CHAPTER III
THE DEEP WOODS OF ENCHANTMENT
That green which is known only to June lay upon the hills. Algonquin,Tahawus and Whiteface--but a little before grim with the burden ofendless years--rousing from their long, white sleep, had put on, for themillionth time, perhaps, the fleeting mantle of youth. Spring lay on themountain tops--summer filled the valleys, with all the gradationsbetween.
To the young man who drove the hack which runs daily between Lake Placidand Spruce Lodge the scenery was not especially interesting. He haddriven over the road regularly since earlier in the month, and had seenthe hills acquire glory so gradually that this day to him was only asother 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 longAdirondack grade--to look out on a wet tangle of spruce, and fir, andhardwood, and vine, mingled with great bowlders and fallen logs, andeverywhere the emerald moss, set agleam where the sunrise filteredthrough. With his curtain raised a little, he had watched it from thewindow of his berth, and the realization had grown upon him that nowhereelse in the world was there such a wood, though he wondered if themarvel and enchantment of it might not lie in the fact that somewhere inits green depths he would find Constance Deane.
He had dressed hurriedly and through the remainder of the distance hadoccupied the rear platform, drinking in the glory of it all--the brisk,life-giving air--the mystery and splendor of the forest. He had beenhere once, ten years ago, as a boy, but then he had been chieflyconcerned 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 tohim now in a language not comprehended in those far-off days.
During the drive across the open farm country which lies between LakePlacid and Spruce Lodge he had confided certain of his impressions tohis companion--a pale-haired theological student, who as driver of theLodge hack was combining a measure of profit with a summer's vacation.The enthusiasm of his passenger made the quiet youth responsive, evencommunicative, when his first brief diffidence had worn away. He hadbeen awarded this employment because of a previous knowledge acquired onhis father's farm in Pennsylvania. A number of his fellow students wereserving as waiters in the Lake Placid hotels. When pressed, he ownedthat his inclination for the pulpit had not been in the nature of adefinite call. He had considered newspaper work and the law. A maidenaunt had entered into his problem. She had been willing to supplycertain funds which had influenced the clerical decision. Perhaps it wasjust as well. Having thus established his identity, he proceeded toindicate landmarks of special interest, pointing out Whiteface, Coldenand Elephant's Back--also Tahawus and Algonquin--calling the last twoMarcy and McIntyre, as is the custom to-day. The snow had been on thepeaks, he said, almost until he came. It must have looked curious, hethought, when the valleys were already green. Then they drove along insilence for a distance--the passive youth lightly flicking the horsesto discourage a number of black flies that had charged from a clump ofalder. Frank, supremely content in the glory of his surroundings and theprospect of being with Constance in this fair retreat, did not find needfor many words. The student likewise seemed inclined to reflect. Hispassenger 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'sthe best place to start from."
"I see. I climbed Whiteface myself ten years ago. We had a guide--an oldchap named Lawless. My mother and I were staying at Saranac and she letme go with a party from there. I thought it great sport then, and madeup my mind to be a guide when I grew up. I don't think I'd like it sowell now."
"They have the best guides at the Lodge," commented the driver. "Thehead guide there is the best in the mountains. This is his first year atthe 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 mostpeople call him Robin."
"Um, not Robin Hood, I hope."
The theological student shook his head. The story of the Sherwood bandithad not been a part of his education.
"It doesn't sound like that," he said. "It's something like Forney, orFarham. He's a student, too--a civil engineer--but he was raised inthese hills and has been guiding since he was a boy. He's done it everysummer to pay his way through college. Next year he graduates, and theysay he's the best in the school. Of course, guides get big pay--as muchas three dollars a day, some of them--besides their board."
The last detail did not interest Mr. Weatherby. He was suddenlyrecalling a wet, blowy March evening on Broadway--himself under a bigumbrella with Constance Deane. She was speaking, and he could recall herwords quite plainly: "I know one young man who is going to be anengineer. He was a poor boy--so poor--and has worked his way. I shallsee 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 theteam seemed unduly slow.
"Suppose we move up a bit," he suggested to the gentle youth with thereins, and the horses were presently splashing through a shallow poolleft 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 hegets started as an engineer. She's a pretty girl, and smart. Hermother's dead, and she's her father's housekeeper. She teaches schoolsometimes, too. They'll make a fine match."
The glory of the hills renewed itself, and though the horses had droppedonce more into a lazy jog, Frank did not suggest urging them.
"I believe there is a young lady guest at the Lodge," he ventured alittle later--a wholly unnecessary remark--he having received a letterfrom Constance on her arrival there, with her parents, less than a weekbefore.
The youth nodded.
"Two," he said. "One I brought over yesterday--from Utica, I think shewas--and another last week, from New York, with her folks. Their namesare Deane, and they own a camp up here. They're staying at the Lodgetill it's ready."
"I see; and did the last young lady--the family, I mean--seem to knowany one at the Lodge?"
But the youth could not say. He had taken them over with their bags andtrunks and had not noticed farther, only that once or twice since, whenhe had arrived with the mail, the young lady had come in from the woodswith a book and a basket of mushrooms, most of which he thought to betoadstools, and poisonous. Once--maybe both times--Robin had been withher--probably engaged as a guide. Robin would be apt to know aboutmushrooms.
Frank assented a little dubiously.
"I shouldn't wonder if we'd better be moving along," he suggested. "Wemight be late with that mail."
There followed another period of silence and increased speed. As theyneared the North Elba post-office--a farmhouse with a flower-garden infront of it--the youth pointed backward to a hill with a flag-staff onit.
"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 toElizabeth and Westport. I went over it in the fall. I remember themountains being all colors, with tips of snow on them." Suddenly hebrought 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 hadberries to sell, and I ran back up a long hill and gave her my luckypiece for them. I told her to keep it for me till I came back. That wasten 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 hesuggested that, of course, she would be a good deal older now--an ideawhich did not seem to have occurred to Mr. Weatherby.
"Sure enough," he agreed, "and maybe not there. I suppose you don'tknow anybody over that way."
The driver did not. During the few weeks since his arrival he hadacquired only such knowledge as had to do with his direct line oftravel.
They left North Elba behind, and crossing another open stretch ofcountry, headed straight for the mountains. They passed a red farmhouse,and brooks in which Frank thought there must be trout. Then by an avenueof spring leafage, shot with sunlight and sweet with the smell of spruceand deep leaf mold, they entered the great forest where, a mile or sobeyond, lay the Lodge.
Frank's heart began to quicken, though not wholly as the result ofeagerness. He had not written Constance that he was coming so soon.Indeed, in her letter she had suggested in a manner which might havebeen construed as a command that _if_ he intended to _come to theAdirondacks at all_ this summer he should wait until they were settledin their camp. But Frank had discovered that New York in June was notthe attractive place he had considered it in former years. Also that thethought of the Adirondacks, even the very word itself, had acquired acertain charm. To desire and to do were not likely to be very widelyseparated with a young man of his means and training, and he had leftfor 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 beoverjoyed or even mildly pleased at his coming. She had seemed a bitdistant before her departure, and he knew how hard it was to count onher 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--agreat, double-story cabin of spruce logs, with wide verandas--showedthrough the trees. But between the hack and the Lodge were twofigures--a tall young man in outing dress, carrying a basket, and a tallyoung woman in a walking skirt, carrying a book. They were quite closetogether, 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 momenthis scholastic training. "That's Robin and Miss Deane, with the book andthe basket of toadstools."
The couple ahead stopped just then and turned. Frank prepared himselffor the worst.
But Mr. Weatherby would seem to have been unduly alarmed. As he steppedfrom 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. Ithink I have mentioned him to you."
Whatever momentary hostility Frank Weatherby may have cherished forRobin Farnham vanished as the two clasped hands. Frank found himselflooking into a countenance at once manly, intellectual and handsome--thesort of a face that men, and women, too, trust on sight. And then forsome reason there flashed again across his mind a vivid picture ofConstance 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 hertemples. 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 hardenedflesh. It was so evidently the hand of achievement, Frank was loath tolet it go.
"You are in some way familiar to me," he said then. "I may have seen youwhen I was up this way ten years ago. I suppose you do not recallanything 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. Idon't think you saw me. Those were the days when I knew Miss Deane. Iused to carry baskets of green corn over to Mr. Deane's camp. If you hadbeen up this way during the past five or six years I might have beenyour guide. Winters I have attended school."
They were walking slowly as they talked, following the hack toward theLodge. Constance took up the tale at this point, her cheeks alsoflushing a little as she spoke.
"He had to work very hard," she said. "He had to raise the corn and thencarry it every day--miles and miles. Then he used to make toy boats andsail 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 itall was for him."
"Miss Deane has given up little boats and playhouses for the science ofmycology," Robin put in, rather nervously, as one anxious to change thesubject.
Frank glanced at the volume he had appropriated--a treatise on certaintoadstools, 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 ladyhad been bringing baskets of suspicious fungi to the Lodge. From what hesaid 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_ meether. She is a very estimable lady from Connecticut who has a nephew inthe electric works at Haverford; also the asthma, which she is up hereto get rid of. She is at the Lodge for the summer, and is already thegeneral minister of affairs at large and in particular. Among otherthings, she warns me daily that if I persist in eating some of thespecimens I bring home, I shall presently die with great violence andsuddenness. 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. Herchief talent lies in promoting harmless evening entertainments. You willhave to take part in them."
Frank had opened the book and had been studying some of the coloredplates while Constance talked.
"I don't know that I blame your friends," he said, half seriously. "Someof these look pretty dangerous to the casual observer."
"But I've been studying that book for weeks," protested Constance, "longbefore we came here. By and by I'm going to join the Mycological Societyand 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 todistinguish most of the commoner species, and be willing to trust hisknowledge."
"To back one's judgment with one's life, as it were. Well, that's onesort of bravery, no doubt. Tell me, please, how many of these gaylyspotted ones you have eaten and still live to tell the tale?"