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CHAPTER IV
A BRIEF LECTURE AND SOME INTRODUCTIONS
The outside of Spruce Lodge suggested to Frank the Anglo-Saxon castle of five or six hundred years ago, though it was probably better constructed than most of the castles of that early day. It was really an immense affair, and there were certain turrets and a tower which carried out the feudal idea. Its builder, John Morrison, had been a faithful reader of Scott, and the architecture of the Lodge had in some manner been an expression of his romantic inclination. Frank thought, however, that the feudal Saxon might not have had the long veranda facing the little jewel of a lake, where were mirrored the mountains that hemmed it in. With Constance he sat on the comfortable steps, looking through the tall spruces at the water or at mountain peaks that seemed so near the blue that one might step from them into the cloudland of an undiscovered country.
No one was about for the moment, the guests having collected in the office for the distribution of the daily mail. Robin had gone, too, striding away toward a smaller cabin where the guides kept their paraphernalia. Frank said:
"You don't know how glad I am to be here with you in this wonderful place, Conny. I have never seen anything so splendid as this forest, and I was simply desperate in town as soon as you were gone."
She had decided not to let him call her that again, but concluded to overlook this offense. She began arranging the contents of her basket on the step beside her – a gay assortment of toadstools gathered during her morning walk.
"You see what I have been doing," she said. "I don't suppose it will interest you in the least, but to me it is a fascinating study. Perhaps if I pursue it I may contribute something to the world's knowledge and to its food supply."
Frank regarded the variegated array with some solemnity.
"I hope, Conny, you don't mean to eat any of those," he said.
"Probably not; but see how beautiful they are."
They were indeed beautiful, for no spot is more rich in fungi of varied hues than the Adirondack woods. There were specimens ranging from pale to white, from cream to lemon yellow – pink that blended into shades of red and scarlet – gray that deepened to blue and even purple – numerous shades of buff and brown, and some of the mottled coloring. Some were large, almost gigantic; some tiny ones were like bits of ivory or coral. Frank evinced artistic enthusiasm, but a certain gastronomic reserve.
"Wonderful!" he said. "I did not suppose there were such mushrooms in the world – so beautiful. I know now what the line means which says, 'How beautiful is death.'"
There was a little commotion just then at the doorway of the Lodge, and a group of guests – some with letters, others with looks of resignation or disappointment – appeared on the veranda. From among them, Mrs. Deane, a rather frail, nervous woman, hurried toward Mr. Weatherby with evident pleasure. She had been expecting him, she declared, though Constance had insisted that he would think twice before he started once for that forest isolation. They would be in their own quarters in a few days, and it would be just a pleasant walk over there. There were no hard hills to climb. Mr. Deane walked over twice a day. He was there now, overseeing repairs. The workmen were very difficult.
"But there are some hills, Mamma," interposed Constance – "little ones. Perhaps Mr. Weatherby won't care to climb at all. He has already declared against my mushrooms. He said something just now about their fatal beauty – I believe that was it. He's like all the rest of you – opposed to the cause of science."
Mrs. Deane regarded the young man appealingly.
"Try to reason with her," she said nervously. "Perhaps she'll listen to you. She never will to me. I tell her every day that she will poison herself. She's always tasting of new kinds. She's persuaded me to eat some of those she had cooked, and I've sent to New York for every known antidote for mushroom poisoning. It's all right, perhaps, to study them and collect them, but when it comes to eating them to prove that the book is right about their being harmless, it seems like flying in the face of Providence. Besides, Constance is careless."
"I remember her telling me, as reason for not wanting to be a doctor, something about giving you the wrong medicine last winter."
"She did – some old liniment – I can taste the stuff yet. Constance, I do really think it's sinful for you to meddle with such uncertain subjects. Just think of eating any of those gaudy things. Constance! How can you?"
Constance patted the nervous little lady on the cheek.
"Be comforted," she said. "I am not going to eat these. I brought them for study. Most of them are harmless enough, I believe, but they are of a kind that even experts are not always sure of. They are called Boleti– almost the first we have found. I have laid them out here for display, just as the lecturer did last week at Lake Placid."
Miss Deane selected one of the brightly colored specimens.
"This," she began, with mock gravity and a professional air, "is a Boletus– known as Boletus speciosus– that is, I think it is." She opened the book and ran hastily over the leaves. "Yes, speciosus– either that or the bicolor– I can't be certain just which."
"There, Constance," interrupted Mrs. Deane, "you confess, yourself, you can't tell the difference. Now, how are we going to know when we are being poisoned? We ate some last night. Perhaps they were deadly poison – how can we know?"
"Be comforted, Mamma; we are still here."
"But perhaps the poison hasn't begun to work yet."
"It should have done so, according to the best authorities, some hours ago. I have been keeping watch of the time."
Mrs. Deane groaned.
"The best authorities? Oh, dear – oh, dear! Are there really any authorities in this awful business? And she has been watching the time for the poison to work – think of it!"
A little group of guests collected to hear the impromptu discussion. Frank, half reclining on the veranda steps, ran his eye over the assembly. For the most part they seemed genuine seekers after recreation and rest in this deep forest isolation. There were brain-workers among them – painters and writer folk. Some of the faces Frank thought he recognized. In the foreground was a rather large woman of the New England village type. She stood firmly on her feet, and had a wide, square face, about which the scanty gray locks were tightly curled. She moved closer now, and leaning forward, spoke with judicial deliberation.
"Them's tudstools!" she said – a decision evidently intended to be final. She adjusted her glasses a bit more carefully and bent closer to the gay collection. "The' ain't a single one of 'em a mushroom," she proceeded. "We used to have 'em grow in our paster, an' my little nephew, Charlie, that I brought up by hand and is now in the electric works down to Haverford, he used to gather 'em, an' they wa'n't like them at all."
A ripple of appreciation ran through the group, and others drew near to inspect the fungi. Constance felt it necessary to present Frank to those nearest, whom she knew. He arose to make acknowledgments. With the old lady, whose name, it appeared, was Miss Carroway, he shook hands. She regarded him searchingly.
"You're some taller than my Charlie," she said, and added, "I hope you don't intend to eat them tudstools, do you? Charlie wouldn't a et one o' them kind fer a thousand dollars. He knew the reel kind that grows in the medders an' pasters."
Constance took one of Miss Carroway's hands and gave it a friendly squeeze.
"You are spoiling my lecture," she laughed, "and aiding Mamma in discrediting me before the world. I will tell you the truth about mushrooms. Not the whole truth, but an important one. All toadstools are mushrooms and all mushrooms are toadstools. A few kinds are poisonous – not many. Most of them are good to eat. The only difficulty lies in telling the poison ones."
Miss Carroway appeared interested, but incredulous. Constance continued.
"The sort your Charlie used to gather was the Agaricus Campestris, or meadow mushroom – one of the commonest and best. It has gills underneath – not pores, like this one. The gills are like little leaves and hold the spores, or seed as we might call it. The pores of this Boletus do the same thing. You see they are bright yellow, while the top is purple-red. The stem is yellow, too. Now, watch!"
She broke the top of the Boletus in two parts – the audience pressing closer to see. The flesh within was lemon color, but almost instantly, with exposure to the air, began to change, and was presently a dark blue. Murmurs of wonder ran through the group. They had not seen this marvel before.
"Bravo!" murmured Frank. "You are beginning to score."
"Many of the Boleti do that," Constance resumed. "Some of them are very bad tasting, even when harmless. Some are poisonous. One of them, the Satanus, is regarded as deadly. I don't think this is one of them, but I shall not insist on Miss Carroway and the rest of you eating it."
Miss Carroway sent a startled glance at the lecturer and sweepingly included the assembled group.
"Eat it!" she exclaimed. "Eat that? Well, I sh'd think not! I wouldn't eat that, ner let any o' my folks eat it, fer no money!"
There was mirth among the audience. A young mountain climber in a moment of recklessness avowed his faith by declaring that upon Miss Deane's recommendation he would eat the whole assortment for two dollars.
"You'd better make it enough for funeral expenses," commented Miss Carroway; whereupon the discussion became general and hilarious, and the extempore lecture ceased.
"You see," Constance said to Frank, "I cannot claim serious attention, even upon so vital a subject as the food supply."
"But you certainly entertained them, and I, for one, have a growing respect for your knowledge." Then, rising, he added, "Speaking of food reminds me that you probably have some sort of midday refreshment here, and that I would better arrange for accommodations and make myself presentable. By the way, Constance," lowering his voice, "I saw a striking-looking girl on the veranda as we were approaching the house a while ago. I don't think you noticed her, but she had black eyes and a face like an Indian princess. She came out for a moment again, while you were talking. I thought she rather looked as if she belonged here, but she couldn't have been a servant."
They had taken a little turn down the long veranda, and Constance waited until they were well out of earshot before she said:
"You are perfectly right – she could not. She is the daughter of Mr. Morrison, who owns the Lodge – Edith Morrison – her father's housekeeper. I shall present you at the first opportunity so that you may lose no time falling in love with her. It will do you no good, though, for she is going to marry Robin Farnham. The wedding will not take place, of course, until Robin is making his way, but it is all settled, and they are both very happy."
"And quite properly," commented Frank with enthusiasm. "I heard something about it coming over. Mr. Meelie told me. He said they were a handsome pair. I fully agree with him." The young man smiled down at his companion and added: "Do you know, Conny, if that young man Farnham were unencumbered, I might expect you to do some falling in love, yourself."
The girl laughed, rather more than seemed necessary, Frank thought, and an added touch of color came into her cheeks.
"I did that years ago," she owned. "I think as much of Robin already as I ever could." Then, less lightly, "Besides, I should not like to be a rival of Edith Morrison's. She is a mountain girl, with rather primitive ideas. I do not mean that she is in any sense a savage or even uncultured. Far from it. Her father is a well-read man for his opportunities. They have a good many books here, and Edith has learned the most of them by heart. Last winter she taught school. But she has the mountains in her blood, and in that black hair and those eyes of hers. Only, of course, you do not quite know what that means. The mountains are fierce, untamed, elemental – like the sea. Such things get into one's blood and never entirely go away. Of course, you don't quite understand."
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.
CHAPTER V
A FLOWER ON A MOUNTAIN TOP
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 with some 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.
