EDITH AND FRANK
It may have been an hour--perhaps two of them--since Robin with
Constance and her mother had passed him on the way to the Lodge, when
suddenly Frank heard some one hurrying down the path. It was the rustle
of skirts that he heard, and he knew that it was a woman running. Just
at the little grove of birches she stopped and seemed to hesitate. In
the silence of the place he could hear her breath come pantingly, as
from one laboring under heavy excitement. Then there was a sort of
sobbing moan, and a moment later a voice that he scarcely recognized as
that of Edith Morrison, so full of wild anguish it was, called his name.
He had already risen, and was at her side in an instant.
"What is it?" he demanded; "tell me everything--tell me quickly!"
"Oh," she wailed, "I knew you must be here. They couldn't find you, and
I knew why. I knew you had been here, and had seen what I saw, and
heard what I heard. Oh, you must go to her--you must go at once!"
She had seized his arm with both hands, shaking with a storm of
emotion--of terror, it seemed--her eyes burning through the dark.
"When I saw that, I went mad," she raved on. "I saw everything through a
black mist, and out of it the devil came and tempted me. He put the
means in my hands to destroy my enemy, and I have done it--oh, I have
done it! You said it was the Devil's Garden, and it is! Oh, it is his--I
know it! I know it!"
The girl was fairly beside herself--almost incoherent--but there was
enough in her words and fierce excitement to fill Frank with sudden
apprehension.
"What is it you have done?" he demanded. "Tell me what you mean by the
devil tempting you to destroy your enemy. What have you done?"
A wave of passion, anguish, remorse broke over her, and she clung to him
heavily. She could not find voice at first. When she did, it had become
a shuddering whisper.
"I have killed her!" she managed to gasp. "I have killed her! I did it
with the Yellow Danger--you remember--the Yellow Danger--that day in
the Devil's Garden--that poison one--that deadly one with the cup--there
were some among those she brought to-night. She must have left them
there by mistake. I knew them--I remembered that day--and, oh, I have
been there since. But I was about to throw them away when the devil came
from his garden and tempted me. He said no one could ever suspect or
blame me. I put one of the deadly ones among those that went to her
place at dinner. When it was too late I was sorry. I realized, all at
once, that I was a murderer and must not live. So I ran down here to
throw myself in the lake. Then I remembered that you were here, and that
perhaps you could do something to save her. Oh, she doesn't know! She is
happy up there, but she is doomed. You must help her! You must! Oh, I do
not want to die a murderer! I cannot do that--I cannot!"
The girl's raving had been in part almost inaudible, but out of it the
truth came clearly. Constance had brought some mushrooms to the Lodge,
and these, as usual, had been sent in to Edith to prepare. Among them
Edith had found some which she recognized as those declared by Constance
to be deadly, and these she had allowed to go to Constance's plate.
Later, stricken with remorse, she had rushed out to destroy herself, and
was now as eager to save her victim.
All this rushed through Frank's brain in an instant, and for a moment he
remembered only that day in the Devil's Garden, and the fact that a
deadly fungus which Constance had called the Yellow Danger was about to
destroy her life. But then, in a flash, came back the letter, written
from Lake Placid, in which Constance had confessed a mistake, and
referred to a certain Amanita which she had thought poisonous as a
choice edible mushroom, called by the ancients "food of the gods." He
remembered now that this was the Orange Amanita or "Yellow Danger," and
a flood of hope swept over him; but he must be certain of the truth.
"Miss Morrison," he said, in a voice that was at once gentle and grave,
"this is a bitter time for us all. But you must be calm, and show me, if
you can, one of those yellow mushrooms you did not use. I have reason to
hope that they are not the deadly ones after all. But take me where I
can see them, at once."
His words and tone seemed to give the girl new strength and courage.
"Oh, don't tell me that unless it is true!" she pleaded. "Don't tell me
that just to get me to go back to the Lodge! Oh, I will do anything to
save her! Come--yes--come, and I will show them to you!"
She started hurriedly in the direction of the Lodge, Frank keeping by
her side. As they neared the lights she seized his arm and detained him
an instant.
"You will not let her die?" She trembled, her fear returning. "She is so
young and beautiful--you will not let her die? I will give up Robin, but
she must not die."
He spoke to her reassuringly, and they pushed on, making a wide detour
which brought them to the rear of the Lodge. Through the window they saw
the servants still passing to and fro into the dining-room serving a few
belated guests. From it a square of light penetrated the woods behind,
and on the edge of this they paused--the girl's eyes eagerly scanning
the ground.
"I hid them here," she said. "I did not put them in the waste, for fear
some one would see them."
Presently she knelt and brushed aside the leaves. Something like gold
gleamed before her and she seized upon it. A moment later she had
uncovered another similar object.
"There," she said chokingly; "there they are! Tell me--tell me quick!
Are they the deadly ones?"
He gave them a quick glance in the light, then he said:
"I think not, but I cannot be sure here. Come with me to the guide's
cabin. It was dark as we came up, but it was open. I will strike a
light."
They hurried across to the little detached cabin and pushed in. Frank
struck a match and lit a kerosene bracket lamp. Then he laid the two
yellow mushrooms on the table beneath it, and from an inner pocket drew
a small and rather mussed letter and opened it--his companion watching
every movement with burning eager eyes.
"This is a letter from Miss Deane," he said, "written me from Lake
Placid. In it she says that she made a mistake about the Orange Amanita
that she called the Yellow Danger. These are her words--a rule taken
from the book:
"'_If the cup of the Yellow Amanita is present, the plant is harmless.
If the cup is absent, it is poisonous._'"
He bent forward and looked closely at the specimens before him.
"That is surely the cup," he said. "She gathered these and put them
among the others by intention, knowing them to be harmless. She is safe,
and you have committed no crime."
His last words fell on insensate ears. Edith drew a quick breath that
was half a cry, and an instant later Frank saw that she was reeling. He
caught her and half lifted her to a bench by the door, where she lay
insensible. An approaching step caught Frank's ear and, as he stepped to
the door, Robin Farnham, who had seen the light in the cabin, was at the
entrance. A startled look came into his eyes as he saw Edith's white
face, but Frank said quietly:
"Miss Morrison has had a severe shock--a fright. She has fainted, but I
think there is no danger. I will remain while you bring a cup of water."
There was a well at the end of the Lodge, and Robin returned almost
immediately with a filled cup.
Already Edith showed signs of returning consciousness, and Frank left
the two, taking his way to the veranda, where he heard the voices of
Constance and her mother, mingled with that of Miss Carroway. He
ascended the steps with a resolute tread and went directly to Constance,
who came forward to meet him.
"And where did you come from?" she demanded gayly. "We looked for you
all about. Mamma and I came over on purpose to dine with you, and I
brought a very especial dish, which I had all to myself. Still, we did
miss you, and Miss Carroway has been urging us to send out a searching
party."
Frank shook hands with Mrs. Deane and Miss Carroway, apologizing for his
absence and lateness. Then he turned to Constance, and together they
passed down to the further end of the long veranda. Neither spoke until
they were out of earshot of the others. Then the girl laid her hand
gently on her companion's arm.
"I have something to tell you," she began. "I came over on
purpose--something I have been wanting to say a long time, only----"
He interrupted her.
"I know," he said; "I can guess what it is. That was why I did not come
sooner. I came now because I have something to say to you. I did not
intend to come at all, but then something happened and--I have changed
my mind. I will only keep you a moment."
His voice was not quite steady, but grave and determined, with a tone in
it which the girl did not recognize. Her hand slipped from his arm.
"Tell me first," he went on, "if you are quite sure that the mushrooms
you brought for dinner--all of them--the yellow ones--are entirely
harmless."
Certainly this was an unexpected question. Something in the solemn
manner and suddenness of it may have seemed farcical. For an instant she
perhaps thought him jesting, for there was a note of laughter in her
voice as she replied:
"Oh, yes; quite certain. Those are the Caesar mushrooms--food of the
gods--I brought them especially for you. But how did you know of them?"
He did not respond to this question, nor to her light tone.
"Miss Deane," he went on, "I know perfectly well what you came here to
say. I happened to be in the little grove of birches to-night when you
landed with your mother and Robin Farnham, and I saw and heard what took
place on the dock, almost before I realized that I was eavesdropping.
Unfortunately, though I did not know it then, another saw and heard, as
well, and the shock of it was such that it not only crushed her spirit
but upset her moral balance for the time. You will know, of course, that
I refer to Edith Morrison. She had to know, and perhaps no one is to
blame for her suffering--and mine; only it seems unfortunate that the
revelation should have come just as it did rather than in the gentler
way which you perhaps had planned."
He paused a moment to collect words for what he had to say next.
Constance was looking directly at him, though her expression was lost in
the dusk. Her voice, however, was full of anxiety.
"There is a mistake," she began eagerly. "Oh, I will explain, but not
now. Where is Edith? Tell me first what has happened to Edith."
"I will do that, presently. She is quite safe. The man she was to marry
is with her. But first I have something to say--something that I wish to
tell you before--before I go. I want to say to you in all honesty that I
consider Robin Farnham a fine, manly fellow--more worthy of you than
I--and that I honor you in your choice, regretting only that it must
bring sorrow to other hearts. I want to confess to you that never until
after that day upon the mountain did I realize the fullness of my love
for you--that it was all in my life that was worth preserving--that it
spoke to the best there was in me. I want you to know that it stirred
old ambitions and restored old dreams, and that I awoke to renewed
effort and to the hope of achievement only because of you and of your
approval. The story I read to you that day on the mountain was my story.
I wrote it those days while you were away. It was the beginning of a
work I hoped to make worth while. I believed that you cared, and that
with worthy effort I could win you for my own. I had Robin Gray's
character in mind for my hero, not dreaming that I should be called upon
to make a sacrifice on my own account, but now that the time is here I
want you to know that I shall try not to make it grudgingly or cravenly,
but as manfully as I can. I want to tell you from my heart and upon my
honor that I wish you well--that if ever the day comes when I can be of
service to you or to him, I will do whatever lies in my power and
strength. It is not likely such a time will ever come, for in the matter
of means you will have ample and he will have enough. Those bonds which
poor old Robin Gray believed worthless all these years have been
restored to their full value, and more; and, even if this were not true,
Robin Farnham would make his way and command the recognition and the
rewards of the world. What will become of my ambition I do not know. It
awoke too late to mean anything to you, and the world does not need my
effort. As a boy, I thought it did, and that my chances were all bright
ahead. But once, a long time ago, in these same hills, I gave my lucky
piece to a little mountain girl, and perhaps I gave away my
opportunities with it, and my better strength. Now, there is no more to
say except God bless you and love you, as I always will."
And a moment later he added:
"I left Miss Morrison with Robin Farnham in the guide's cabin. If she is
not there you will probably find her in her room. Be as kind to her as
you can. She needs everything."
He held out his hand then, as if to leave her. But she took it and held
it fast. He felt that hers trembled.
"You are brave and true," she said, "and you cannot go like this. You
will not leave the Lodge without seeing me again. Promise me you will
not. I have something to say to you--something it is necessary you
should know. It is quite a long story and will take time. I cannot tell
it now. Promise me that you will walk once more with me to-morrow
morning. I will go now to Edith; but promise me what I ask. You must."
"It is not fair," he said slowly, "but I promise you."
"You need not come for me," she said. "Our walk will be in the other
direction. I will meet you here quite early."
He left her at the entrance of the wide hall and, ascending to his room,
began to put his traps together in readiness for departure by stage next
day.
Constance descended the veranda steps and crossed over to the guides'
cabin, where a light still shone. As she approached the open door she
saw Edith and Robin sitting on the bench, talking earnestly. Edith had
been crying, but appeared now in a calmer frame of mind. Robin held both
her hands in his, and she made no apparent attempt to withdraw them.
Then came the sound of footsteps and Constance stood in the doorway.
For a moment Edith was startled. Then, seeing who it was, she sprang up
and ran forward with extended arms.
"Forgive me! Oh, forgive me!" she cried; "I did not know! I did not
know!"