DURING THE ABSENCE OF CONSTANCE
Yet the adventure on the mountain was not without its ill effects. It
happened that day that Mr. and Mrs. Deane had taken one of their rare
walks over to Spruce Lodge. They had arrived early after luncheon, and
learning that Frank and Constance had not been seen there during the
morning, Mrs. Deane had immediately assured herself that dire misfortune
had befallen the absent ones.
The possibility of their having missed their way was the most temperate
of her conclusions. She had visions of them lying maimed and dying at
the foot of some fearful precipice; she pictured them being assailed by
wild beasts; she imagined them tasting of some strange mushroom and
instantly falling dead as a result. Fortunately, the guide who had seen
Frank set out alone was absent. Had the good lady realized that
Constance might be alone in a forest growing dark with a coming storm,
her condition might have become even more serious.
As it was, the storm came down and held the Deanes at the Lodge for the
afternoon, during which period Mr. Deane, who was not seriously
disturbed by the absence of the young people, endeavored to convince his
wife that it was more than likely they had gone directly to the camp and
would be there when the storm was over.
The nervous mother was far from reassured, and was for setting out
immediately through the rain to see. It became a trying afternoon for
her comforters, and the lugubrious croaking of the small woman in black
and the unflagging optimism of Miss Carroway, as the two wandered from
group to group throughout the premises, gave the episode a general
importance of which it was just as well that the wanderers did not know.
Yet the storm proved an obliging one to Frank and Constance, for the sun
was on the mountain long before the rain had ceased below, and as they
made straight for the Deane camp they arrived almost as soon as Mrs.
Deane herself, who, bundled in waterproofs and supported by her husband
and an obliging mountain climber, had insisted on setting out the moment
the rain ceased.
It was a cruel blow not to find the missing ones at the moment of
arrival, and even their prompt appearance, in full health and with no
tale of misfortune, but only the big trout and a carefully prepared
story of being confused in the fog but safely sheltered in the forest,
did not fully restore her. She was really ill next day, and carried
Constance off for a week to Lake Placid, where she could have medical
attention close at hand and keep her daughter always in sight.
It began by being a lonely week for Frank, for he had been commanded by
Constance not to come to Lake Placid, and to content himself with
sending occasional brief letters--little more than news bulletins, in
fact. Yet presently he became less forlorn. He went about with a
preoccupied look that discouraged the attentions of Miss Carroway. For
the most part he spent his mornings at the Lodge, in his room.
Immediately after luncheon he usually went for an extended walk in the
forest, sometimes bringing up at the Deane camp, where perhaps he dined
with Mr. Deane, a congenial spirit, and remained for a game of cribbage,
the elder man's favorite diversion. Once Frank set out to visit the
hermitage, but thought better of his purpose, deciding that Constance
might wish to accompany him there on her return. One afternoon he spent
following a trout brook and returned with a fine creel of fish, though
none so large as the monster of that first day.
Robin Farnham was absent almost continuously during this period, and
Edith Morrison Frank seldom saw, for the last weeks in August brought
the height of the season, and the girl's duties were many and
imperative. There came no opportunity for the talk he had meant to have
with her, and as she appeared always pleasant of manner, only a little
thoughtful--and this seemed natural with her responsibilities--he
believed that, like himself, she had arrived at a happier frame of mind.
And certainly the young man was changed. There was a new light in his
eyes, and it somehow spoke a renewed purpose in his heart. Even his step
and carriage were different. When he went swinging through the forest
alone it was with his head thrown back, and sometimes with his arms
outspread he whistled and sang to the marvelous greenery above and about
him. And he could sing. Perhaps his was not a voice that would win fame
or fortune for its possessor, but there was in it a note of ecstasy
which answered back to the call of the birds, to the shout or moan of
the wind, to every note of the forest--that was, in fact, a tone in the
deep chord of nature, a lilt in the harmony of the universe.
He forgot that his soul had ever been asleep. A sort of child frenzy for
the mountains, such as Constance had echoed to him that wild day in
March, grew upon him and possessed him, and he did not pause to remember
that it ever had been otherwise. When the storm came down from the
peaks, he strode out into it, and shouted his joy in its companionship,
and raced with the wind, and threw himself face down in the wet leaves
to smell the ground. And was it no more than the happiness of a lover
who believes himself beloved that had wrought this change, or was there
in this renewal of the mad joy of living the reopening and the flow of
some deep and half-forgotten spring?
From that day on the mountain he had not been the same. That morning
with its new resolve; the following of the brook which had led him back
to boyhood; the capture of the great trout; the battle with the mountain
and the mist; the meeting with Constance at the top; the hermit's cabin
with its story of self-denial and abnegation--its life so close to the
very heart of nature, so far from idle pleasure and luxury--with that
eventful day had come the change.
In his letters to Constance, Frank did not speak of these things. He
wrote of his walks, it is true, and he told her of his day's
fishing--also of his visits to her father at the camp--but of any change
or regeneration in himself, any renewal of old dreams and effort, he
spoke not at all.
The week lengthened before Constance returned, though it was clear from
her letters that she was disinclined to linger at a big conventional
hotel, when so much of the summer was slipping away in her beloved
forest. From day to day they had expected to leave, she wrote, but as
Mrs. Deane had persuaded herself that the Lake Placid practitioner had
acquired some new and subtle understanding of nerve disorders, they were
loath to hurry. The young lady ventured a suggestion that Mr. Weatherby
was taking vast comfort in his freedom from the duties and
responsibilities of accompanying a mushroom enthusiast in her daily
rambles, especially a very exacting young person, with a predilection
for trying new kinds upon him, and for seeking strange and semi-mythical
specimens, peculiar to hazy and lofty altitudes.
"I am really afraid I shall have to restrain my enthusiasm," she wrote
in one of these letters. "I am almost certain that Mamma's improvement
and desire to linger here are largely due to her conviction that so long
as I am here you are safe from the baleful Amanita, not to mention
myself. Besides, it is a little risky, sometimes, and one has to know a
very great deal to be certain. I have had a lot of time to study the
book here, and have attended a few lectures on the subject. Among other
things I have learned that certain Amanitas are not poison, even when
they have the cup. One in particular that I thought deadly is not only
harmless, but a delicacy which the Romans called 'Caesar's mushroom,' and
of which one old epicure wrote, 'Keep your corn, O Libya--unyoke your
oxen, provided only you send us mushrooms.'" She went on to set down the
technical description from the text-book and a simple rule for
distinguishing the varieties, adding, "I don't suppose you will gather
any before my return--you would hardly risk such a thing without my
superior counsel--but should you do so, keep the rule in mind. It is
taken word for word from the book, so if anything happens to you while I
am gone, either you or the book will be to blame--not I. When I come
back--if I ever do--I mean to try at least a sample of that epicurean
delight, which one old authority called 'food of the gods,' provided I
can find any of them growing outside of that gruesome 'Devil's Garden.'"
Frank gave no especial attention to this portion of her letter. His
interest in mushrooms was confined chiefly to the days when Constance
could be there to expatiate on them in person.
In another letter she referred to their adventure on the mountain, and
to the fact that Frank would be likely to see Robin before her return.
"You may tell Robin Farnham," she said, "about our visit to the hermit,
and of the message he sent. Robin may be going in that direction very
soon, and find time to stop there. Of course you will be careful not to
let anything slip about the tale he told us. I am sure it would make no
difference, but I know you will agree with me that his wishes should be
sacred. Dear me, what a day that was, and how I did love that wonderful
house! Here, among all these people, in this big modern hotel, it seems
that it must have been all really enchantment. Perhaps you and Robin
could make a trip up there together. I know, if there truly is a
hermit, he will be glad to see you again. I wonder if he would like to
see _me_ again. I brought up all those sad memories. Poor old man! My
sympathy for him is deeper than you can guess."
It happened that Robin returned to the Lodge that same afternoon. A
little later Frank found him in the guide's cabin, and recounted to him
his recent adventures with Constance on the mountain--how they had
wandered at last to the hermitage, adding the message which their host
had sent to Robin himself.
The guide listened reflectively, as was his habit. Then he said:
"It seems curious that you should have been lost up there, just as I was
once, and that you should have drifted to the same place. You took a
little different path from mine. I followed the chasm to the end, while
you crossed on the two logs which the old fellow and I put there
afterward to save me time. I usually have to make short visits, because
few parties care to stay on McIntyre over night, and it's only now and
then that I can get away at all. I have been thinking about the old chap
a good deal lately, but I'm afraid it would mean a special trip just
now, and it would be hard to find a day for that."
"I will arrange it," said Frank. "In fact, I have already done so. I
spoke to Morrison this morning, and engaged you for a day as soon as you
got in. I want to make another trip up the mountain, myself. We'll go
to-morrow morning--directly to the cabin--and I'll see that you have
plenty of time for a good visit. What I want most is another look around
the place itself and its surroundings. I may want to construct a place
like that some day--in imagination, at least."
So it was arranged that the young men should visit the hermitage
together. They set out early next morning, following the McIntyre trail
to the point below the little fall where the hermit had bidden good-by
to mankind so many years before. Here they turned aside and ascended the
cliff by the hidden path, presently reaching the secluded and isolated
spot where the lonely, stricken man had established his domain.
As they drew near the curious dwelling, which because of its
construction was scarcely noticeable until they were immediately upon
it, they spoke in lowered voices, and presently not at all. It seemed
to them, too, that there was a hush about the spot which they had not
noticed elsewhere. Frank recalled the chorus of birds which had filled
the little garden with song, and wondered at their apparent absence now.
The sun was bright, the sky above was glorious, the gay posies along the
garden paths were as brilliant as before, but so far as he could see and
hear, the hermit's small neighbors and companions had vanished.
"There is a sort of Sunday quiet about it," whispered Frank. "Perhaps
the old fellow is out for a ramble, and has taken his friends with him."
Then he added, "I'll wait here while you go in. If he's there, stay and
have your talk with him while I wander about the place a little. Later,
if he doesn't mind, I will come in."
Frank directed his steps toward the little garden and let his eyes
wander up and down among the beds which the hermit had planted. It was
late summer now, and many of the things were already ripening. In a
little more the blackening frost would come and the heavy snow drift in.
What a strange life it had been there, winter and summer, with only
nature and a pageantry of dreams for companionship. There must have
been days when, like the Lady of Shalott, he had cried out, "I am sick
of shadows!" and it may have been on such days that he had watched by
the trail to hear and perhaps to see real men and women. And when the
helplessness of very old age should come--what then? Within his mind
Frank had a half-formed plan to persuade the hermit to return to the
companionship of men. There were many retreats now in these
hills--places where every comfort and the highest medical skill could be
obtained for patients such as he. Frank had conceived the idea of
providing for the hermit's final days in some such home, and he had
partly confided his plan to Robin as they had followed the trail
together. Robin, if anybody, could win the old fellow to the idea.
There came the sound of a step on the path behind. The young man,
turning, faced Robin. There was something in the latter's countenance
that caused Frank to regard him searchingly.
"He is not there, then?"
"No, he is not there."
"He will be back soon, of course."
But Robin shook his head, and said with gentle gravity:
"No, he will not be back. He has journeyed to a far country."
Together they passed under the low eaves and entered the curious
dwelling. Light came through the open door and the parchment-covered
window. In the high-backed chair before the hearth the hermit sat, his
chin dropped forward on his breast. His years of exile were ended. All
the heart-yearning and loneliness had slipped away. He had become one
with the shadows among which he had dwelt so long.
Nor was there any other life in the room. As the birds outside had
vanished, so the flitting squirrels had departed--who shall say whither?
Yet the change had come but recently--perhaps on that very morning--for
though the fire had dropped to ashes on the hearth, a tiny wraith of
smoke still lingered and drifted waveringly up the chimney.
The intruders moved softly about the room without speaking. Presently
Frank beckoned to Robin, and pointed to something lying on the table. It
was a birch-bark envelope, and in a dark ink, doubtless made from some
root or berry, was addressed to Robin. The guide opened it and, taking
it to the door, read:
MY DEAR BOY ROBIN:
I have felt of late that my time is very near. It is likely that I
shall see you no more in this world. It is my desire, therefore, to
set down my wishes here while I yet have strength. They are but
few, for a life like mine leaves not many desires behind it.
It is my wish that such of my belongings as you care to preserve
should be yours. They are of little value, but perhaps the field
glass and the books may in future years recall the story in which
they have been a part. In a little chest you will find some other
trifles--a picture or two, some papers that were once valuable to
those living in the world of men, some old letters. All that is
there, all that is mine and all the affection that lingers in my
heart, are yours. Yet I must not forget the little girl who was
once your sister. If it chance that you meet her again, and if when
she knows my story she will care for any memento of this lonely
life, you may place some trifle in her hands.
It was my story that I had chiefly meant to set down for you, for
it is nearer to your own than you suppose. But now, only a few days
since, out of my heart I gave it to those who were here and who,
perhaps, ere this, have given you my message to come. A young man
and a woman they were, and their happiness together led me to speak
of old days and of a happiness that was mine. The girl's face
stirred me strangely, and I spoke to her fully, as I have long
wished, yet feared, to speak to you. You will show her this letter,
and she will repeat to you all the tale which I no longer have
strength to write. Then you will understand why I have been drawn
to you so strangely; why I have called you "my dear boy"; why I
would that I might call you "son."
There is no more--only, when you shall find me here asleep, make me
a bed in the corner of my garden, where the hollyhocks come each
year, and the squirrels frisk overhead, and the birds sing. Lay me
not too deeply away from it all, and cover me only with boughs and
the cool, gratifying earth which shall soothe away the fever. And
bring no stone to mark the place, but only breathe a little word of
prayer and leave me in the comfortable dark.
Neither Robin nor Frank spoke for a time after the reading of the
letter. Then faithfully and with a few words they carried out the
hermit's wishes. Tenderly and gently they bore him to the narrow
resting-place which they prepared for him, and when the task was
finished they stood above the spot for a little space with bowed heads.
After this they returned to the cabin and gathered up such articles of
Robin's inheritance as they would be able to carry down the
mountain--the books and field glass, which had been so much to him; the
gun above the mantel, a trout rod and a package of articles from the
little chest which they had brought to the door and opened. At the top
of the package was a small, cheap ferrotype picture, such as young
people are wont to have made at the traveling photographer's. It was of
a sweet-faced, merry-lipped girl, and Robin scanned it long and
thoughtfully.
"That is such a face as my mother had when young," he said at last. Then
turning to Frank, "Did he know my mother? Is that the story?"
Frank bent his head in assent.
"That is the story," he said, "but it is long. Besides, it is his wish,
I am sure, that another should tell it to you."
He had taken from the chest some folded official-looking papers as he
spoke, and glanced at them now, first hastily, then with growing
interest. They were a quantity of registered bonds--the hermit's
fortune, which in a few brief days had become, as he said, but a mockery
of scrolled engraving and gaudy seals. Frank had only a slight knowledge
of such matters, yet he wondered if by any possibility these old
securities of a shipwrecked company might be of value to-day. The
corporation title, he thought, had a familiar sound. A vague impression
grew upon him that this company had been one of the few to be
rehabilitated with time; that in some measure at least it had made good
its obligations.
"Suppose you let me take these," he suggested to Robin. "They may not be
wholly worthless. At least, it will do no harm to send them to my
solicitor."
Robin nodded. He was still regarding the little tintype and the sweet,
young face of the mother who had died so long ago.