The Lucky Piece: A Tale of the North Woods

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.

CHAPTER XII

CONSTANCE RETURNS AND HEARS A STORY

"I only told him," Frank wrote that night to Constance, "that the hermit's story had a part in his mother's life. I suppose I might have told him more, but he seemed quite willing to wait and hear it from you, as suggested by the hermit's letter, and I was only too willing that he should do so. Knowing Robin, as you have, from childhood, and the sorrow of his early days and all, you are much better fitted to tell the story, and you will tell it much better than I. Robin is to leave again to-morrow on a trip over Marcy (Tahawus, I mean, for I hate these modern names), but will be back by the end of the week, by which time I hope you also will once more make glad these lonesome forest glades. Seriously, Conny, I long for you much more than perhaps you realize or, I am sure, would permit me to say. And I don't mean to write a love letter now. In the first place, I would not disobey orders to that degree, and even if I did, I know that you would say that it was only because poor old Robin Gray's story and his death, and all, and perhaps wandering about in these woods alone, had made me a bit sentimental. Well, who knows just whence and how emotions come? Perhaps you would be right, but if I should tell you that, during the two weeks which have nearly slipped by since that day when we found our way through the mist to the hermit's cabin, my whole point of view has somehow changed, and that, whatever the reasons, I see with different eyes – with a new heart and with an uplifted spirit – perhaps I should be right, too; and if from such a consecration my soul should speak and say, 'Dear, my heart, I love you, and I will love you all my days!' it may be that you would believe and understand."

Whether it was this letter, or the news it contained, or whether Mrs. Deane's improved condition warranted – from whatever reason, Constance and her mother two days later returned to the camp on the Au Sable. They were given a genuine ovation as they passed the Lodge, at which point Mr. Deane joined them. Frank found his heart in a very disturbing condition indeed as he looked once more into Miss Deane's eyes and took her hand in welcome. Later in the day, he deemed it necessary to take a walk in the direction of the camp to see if he could be of any assistance in making the new arrivals comfortable. It was a matter of course that he should remain for dinner, and whatever change may have taken place in him, he certainly appeared on this occasion much like the old light-hearted youth, with little thought beyond the joy of the event and the jest of the moment.

But that night, when he parted from Constance to take the dark trail home, he did not find it easy to go, nor yet to make an excuse for lingering. The mantle of gayety had somehow slipped away, and as they stood there in the fragrance of the firs, with the sound of falling water coming through the trees, the words he had meant to utter did not come.

He spoke at last of their day together on the mountain and of their visit to the hermit's cabin. To both of them it seemed something of a very long time ago. Then Frank recounted in detail all that had happened that quiet morning when he and Robin had visited the place, and spoke of the letter and last wishes of the dead man.

"You are sure you do not mind letting me tell Robin the story?" she said; "alone, I mean? I should like to do so, and I think he would prefer it."

Frank looked at her through the dusk.

"I want you to do it that way," he said earnestly. "I told you so in my letter. I have a feeling that any third person would be an intruder at such a time. It seems to me that you are the only one to tell him."

"Yes," she agreed, after a pause, "I am. I – knew Robin's mother. I was a little girl, but I remember. Oh, you will understand it all, some day."

Frank may have wondered vaguely why she put it in that way, but he made no comment. His hand found hers in the dusk, and he held it for a moment at parting.

"That is a dark way I am going," he said, looking down the trail. "But I shall not even remember the darkness, now that you are here again."

Constance laughed softly.

"Perhaps it is my halo that makes the difference."

A moment later he had turned to go, but paused to say – casually, it seemed:

"By the way, I have a story to read to you – a manuscript. It was written by some one I know, who had a copy mailed me. It came this morning. I am sure the author, whose name is to be withheld for the present, would appreciate your opinion."

"And my judgment is to be final, of course. Very well; Minerva holds her court at ten to-morrow, at the top of yon small mountain, which on the one side slopes to the lake, and on the other overlooks the pleasant Valley of Decision, which borders the West Branch."

"And do I meet Minerva on the mountain top, or do I call for her at the usual address – that is to say, here?"

"You may call for Minerva. After her recent period of inactivity she may need assistance over the hard places."

Frank did, in fact, arrive at the camp next morning almost in time for breakfast. Perhaps the habit of early rising had grown upon him of late. Perhaps he only wished to assure himself that Constance had really returned. Even a wish to hear her opinion of the manuscript may have exerted a certain influence.

They set out presently, followed by numerous injunctions from Mrs. Deane concerning fogs and trails and an early return. Frank had never ascended this steep little mountain back of the camp, save once by a trail that started from near the Lodge. He let Constance take the lead.

It was a rare morning – one of the first September days, when the early blaze of autumn begins to kindle along the hills, when there is just a spice of frost in the air, when the air and sunlight combine in a tonic that lifts the heart, the soul, almost the body itself, from the material earth.

"If you are Minerva, then I am Mercury," Frank declared as they ascended the first rise. "I feel that my feet have wings."

Then suddenly he paused, for they had come to a little enclosure, where the bushes had been but recently cleared away. There was a gate, and within a small grave, evidently that of a child; also a headstone upon which was cut the single word, "Constance."

Frank started a little as he read the name, and regarded it wonderingly without speaking. Then he turned to his companion with inquiry in his face.

"That was the first little Constance," she said. "I took her place and name. She always loved this spot, so when she died they laid her here. They expected to come back sooner. Her mother wanted just the name on the stone."

Frank had a strange feeling as he regarded the little grave.

"I never knew that you had lost a sister," he said. "I mean that your parents had buried a little girl. Of course, she died before you were born."

"No," she said, "but her death was a fearful blow. Mamma can hardly speak of it even to-day. She could never confess that her little girl was dead, so they called me by her name. I cannot explain it all now."

Frank said musingly:

"I remember your saying once that you were not even what you seemed to be. Is this what you meant?"

She nodded.

"Yes; that is what I meant."

They pushed on up the hill, without many words.

The little enclosure and the graven stone had made them thoughtful. Arriving at the peak they found, at the brow of a cliff, a broad, shelving stone which hung out over a deep, wooded hollow, where here and there the red and gold were beginning to gleam. From it they could look across toward Algonquin, where they tried to locate the spot of the hermit's cabin, and down upon the lake and the Lodge, which seemed to lie almost at their feet.

At first they merely rested and drank in the glory of the view. Then at last Frank drew from his pocket a folded typewritten paper.

"If the court of Minerva is convened, I will lay this matter before her," he said.

It was not a story of startling theme that he read to her – "The Victory of Defeat"; it was only a tale of a man's love, devotion and sacrifice, but it was told so simply, with so little attempt to make it seem a story, that one listening forgot that it was not indeed a true relation, that the people were not living and loving and suffering toward a surrender which rose to triumph with the final page. Once only Constance interrupted, to say:

"Your friend is fortunate to have so good a reader to interpret his story. I did not know you had that quality in your voice."

He did not reply, and when he had finished reading and laid the manuscript down he waited for her comment. It was rather unexpected.

"You must be very fond of the one who wrote that," she said.

He looked at her quickly, hardly sure of her meaning. Then he smiled.

"I am. Almost too much so, perhaps."

"But why? I think I could love the man who did that story."

An expression half quizzical, half gratified, flitted across Frank's features.

"And if it were written by a woman?" he said.

Constance did not reply, and the tender look in her face grew a little cold. A tiny bit of something which she did not recognize suddenly germinated in her heart. It was hardly envy – she would have scorned to call it jealousy. She rose – rather hastily, it seemed.

"Which perhaps accounts for your having read it so well," she said. "I did not realize, and – I suppose such a story might be written by almost any woman except myself."

Frank caught up the manuscript and poised it like a missile.

"Another word and it goes over the cliff," he threatened.

She caught back his arm, laughing naturally enough.

"It is ourselves that must be going over the cliff," she declared. "I am sure Mamma is worrying about us already."

CHAPTER XIII

WHAT THE SMALL WOMAN IN BLACK SAW

With September the hurry at the Lodge subsided. Vacations were beginning to be over – mountain climbers and wood rangers were returning to office, studio and classroom. Those who remained were chiefly men and women bound to no regular occupations, caring more for the woods when the crowds of summer had departed and the red and gold of autumn were marching down the mountain side.

It had been a busy season at the Lodge, and Edith Morrison's face told the tale. The constant responsibility, and the effort to maintain the standard of entertainment, had left a worn look in her eyes and taken the color from her cheeks. The burden had lain chiefly on her young shoulders. Her father was invaluable as an entertainer and had a fund of information, but he was without practical resources, and the strain upon Edith had told. If for another reason a cloud had settled on her brow and a shadow had gathered in her heart, she had uttered no word, but had gone on, day by day, early and late, devising means and supervising methods – doing whatever was necessary to the management of a big household through all those busy weeks.

Little more than the others had she seen Robin during those last August days. He had been absent almost constantly. When he returned it was usually late, and such was the demand upon this most popular of Adirondack guides that in nearly every case he found a party waiting for early departure. If Edith suspected that there were times when he might have returned sooner, when she believed that he had paused at the camp on the west branch of the Au Sable, she still spoke no word and made no definite outward sign. Whatever she brooded in her heart was in that secret and silence which may have come down to her, with those black eyes and that glossy hair, from some old ancestor who silently in his wigwam pointed his arrows and cuddled his resentment to keep it warm. It had happened that during the days when Constance had been absent with her mother Robin had twice returned at an earlier hour, and this could hardly fail to strengthen any suspicion that might already exist of his fidelity, especially as the little woman in black had commented on the matter in Edith's presence, as well as upon the fact that immediately after the return of the absent ones he failed to reach the Lodge by daylight. It is a fact well established that once we begin to look for heartache we always find it – and, as well, some one to aid us in the search.

Not that Edith had made a confidante of the sinister-clad little woman. On the whole, she disliked her and was much more drawn toward the good-natured but garrulous old optimist, Miss Carroway, who saw with clear undistorted vision, and never failed to say a word – a great many words, in fact – that carried comfort because they constituted a plea for the creed of general happiness and the scheme of universal good. Had Edith sought a confidante merely for the sake of easing her heart, it is likely that it was to this good old spinster that she would have turned. But a nature such as hers does not confide its soul-hurt merely for the sake of consolation. In the beginning, when she had hinted something of it to Robin, he had laughed her fears away. Then, a little later, she had spoken to Frank Weatherby, for his sake as well as for her own. He had not laughed, but had listened and reflected, for the time at least; and his manner and his manhood, and that which she considered a bond of sympathy between them, made him the one to whom she must turn, now when the time had come to speak again.

There came a day when Robin did not go to the woods. In the morning he had been about the Lodge and the guides' cabin, of which he was now the sole occupant, greeting Edith in his old manner and suggesting a walk later in the day. But the girl pleaded a number of household duties, and presently Robin disappeared to return no more until late in the afternoon. When he did appear he seemed abstracted and grave, and went to the cabin to prepare for a trip next morning. Frank Weatherby, who had been putting in most of the day over some papers in his room, now returning from a run up the hillside to a point where he could watch the sunset, paused to look in, in passing.

"Miss Deane has been telling me the hermit's story," Robin said, as he saw who it was. "It seems to me one of the saddest stories I ever heard. My regret is that he did not tell it to me himself, years ago. Poor old fellow! As if I would have let it make any difference!"

"But he could not be sure," said Frank. "You were all in the world to him, and he could not afford to take the chance of losing you."

"And to think that all those years he lived up there, watching our struggle. And what a hard struggle it was! Poor mother – I wish she might have known he was there!"

Neither spoke for a time. Then they reviewed their visit to the hermitage together, when they had performed the last sad offices for its lonely occupant. Next morning Robin was away with his party and Frank wandered over to the camp, but found no one there besides the servants.

He surmised that Constance and her parents had gone to visit the little grave on the hillside, and followed in that direction, thinking to meet them. He was nearing the spot when, at a turn in the path, he saw them. He was unobserved, and he saw that Constance had her arms about Mrs. Deane, who was weeping. He withdrew silently and walked slowly back to the Lodge, where he spent the rest of the morning over a writing table in his room, while on the veranda the Circle of Industry – still active, though much reduced as to numbers – discussed the fact that of late Mr. Weatherby was seen oftener at the Lodge, while, on the other hand, Constance had scarcely been seen there since her return. The little woman in black shook her head ominously and hinted that she might tell a good deal if she would, an attitude which Miss Carroway promptly resented, declaring that she had thus far never known her to keep back anything that was worth telling.

It was during the afternoon that Frank, loitering through a little grove of birches near the boat landing, came face to face with Edith Morrison. He saw in an instant that she had something to say to him. She was as white as the birches about her, while in her eyes there was the bright, burning look he had seen there once before, now more fierce and intensified. She paused by a mossy-covered bowlder called the "stone seat," and rested her hand upon it. Frank saw that she was trembling violently. He started to speak, but she forestalled him.

"I have something to tell you," she began, with hurried eagerness. "I spoke of it once before, when I only suspected. Now I know. I don't think you believed me then, and I doubted, sometimes, myself. But I do not doubt any longer. We have been fools all along, you and I. They have never cared for us since she came, but only for each other. And instead of telling us, as brave people would, they have let us go on – blinding us so they could blind others, or perhaps thinking we do not matter enough for them to care. Oh, you are kind and good, and willing to believe in them, but they shall not deceive you any longer. I know the truth, and I mean that you shall know it, too."

Out of the varying emotions with which the young man listened to the rapid torrent of words, there came the conviction that without doubt the girl, to have been stirred so deeply, must have seen or heard something which she regarded as definite. He believed that she was mistaken, but it was necessary that he should hear her, in order, if possible to convince her of her error. He motioned her into the seat formed by the bowlder, for she seemed weak from over-excitement. Leaning against it, he looked down into her dark, striking face, startled to see how worn and frail she seemed.

"Miss Morrison," he began gently, "you are overwrought. You have had a hard summer, with many cares. Perhaps you have not been able to see quite clearly – perhaps things are not as you suppose – perhaps – "

She interrupted him.

"Oh," she said, "I do not suppose – I know! I have known all the time. I have seen it in a hundred ways, only they were ways that one cannot put into words. But now something has happened that anybody can see, and that can be told – something has been seen and told!"

She looked up at Frank – those deep, burning eyes of hers full of indignation. He said:

"Tell me just what you mean. What has happened, and who has seen it?"

"It was yesterday, in the woods – the woods between here and the camp on the Au Sable. They were sitting as we are, and he held her hand, and she had been crying. And when they parted he said to her, 'We must tell them. You must get Mrs. Deane's consent. I am sure Edith suspects something, and it isn't right to go on like this. We must tell them.' Then – then he kissed her. That – of course – "

The girl's voice broke and she could not continue. Frank waited a moment, then he said:

"And who witnessed this scene?"

"Mrs. Kitcher."

"You mean the little woman who dresses in black?"

"Yes, that is the one."

"And you would believe that tale-bearing eavesdropper?"

"I must. I have seen so much myself."

"Then, let me say this. I believe that most of what she told you is false. She may have seen them together. She may have seen him take her hand. I know that Miss Deane told Robin something yesterday that related to his past life, and that it was a sad tale. It might easily bring the tears, and she would give him her hand as an old friend. There may have been something said about his telling you, for there is no reason why you should not know the story. It is merely of an old man who is dead, and who knew Robin's mother. So far as anything further, I believe that woman invented it purely to make mischief. One who will spy and listen will do more. I would not believe her on oath – nor must you, either."

But Edith still shook her head.

"Oh, you don't know!" she persisted. "There has been much besides. It is all a part of the rest. You have not a woman's intuition, and Robin has not a woman's skill in deceiving. There is something – I know there is something – I have seen it all along. And, oh, what should Robin keep from me?"

"Have you spoken to him of it?"

"Once – about the time you came – he laughed at me. I would hardly mention it again."

"Yet it seems to me that would be the thing to do," Frank reflected aloud. "At least, you can ask him about the story told him by Miss Deane. You – you may say I mentioned it."

Edith regarded him in amaze.

"And you think I could do that – that I could ask him of anything that he did not tell me of his own accord? Will you ask Miss Deane about that meeting in the woods?"

Frank shook his head.

"I do not need to do so. I know about it."

She looked at him quickly – puzzled for the moment as to his meaning – wondering if he, too, might be a part of a conspiracy against her happiness. Then she said, comprehending:

"No, you only believe. I have not your credulity and faith. I see things as they are, and it is not right that you should be blinded any longer. I had to tell you."

She rose with quick suddenness as if to go.

"Wait," he said. "I am glad you told me. I believe everything is all right, whatever that woman saw. I believe she saw very little, and until you have seen and learned for yourself you must believe that, too. Somehow, everything always comes out right. It must, you know, or the world is a failure. And this will come out right. Robin will tell you the story when he comes back, and explain everything. I am sure of it. Don't let it trouble you for a single moment."

He put out his hand instinctively and she took it. Her eyes were full of hot tears. It came upon Frank in that instant that if Mrs. Kitcher were watching now she would probably see as much to arouse suspicion as she had seen the day before, and he said so without hesitation. Edith made a futile effort to reflect his smile.