THE PATH THAT LEADS BACK TO BOYHOOD
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.