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.
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.