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Lucky Piece: A Story of the North Woods

<h2>CHAPTER III</h2> <h3>THE DEEP WOODS OF ENCHANTMENT</h3> That green which is known only to June lay upon the hills. Algonquin, Tahawus and Whiteface—but a little before grim with the burden of endless years—rousing from their long, white sleep, had put on, for the millionth time, perhaps, the fleeting mantle of youth. Spring lay on the mountain tops—summer filled the valleys, with all the gradations between. To the young man who drove the hack which runs daily between Lake Placid and Spruce Lodge the scenery was not especially interesting. He had driven over the road regularly since earlier in the month, and had seen the hills acquire glory so gradually that this day to him was only as other days—a bit more pleasant than some, but hardly more exciting. With his companion—his one passenger—it was a different matter. Mr. Frank Weatherby had occupied a New York sleeper the night before, awaking only at daybreak to find the train puffing heavily up a long Adirondack grade—to look out on a wet tangle of spruce, and fir, and hardwood, and vine, mingled with great bowlders and fallen logs, and everywhere the emerald moss, set agleam where the sunrise filtered through. With his curtain raised a little, he had watched it from the window of his berth, and the realization had grown upon him that nowhere else in the world was there such a wood, though he wondered if the marvel and enchantment of it might not lie in the fact that somewhere in its green depths he would find Constance Deane. He had dressed hurriedly and through the remainder of the distance had occupied the rear platform, drinking in the glory of it all—the brisk, life-giving air—the mystery and splendor of the forest. He had been here once, ten years ago, as a boy, but then he had been chiefly concerned with the new rod he had brought and the days of sport ahead. He had seen many forests since then, and the wonder of this one spoke to him now in a language not comprehended in those far-off days. During the drive across the open farm country which lies between Lake Placid and Spruce Lodge he had confided certain of his impressions to his companion—a pale-haired theological student, who as driver of the Lodge hack was combining a measure of profit with a summer's vacation. The enthusiasm of his passenger made the quiet youth responsive, even communicative, when his first brief diffidence had worn away. He had been awarded this employment because of a previous knowledge acquired on his father's farm in Pennsylvania. A number of his fellow students were serving as waiters in the Lake Placid hotels. When pressed, he owned that his inclination for the pulpit had not been in the nature of a definite call. He had considered newspaper work and the law. A maiden aunt had entered into his problem. She had been willing to supply certain funds which had influenced the clerical decision. Perhaps it was just as well. Having thus established his identity, he proceeded to indicate landmarks of special interest, pointing out Whiteface, Colden and Elephant's Back—also Tahawus and Algonquin—calling the last two Marcy and McIntyre, as is the custom to-day. The snow had been on the peaks, he said, almost until he came. It must have looked curious, he thought, when the valleys were already green. Then they drove along in silence for a distance—the passive youth lightly flicking the horses to discourage a number of black flies that had charged from a clump of alder. Frank, supremely content in the glory of his surroundings and the prospect of being with Constance in this fair retreat, did not find need for many words. The student likewise seemed inclined to reflect. His passenger was first to rouse himself. "Many people at the Lodge yet?" he asked. "N-no—mostly transients. They climb Marcy and McIntyre from here. It's the best place to start from." "I see. I climbed Whiteface myself ten years ago. We had a guide—an old chap named Lawless. My mother and I were staying at Saranac and she let me go with a party from there. I thought it great sport then, and made up my mind to be a guide when I grew up. I don't think I'd like it so well now." "They have the best guides at the Lodge," commented the driver. "The head guide there is the best in the mountains. This is his first year at the Lodge. He was with the Adirondack Club before." "I suppose it couldn't be my old hero, Lawless?" "No; this is a young man. I don't just remember his last name, but most people call him Robin." "Um, not Robin Hood, I hope." The theological student shook his head. The story of the Sherwood bandit had not been a part of his education. "It doesn't sound like that," he said. "It's something like Forney, or Farham. He's a student, too—a civil engineer—but he was raised in these hills and has been guiding since he was a boy. He's done it every summer to pay his way through college. Next year he graduates, and they say he's the best in the school. Of course, guides get big pay—as much as three dollars a day, some of them—besides their board." The last detail did not interest Mr. Weatherby. He was suddenly recalling a wet, blowy March evening on Broadway—himself under a big umbrella with Constance Deane. She was speaking, and he could recall her words quite plainly: "I know one young man who is going to be an engineer. He was a poor boy—so poor—and has worked his way. I shall see him this summer. You don't know how proud I shall be of him." To Frank the glory of the hills faded a little, and the progress of the team seemed unduly slow. "Suppose we move up a bit," he suggested to the gentle youth with the reins, and the horses were presently splashing through a shallow pool left by recent showers. "He's a very strong fellow," the informant continued, "and handsome. He's going to marry the daughter of the man who owns the Lodge when he gets started as an engineer. She's a pretty girl, and smart. Her mother's dead, and she's her father's housekeeper. She teaches school sometimes, too. They'll make a fine match." The glory of the hills renewed itself, and though the horses had dropped once more into a lazy jog, Frank did not suggest urging them. "I believe there is a young lady guest at the Lodge," he ventured a little later—a wholly unnecessary remark—he having received a letter from Constance on her arrival there, with her parents, less than a week before. The youth nodded. "Two," he said. "One I brought over yesterday—from Utica, I think she was—and another last week, from New York, with her folks. Their names are Deane, and they own a camp up here. They're staying at the Lodge till it's ready." "I see; and did the last young lady—the family, I mean—seem to know any one at the Lodge?" But the youth could not say. He had taken them over with their bags and trunks and had not noticed farther, only that once or twice since, when he had arrived with the mail, the young lady had come in from the woods with a book and a basket of mushrooms, most of which he thought to be toadstools, and poisonous. Once—maybe both times—Robin had been with her—probably engaged as a guide. Robin would be apt to know about mushrooms. Frank assented a little dubiously. "I shouldn't wonder if we'd better be moving along," he suggested. "We might be late with that mail." There followed another period of silence and increased speed. As they neared the North Elba post-office—a farmhouse with a flower-garden in front of it—the youth pointed backward to a hill with a flag-staff on it. "That is John Brown's grave," he said. His companion looked and nodded. "I remember. My mother and I made a pilgrimage to it. Poor old John. This is still a stage road, isn't it?" "Yes, but we leave it at North Elba. It turns off there for Keene." At the fork of the road Frank followed the stage road with his eye, recalling his mountain summer of ten years before. "I know, now," he reflected aloud. "This road goes to Keene, and on to Elizabeth and Westport. I went over it in the fall. I remember the mountains being all colors, with tips of snow on them." Suddenly he brought his hand down on his knee. "It's just come to me," he said. "Somewhere between here and Keene there was a little girl who had berries to sell, and I ran back up a long hill and gave her my lucky piece for them. I told her to keep it for me till I came back. That was ten years ago. I never went back. I wonder if she has it still?" The student of theology shook his head. It did not seem likely. Then he suggested that, of course, she would be a good deal older now—an idea which did not seem to have occurred to Mr. Weatherby. "Sure enough," he agreed, "and maybe not there. I suppose you don't know anybody over that way." The driver did not. During the few weeks since his arrival he had acquired only such knowledge as had to do with his direct line of travel. They left North Elba behind, and crossing another open stretch of country, headed straight for the mountains. They passed a red farmhouse, and brooks in which Frank thought there must be trout. Then by an avenue of spring leafage, shot with sunlight and sweet with the smell of spruce and deep leaf mold, they entered the great forest where, a mile or so beyond, lay the Lodge. Frank's heart began to quicken, though not wholly as the result of eagerness. He had not written Constance that he was coming so soon. Indeed, in her letter she had suggested in a manner which might have been construed as a command that if he intended to come to the Adirondacks at all this summer he should wait until they were settled in their camp. But Frank had discovered that New York in June was not the attractive place he had considered it in former years. Also that the thought of the Adirondacks, even the very word itself, had acquired a certain charm. To desire and to do were not likely to be very widely separated with a young man of his means and training, and he had left for Lake Placid that night. Yet now that he had brought surprise to the very threshold, as it were, he began to hesitate. Perhaps, after all, Constance might not be overjoyed or even mildly pleased at his coming. She had seemed a bit distant before her departure, and he knew how hard it was to count on her at times. "You can see the Lodge from that bend," said his companion, presently, pointing with his whip. Then almost immediately they had reached the turn, and the Lodge—a great, double-story cabin of spruce logs, with wide verandas—showed through the trees. But between the hack and the Lodge were two figures—a tall young man in outing dress, carrying a basket, and a tall young woman in a walking skirt, carrying a book. They were quite close together, moving toward the Lodge. They seemed to be talking earnestly, and did not at first notice the sound of wheels. "That's them now," whispered the young man, forgetting for the moment his scholastic training. "That's Robin and Miss Deane, with the book and the basket of toadstools." The couple ahead stopped just then and turned. Frank prepared himself for the worst. But Mr. Weatherby would seem to have been unduly alarmed. As he stepped from the vehicle Constance came forward with extended hand. "You are good to surprise us," she was saying, and then, a moment later, "Mr. Weatherby, this is Mr. Robin Farnham—a friend of my childhood. I think I have mentioned him to you." Whatever momentary hostility Frank Weatherby may have cherished for Robin Farnham vanished as the two clasped hands. Frank found himself looking into a countenance at once manly, intellectual and handsome—the sort of a face that men, and women, too, trust on sight. And then for some reason there flashed again across his mind a vivid picture of Constance as she had looked up at him that wet night under the umbrella, the raindrops glistening on her cheek and in the blowy tangle about her temples. He held Robin's firm hand for a moment in his rather soft palm. There was a sort of magnetic stimulus in that muscular grip and hardened flesh. It was so evidently the hand of achievement, Frank was loath to let it go. "You are in some way familiar to me," he said then. "I may have seen you when I was up this way ten years ago. I suppose you do not recall anything of the kind?" A touch of color showed through the brown of Robin's cheek. "No," he said; "I was a boy of eleven, then, probably in the field. I don't think you saw me. Those were the days when I knew Miss Deane. I used to carry baskets of green corn over to Mr. Deane's camp. If you had been up this way during the past five or six years I might have been your guide. Winters I have attended school." They were walking slowly as they talked, following the hack toward the Lodge. Constance took up the tale at this point, her cheeks also flushing a little as she spoke. "He had to work very hard," she said. "He had to raise the corn and then carry it every day—miles and miles. Then he used to make toy boats and sail them for me in the brook, and a playhouse, and whatever I wanted. Of course, I did not consider that I was taking his time, or how hard it all was for him." "Miss Deane has given up little boats and playhouses for the science of mycology," Robin put in, rather nervously, as one anxious to change the subject. Frank glanced at the volume he had appropriated—a treatise on certain toadstools, edible and otherwise. "I have heard already of your new employment, or, at least, diversion," he said. "The young man who brought me over told me that a young lady had been bringing baskets of suspicious fungi to the Lodge. From what he said I judged that he considered it a dangerous occupation." "That was Mr. Meelie," laughed Constance. "I have been wondering why Mr. Meelie avoided me. I can see now that he was afraid I would poison him. You must meet Miss Carroway, too," she ran on. "I mean you will meet her. She is a very estimable lady from Connecticut who has a nephew in the electric works at Haverford; also the asthma, which she is up here to get rid of. She is at the Lodge for the summer, and is already the general minister of affairs at large and in particular. Among other things, she warns me daily that if I persist in eating some of the specimens I bring home, I shall presently die with great violence and suddenness. She is convinced that there is just one kind of mushroom, and that it doesn't grow in the woods. She has no faith in books. Her chief talent lies in promoting harmless evening entertainments. You will have to take part in them." Frank had opened the book and had been studying some of the colored plates while Constance talked. "I don't know that I blame your friends," he said, half seriously. "Some of these look pretty dangerous to the casual observer." "But I've been studying that book for weeks," protested Constance, "long before we came here. By and by I'm going to join the Mycological Society and try to be one of its useful members." "I suppose you have to eat most of these before you are eligible?" commented Frank, still fascinated by the bright pictures. "Not at all. Some of them are quite deadly, but one ought to be able to distinguish most of the commoner species, and be willing to trust his knowledge." "To back one's judgment with one's life, as it were. Well, that's one sort of bravery, no doubt. Tell me, please, how many of these gayly spotted ones you have eaten and still live to tell the tale?" <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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