IN THE "DEVIL'S GARDEN"
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 are _Amanita 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 and _might_ be
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. What _was_ the 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.