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THE LUCKY PIECE
A TALE OF THE NORTH WOODS
BY ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE
AUTHOR OF "THE VAN DWELLERS," "THE BREAD LINE," "THE GREAT WHITE WAY,"
ETC.
_FRONTISPIECE IN COLOR_
NEW YORK
THE OUTING PUBLISHING COMPANY
1906
COPYRIGHT, 1906, BY
THE OUTING PUBLISHING COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1905, BY
THE BUTTERICK PUBLISHING COMPANY
_This Edition Published March, 1906_
[Illustration: _He climbed down carefully and secured his treasure._]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
PROLOGUE 1
1 BUT PALADINS RIDE FAR BETWEEN 6
2 OUT IN THE BLOWY WET WEATHER 18
3 THE DEEP WOODS OF ENCHANTMENT 34
4 A BRIEF LECTURE AND SOME INTRODUCTIONS 48
5 A FLOWER ON A MOUNTAIN TOP 66
6 IN THE "DEVIL'S GARDEN" 80
7 THE PATH THAT LEADS BACK TO BOYHOOD 99
8 WHAT CAME OUT OF THE MIST 115
9 A SHELTER IN THE FOREST 134
10 THE HERMIT'S STORY 148
11 DURING THE ABSENCE OF CONSTANCE 166
12 CONSTANCE RETURNS AND HEARS A STORY 183
13 WHAT THE SMALL WOMAN IN BLACK SAW 193
14 WHAT MISS CARROWAY DID 208
15 EDITH AND FRANK 219
16 THE LUCKY PIECE 233
EPILOGUE 250
THE LUCKY PIECE
PROLOGUE
There is a sharp turn just above the hill. The North Elba stage
sometimes hesitates there before taking the plunge into the valley
below.
But this was late September. The morning was brisk, the mountains
glorified, the tourists were going home. The four clattering, snorting
horses swung into the turn and made straight for the brow--the stout,
ruddy-faced driver holding hard on the lines, but making no further
effort to check them. Then the boy in the front seat gave his usual
"Hey! look there!" and, the other passengers obeying, as they always
did, saw something not especially related to Algonquin, or Tahawus, or
Whiteface--the great mountains whose slopes were ablaze with autumn,
their peaks already tipped with snow--that was not, indeed, altogether
Adirondack scenery. Where the bend came, at the brink, a little
weather-beaten cottage cornered--a place with apple trees and some
faded summer flowers. In the road in front was a broad flat stone, and
upon it a single figure--a little girl of not more than eight--her arm
extended toward the approaching stage, in her hand a saucer of berries.
The tourists had passed a number of children already, but this one was
different. The others had been mostly in flocks--soiled, stringy-haired
little mountaineers, who had gathered to see the stage go by. The
smooth, oval face of this child, rich under the tan, was clean, the dark
hair closely brushed--her dress a simple garment, though of a fashion
unfavored by the people of the hills. All this could be comprehended in
the brief glance allowed the passengers; also the deep wistful look
which followed them as the stage whirled by without stopping.
A lady in the back seat (she had been in Italy) murmured something about
a "child Madonna." Another said, "Poor little thing!"
But the boy in the front seat had caught the driver's arm and was
demanding that he stop the stage.
"I want to get out!" he repeated, with determination. "I want to buy
those berries! Stop!"
The driver could not stop just there, even had he wished to do so,
which he did not. They were already a third of the way down, and the
hill was a serious matter. So the boy leaned out, looking back, to make
sure the moment's vision had not faded, and when the stage struck level
ground, was out and running, long before the horses had been brought to
a stand-still.
"You wait for me!" he commanded. "I'll be back in a second!" Then he
pushed rapidly up the long hill, feeling in his pockets as he ran.
The child had not moved from her place, and stood curiously regarding
the approaching boy. He was considerably older than she was, as much as
six years. Her wistful look gave way to one of timidity as he came near.
She drew the saucer of berries close to her and looked down. Then,
puffing and panting, he stood there, still rummaging in his pockets, and
regaining breath for words.
"Say," he began, "I want your berries, you know, only, you see, I--I
thought I had some money, but I haven't--not a cent--only my lucky
piece. My mother's in the stage and I could get it from her, but I don't
want to go back." He made a final, wild, hopeless search through a
number of pockets, looking down, meanwhile, at the little bowed figure
standing mutely before him. "Look here," he went on, "I'm going to give
you my lucky piece. Maybe it'll bring luck to you, too. It did to me--I
caught an awful lot of fish up here this summer. But you mustn't spend
it or give it away, 'cause some day when I come back up here I'll want
it again. You keep it for me--that's what you do. Keep it safe. When I
come back, I'll give you anything you like for it. Whatever you
want--only you must keep it. Will you?"
He held out the worn Spanish silver piece which a school chum had given
him "for luck" when they had parted in June. But the little brown hand
clung to the berries and made no effort to take it.
"Oh, you must take it," he said. "I should lose it anyway. I always lose
things. You can take care of it for me. Likely I'll be up again next
year. Anyway, I'll come some time, and when I do I'll give you whatever
you like in exchange for it."
She did not resist when he took the berries and poured them into his
cap. Then the coin was pushed into one of her brown hands and he was
pressing her fingers tightly upon it. When she dared to look up, he had
called, "Good-bye!" and was halfway down the hill, the others looking
out of the stage, waving him to hurry.
She watched him, saw him climb in with the driver and fling his hand
toward her as the stage rounded into the wood and disappeared. Still she
did not move, but watched the place where it had vanished, as if she
thought it might reappear, as if presently that sturdy boy might come
hurrying up the hill. Then slowly--very slowly, as if she held some
living object that might escape--she unclosed her hand and looked at the
treasure within, turning it over, wondering at the curious markings. The
old look came into her face again, but with it an expression which had
not been there before. It was some hint of responsibility, of awakening.
Vaguely she felt that suddenly and by some marvelous happening she had
been linked with a new and wonderful world. All at once she turned and
fled through the gate, to the cottage.
"Mother!" she cried at the door, "Oh, Mother! Something has happened!"
and, flinging herself into the arms of the faded woman who sat there,
she burst into a passion of tears.
CHAPTER I
BUT PALADINS RIDE FAR BETWEEN
Frank rose and, plunging his hands into his pockets, lounged over to the
wide window and gazed out on the wild March storm which was drenching
and dismaying Fifth Avenue. A weaving throng of carriages, auto-cars and
delivery wagons beat up and down against it, were driven by it from
behind, or buffeted from many directions at the corners. Coachmen,
footmen and drivers huddled down into their waterproofs; pedestrians
tried to breast the rain with their umbrellas and frequently lost them.
From where he stood the young man could count five torn and twisted
derelicts soaking in gutters. They seemed so very wet--everything did.
When a stage--that relic of another day--lumbered by, the driver on top,
only half sheltered by his battered oil-skins, seemed wetter and more
dismal than any other object. It all had an art value, certainly, but
there were pleasanter things within. The young man turned to the
luxurious room, with its wide blazing fire and the young girl who sat
looking into the glowing depths.
"Do you know, Constance," he said, "I think you are a bit hard on me."
Then he drifted into a very large and soft chair near her, and,
stretching out his legs, stared comfortably into the fire as if the fact
were no such serious matter, after all.
The girl smiled quietly. She had a rich oval face, with a deep look in
her eyes, at once wistful and eager, and just a bit restless, as if
there were problems there among the coals--questions she could not
wholly solve.
"I did not think of it in that way," she said, "and you should not call
me Constance, not now, and you are Mr. Weatherby. I do not know how we
ever began--the other way. I was only a girl, of course, and did not
know America so well, or realize--a good many things."
The young man stirred a little without looking up.
"I know," he assented; "I realize that six months seems a long period to
a--to a young person, and makes a lot of difference, sometimes. I
believe you have had a birthday lately."
"Yes, my eighteenth--my majority. That ought to make a difference."
"Mine didn't to me. I'm just about the same now as I was then, and----"
"As you always will be. That is just the trouble."
"I was going to say, as I always had been."
"Which would not be true. You were different, as a boy."
"And who gave you that impression, pray?"
The girl flushed a little.
"I mean, you must have been," she added, a trifle inconsequently. "Boys
always are. You had ambitions, then."
"Well, yes, and I gratified them. I wanted to be captain of my college
team, and I was. We held the championship as long as I held the place. I
wanted to make a record in pole-vaulting, and I did. It hasn't been
beaten since. Then I wanted the Half-mile Cup, and I won that, too. I
think those were my chief aspirations when I entered college, and when I
came out there were no more worlds to conquer. Incidentally I carried
off the honors for putting into American some of Mr. Horace's justly
popular odes, edited the college paper for a year, and was valedictorian
of the class. But those were trivial things. It was my prowess that
gave me standing and will remain one of the old school's traditions long
after this flesh has become dust."
The girl's eyes had grown brighter as he recounted his achievements. She
could not help stealing a glance of admiration at the handsome fellow
stretched out before her, whose athletic deeds had made him honored
among his kind. Then she smiled.
"Perhaps you were a pillar of modesty, too," she commented, "once."
He laughed--a gentle, lazy laugh in which she joined--and presently she
added:
"Of course, I know you did those things. That is just it. You could do
anything, and be anything, if you only would. Oh, but you don't seem to
care! You seem satisfied, comfortable and good-naturedly indifferent; if
you were poor, I should say idle--I suppose the trouble is there. You
have never been poor and lonely and learned to want things. So, of
course, you never learned to care for--for anything."
Her companion leaned toward her--his handsome face full of a light that
was not all of the fire.
"I have, for you," he whispered.
The girl's face lighted, too. Her eyes seemed to look into some golden
land which she was not quite willing to enter.
"No," she demurred gently. "I am not sure of that. Let us forget about
that. As you say, a half-year has been a long time--to a child. I had
just come from abroad then with my parents, and I had been most of the
time in a school where girls are just children, no matter what their
ages. When we came home, I suppose I did not know just what to do with
my freedom. And then, you see, Father and Mother liked you, and let you
come to the house, and when I first saw you and knew you--when I got to
know you, I mean--I was glad to have you come, too. Then we rode and
drove and golfed all those days about Lenox--all those days--your memory
is poor, very poor, but you may recall those October days, last year,
when I had just come home--those days, you know----"
Again the girl's eyes were looking far into a fair land which queens
have willingly died to enter, while the young man had pulled his chair
close, as one eager to lead her across the border.
"No," she went on--speaking more to herself than to him, "I am older,
now--ages older, and trying to grow wise, and to see things as they are.
Riding, driving and golfing are not all of life. Life is serious--a sort
of battle, in which one must either lead or follow or merely look on.
You were not made to follow, and I could not bear to have you look on. I
always thought of you as a leader. During those days at Lenox you seemed
to me a sort of king, or something like that, at play. You see I was
just a schoolgirl with ideals, keeping the shield of Launcelot bright. I
had idealized him so long--the one I should meet some day. It was all
very foolish, but I had pictured him as a paladin in armor, who would
have diversions, too, but who would lay them aside to go forth and
redress wrong. You see what a silly child I was, and how necessary it
was for me to change when I found that I had been dreaming, that the one
I had met never expected to conquer or do battle for a cause--that the
diversions were the end and sum of his desire, with maybe a little
love-making as a part of it all."
"A little--" Her companion started to enter protest, but did not
continue. The girl was staring into the fire as she spoke and seemed
only to half remember his existence. For the most part he had known her
as one full of the very joy of living, given to seeing life from its
cheerful, often from its humorous, side. Yet he knew her to be volatile,
a creature of moods. This one, which he had learned to know but lately,
would pass. He watched her, a little troubled yet fascinated by it all,
his whole being stirred by the charm of her presence.
"One so strong--so qualified--should lead," she continued slowly, "not
merely look on. Oh, if I were a man I should lead--I should ride to
victory! I should be a--a--I do not know what," she concluded
helplessly, "but I should ride to victory."
He restrained any impulse he may have had to smile, and presently said,
rather quietly:
"I suppose there are avenues of conquest to-day, as there were when the
world was young. But I am afraid they are so crowded with the rank and
file that paladins ride few and far between. You know," he added, more
lightly, "knight-errantry has gone out of fashion, and armor would be a
clumsy thing to wear--crossing Broadway, for instance."
She laughed happily--her sense of humor was never very deeply buried.
"I know," she nodded, "we do not meet many Galahads these days, and most
of the armor is make-believe, yet I am sure there are knights whom we do
not recognize, with armor which we do not see."
The young man sat up a bit straighter in his chair and assumed a more
matter-of-fact tone.
"Suppose we put aside allegory," he said, "and discuss just how you
think a man--myself, for instance--could set the world afire--make it
wiser and better, I mean."
The embers were dying down, and she looked into them a little longer
before replying. Then, presently:
"Oh, if I were only a man!" she repeated. "There is so much--so many
things--for a man to do. Discovery, science, feats of engineering, the
professions, the arts, philanthropy--oh, everything! And for us, so
little!"
A look of amusement grew about the young man's mouth. He had seen much
more of the world than she; was much older in a manner not reckoned by
years.
"We do not monopolize it all, you know. Quite a few women are engaged
in the professions and philanthropy; many in the arts."
"The arts, yes, but I am without talent. I play because I have been
taught, and because I have practiced--oh, so hard! But God never
intended that the world should hear me. I love painting and literature,
and all those things. But I cannot create them. I can only look on. I
have thought of the professions--I have thought a great deal about
medicine and the law. But I am afraid those would not do, either. I
cannot understand law papers, even the very simple ones Father has tried
to explain to me. And I am not careful enough with medicines--I almost
poisoned poor Mamma last week with something that looked like her
headache drops and turned out to be a kind of preparation for bruises.
Besides, somehow I never can quite see myself as a lawyer in court, or
going about as a doctor. Lawyers always have to go to court, don't they?
I am afraid I should be so confused, and maybe be arrested. They arrest
lawyers don't they, sometimes?"
"They should," admitted the young man, "more often than they do. I don't
believe you ought to take the risk, at any rate. I somehow can't think
of you either as a lawyer or a doctor. Those things don't seem to fit
you."
"That's just it. Nothing fits me. Oh, I am not even as much as I seem to
be, yet can be nothing else!" she burst out rather incoherently, then
somewhat hastily added: "There is philanthropy, of course. I could do
good, I suppose, and Father would furnish the money. But I could never
undertake things. I should just have to follow, and contribute. Some one
would always have to lead. Some one who could go among people and
comprehend their needs, and know how to go to work to supply them. I
should do the wrong thing and make trouble----"
"And maybe get arrested----"
They laughed together. They were little more than children, after all.
"I know there _are_ women who lead in such things," she went on. "They
come here quite often, and Father gives them a good deal. But they
always seem so self-possessed and capable. I stand in awe of them, and I
always wonder how they came to be made so wise and brave, and why most
of us are so different. I always wonder."
The young man regarded her very tenderly.
"I am glad you are different," he said earnestly. "My mother is a
little like that, and of course I think the world of her. Still, I am
glad you are different."
He leaned over and lifted an end of log with the tongs. A bright blaze
sprang up, and for a while they watched it without speaking. It seemed
to Frank Weatherby that nothing in the world was so worth while as to be
there near her--to watch her there in the firelight that lingered a
little to bring out the rich coloring of her rare young face, then
flickered by to glint among the deep frames along the wall, to lose
itself at last amid the heavy hangings. He was careful not to renew
their discussion, and hoped she had forgotten it. There had been no talk
of these matters during their earlier acquaintance, when she had but
just returned with her parents from a long sojourn abroad. That had been
at Lenox, where they had filled the autumn season with happy recreation,
and a love-making which he had begun half in jest and then, all at once,
found that for him it meant more than anything else in the world. Not
that anything had hitherto meant a great deal. He had been an only boy,
with a fond mother, and there was a great deal of money between them. It
had somehow never been a part of his education that those who did not
need to strive should do so. His mother was a woman of ideas, but this
had not been one of them. Perhaps as a boy he had dreamed his dreams,
but somehow there had never seemed a reason for making them reality. The
idea of mental and spiritual progress, of being a benefactor of mankind
was well enough, but it was somehow an abstract thing--something apart
from him--at least, from the day of youth and love.