the bowlders and began to whip the larger pools. Cast after cast resulted in no return. He began to wonder, after all, if it would not be a mistake to fish this larger and less fruitful stream. But suddenly there came a great gleam of light where his flies fell, and though the fish failed to strike, Frank's heart gave a leap, for he knew now that in this water—though they would be fewer in number—there were trout which were well worth while. He cast again over the dark, foamy pool, and this time the flash was followed by such a tug as at first made him fear that his primitive tackle might not hold. Oh, then he longed for a reel and a net. This was a fish that could not be lightly lifted out, but must be worked to a landing place and dragged ashore. Holding the line taut, he looked for such a spot, and selecting the shallow edge of a flat stone, drew his prize nearer and nearer—drawing in the rod itself, hand over hand, and finally the line until the struggling, leaping capture was in his hands. This was something like! This was sport, indeed! There was no thought now of turning back. To carry home even a few fish, taken with such a tackle, would redeem him for many shortcomings in Constance's eyes. He was sorry now that he had kept any of the smaller fry.
He followed down the stream, stepping from bowlder to bowlder, casting as he went. Here and there trout rose, but they were old and wary and hesitated to strike. He got another at length, somewhat smaller than the first, and lost still another which he thought was larger than either. Then for a considerable distance he whipped the most attractive water without reward, changing his flies at length, but to no purpose.
"It must be getting late," he reflected aloud, and for the first time thought of looking at his watch. He was horrified to find that it was nearly eleven o'clock, by which time he had expected to have reached the top of McIntyre and to have been well on his way back to the Lodge. He must start at once, for the climb would be long and rough here, out of the regular trail.
Yet he paused to make one more cast, over a black pool where there was a fallen log, and bubbles floating on the surface. His arm had grown tired swinging the heavy green rod and his aim was poor. The flies struck a little twig and hung there, dangling in the air. A twitch and they were free and had dropped to the surface of the water. Yet barely to reach it. For in that instant a wave rolled up and divided—a great black-and-gold shape made a porpoise leap into the air. The lower fly disappeared, and an instant later Frank was gripping the tough green rod with both hands, while the water and trees and sky blended and swam before him in the intensity of the struggle to hold and to keep holding that black-and-gold monster at the other end of the tackle—to keep him from getting back under that log—from twisting the line around a limb—in a word, to prevent him from regaining freedom. It would be lunacy to drag this fish ashore by force. The line or the fly would certainly give way, even if the rod would stand. Indeed, when he tried to work his capture a little nearer, it held so like a rock that he believed for a moment the line was already fast. But then came a sudden rush to the right and another stand, and to the left—with a plunge for depth—and with each of these rushes Frank's heart stood still, for he felt that against the power of this monster his tackle could not hold. Every nerve and fiber in his body seemed to concentrate on the slow-moving point of dark line where the tense strand touched the water. A little this way or that it swung—perhaps yielded a trifle or drew down a bit as the great fish in its battle for life gave an inch only to begin a still fiercer struggle in this final tug of war. To all else the young man was oblivious. A bird dropped down on a branch and shouted at him—he did not hear it. A cloud swept over the sun—he did not see it. Life, death, eternity mattered nothing. Only that moving point of line mattered—only the thought that the powerful, unconquered shape below might presently go free.
And then—inch by inch it seemed—the steady wrist and the crude tackle began to gain advantage, the monster of black and gold was forced to yield. Scarcely breathing, Frank watched the point of the line, inch by inch, draw nearer to a little pebbly shore that ran down, where, if anywhere, he could land his prey. Once, indeed, the great fellow came to the surface, then, seeing his captor, made a fierce dive and plunged into a wild struggle, during which hope almost died. Another dragging toward the shore, another struggle and yet another, each becoming weaker and less enduring, until lo, there on the pebbles, gasping and striking with his splendid tail, lay the conquered king of fish. It required but an instant for the captor to pounce upon him and to secure him with a piece of line through his gills, and this he replaced with a double willow branch which he could tie together and to the basket, for this fish was altogether too large to go inside. Exhausted and weak from the struggle, Frank sat down to contemplate his capture and to regain strength before starting up the mountain. Five pounds, certainly, this fish weighed, he thought, and he tenderly regarded the fly that had lured it to the death, and carefully wound up the cheap bit of line that had held true. No such fish had been brought to the Lodge, and then, boy that he was, he thought how proud he should be of his triumph, and with what awe Constance would regard his skill in its capture. And in that moment it was somehow borne in upon him that with this battle and this victory there had come in truth the awakening—that the indolent, luxury-loving man had become as a sleep-walker of yesterday who would never cross the threshold of to-day.
A drop of water on his hand aroused him. The sun had disappeared—the sky was overcast—there was rain in the air. He must hurry, he thought, and get up the mountain and away, before the storm. He could not see the peak, for here the trees were tall and thick, but he knew his direction by the compass and by the slope of the land. From the end of his late rod he cut a walking stick and set out as rapidly as he could make his way through brush and vines, up the mountain-side.
But it was toilsome work. The mountain became steeper, the growth thicker, his load of fish weighed him down. He was almost tempted to retrace his way up the river and brook to the trail, but was loath to consume such an amount of time when it seemed possible to reach the peak by a direct course. Then it became darker in the woods, and the bushes seemed damp with moisture. He wondered if he was entering a fog that had gathered on the mountain top, and, once there, if he could find what he sought. Only the big fish, swinging at his side and dragging in the leaves as he crept through underbrush, gave him comfort in what was rapidly becoming an unpleasant and difficult undertaking. Presently he was reduced to climbing hand over hand, clinging to bushes and bracing his feet as best he might. All at once, he was face to face with a cliff which rose sheer for sixty feet or more and which it seemed impossible to ascend. He followed it for a distance and came at last to where a heavy vine dropped from above, and this made a sort of ladder, by which, after a great deal of clinging and scrambling, he managed to reach the upper level, where he dropped down to catch breath, only to find, when he came to look for his big fish, that somehow in the upward struggle it had broken loose from the basket and was gone. It was most disheartening.
"If I were not a man I would cry," he said, wearily—then peering over the cliff he was overjoyed to see the lost fish hanging not far below, suspended by the willow loop he had made.
So then he climbed down carefully and secured it, and struggled back again, this time almost faint with weariness, but happy in regaining his treasure. And now he realized that a fog was indeed upon the mountain. At the foot of the cliff and farther down the air seemed clear enough, but above him objects only a few feet distant were lost in a white mist, while here and there a drop as of rain struck in the leaves. It would not do to waste time. A storm might be gathering, and a tempest, or even a chill rain on the top of McIntyre was something to be avoided. He rose, and climbing, stooping, crawling, struggled toward the mountain-top. The timber became smaller, the tangle closer, the white mist thickened. Often he paused from sheer exhaustion. Once he thought he heard some one call. But listening there came only silence, and staggering to his feet he struggled on.
It was several hours after Frank Weatherby had set out on the McIntyre trail—when the sun had risen to a point where it came mottling through the tree-tops and dried the vines and bushes along the fragrant, yielding path below—that a girl came following in the way which led up the mountain top. She wore a stout outing costume—short skirt and blouse, heavy boots, and an old felt school hat pinned firmly to luxuriant dark hair. On her arm she carried the basket of many wanderings, and her step was that of health and strength and purpose. One watching Constance Deane unawares—noting her carriage and sureness of foot, the easy grace with which she overcame the various obstructions in her path—might have said that she belonged by right to these woods, was a part of them, and one might have added that she was a perfect flowering of this splendid forest.
On the evening before, she had inquired of Robin the precise entrance to the McIntyre trail, and with his general directions she had no hesitation now in setting out on her own account to make the climb which would bring her to the coveted specimens at the mountain top. She would secure them with the aid of no one and so give Frank an exhibition of her independence, and perhaps impress him a little with his own lack of ambition and energy. She had avoided the Lodge, making her way around the lake to the trail, and had left no definite word at home as to her destination, for it was quite certain that Mrs. Deane would worry if it became known that Constance had set off up the mountain alone. Yet she felt thoroughly equal to the undertaking. In her basket she carried some sandwiches, and she had no doubt of being able to return to the Lodge during the afternoon, where she had a certain half-formed idea of finding Frank disconsolately waiting—a rather comforting—even if pathetic—picture of humiliation.
Constance did not linger at the trout-brook which had enticed Frank from the narrow upward path, save to dip up a cold drink with the little cup she carried, and to rest up a moment and watch the leaping water as it foamed and sang down the natural stairway which led from one mystery in the dark vistas above to another mystery and wider vistas below—somehow, at last, to reach that deeper and vaster and more impenetrable mystery—the sea. She recalled some old German lines beginning, "Du Bachlein, silberhell und klar," and then she remembered having once recited them to Frank, and how he had repeated them in an English translation: