CHAPTER IX
A SHELTER IN THE FOREST
Certainly the house of the hermit, for such he undoubtedly was, proved aremarkable place. There was no regular form to the room in which Frankand Constance found themselves, nor could they judge as to its size. Itsoutlines blended into vague shadows, evidently conforming to theposition of the growing trees which constituted its supports. The wallswere composed of logs of varying lengths, adjusted to the spaces betweenthe trees, intermingled with stones and smaller branches, the wholecemented or mud-plastered together in a concrete mass. At the corner ofthe fireplace, and used as one end of it, was a larger flat stone, whichbecame not only a part of the wall but served as a wide shelf or tablewithin, and this, covered with skins, supported a large wooden bowl ofnuts, a stone hammer somewhat resembling a tomahawk, a few well-wornbooks, also a field glass in a leather case, such as tourists use. On aheavy rustic mantel were numerous bits and tokens of the forest, andsuspended above it, on wooden hooks, was a handsome rifle. On thehearth below was a welcome blaze, with a heavy wooden settle, wide ofseat, upon which skins were thrown, drawn up comfortably before thefire. The other furniture in the room consisted of a high-backedarmchair, a wooden table, and what might have been a bench, outlined inthe dimness of a far corner where the ceiling seemed to descend almostto the ground, and did, in fact, join the top of a low mound whichformed the wall on that side. But what seemed most remarkable in thissingular dwelling-place were the living trees which here and there likecolumns supported the roof. The heavy riven shingles and a thatching oftwisted grass had been fitted closely about them above, and the hewn orpuncheon floor was carefully joined around them below. Lower limbs hadbeen converted into convenient hooks, while attached here and there nearthe ceiling were several rustic, nest-like receptacles, showing a fringeof grass and leaves. As Frank and Constance entered this strange shelterthere had been a light scurrying of shadowy forms, a whisking into thesesafe retreats, and now, as the strangers stood in the cheerful glow ofthe fire and the sputtering pine-knot, they were regarded not only bythe hermit, but by a score or more of other half-curious, half-timideyes that shone bright out of the vague dimness behind. The ghostlyscampering, the shadowy flitting, and a small, subdued chatter from thedusk enhanced in the minds of the visitors a certain weird impression ofthe place and constrained their speech. There was no sensation of fear.It was only a vague uneasiness, or rather that they felt themselvesharsh and unwarranted intruders upon a habitation and a life in whichthey had no part. Their host broke the silence.
"You must needs pardon the demeanor of my little friends," he said."They are unaccustomed to strangers." He indicated the settle, andadded: "Be seated. You are weary, without doubt, and your clothes seemdamp." Then he noticed the basket and the large fish at Frank's belt. "Afine trout," he said; "I have not seen so large a one for years."
Frank nodded with an anxious interest.
"Would you like it?" he asked. "I have a basketful besides, and would itbe possible--could we, I mean, manage to cook a few of them? I am veryhungry, and I am sure my companion, Miss Deane, would like a bitealso."
Constance had dropped down on the settle, and was leaning toward thefire--her hands outspread before it.
"I am famished," she confessed, and added, "oh, and will you let me cookthe fish? I can do it quite well."
The hermit did not immediately reply to the question.
"Miss Deane," he mused; "that is your name, then?"
"Yes, Constance Deane, and this is Mr. Frank Weatherby. We have beenlost on the mountain all day without food. We shall be so thankful ifyou will let us prepare something, and will then put us on the trailthat leads to Spruce Lodge."
The hermit stirred the fire to a brighter blaze and laid on a freshpiece of wood.
"That will I do right gladly," he said, "if you will accept my humbleways. Let me take the basket; I will set about the matter."
Gladly enough Frank unloosed his burden, and surrendered the big troutand the basket to his host. As the latter turned away from the fire adozen little forms frisked out of the shadows behind and ran over himlightly, climbing to his shoulders, into his pockets, clinging on tohis curious dress wherever possible--chattering, and still regardingthe strange intruders with bright, inquisitive eyes. They were tiny redsquirrels, it seemed, and their home was here in this nondescriptdwelling with this eccentric man. Suddenly the hermit spoke to them--anunknown word with queer intonation. In an instant the little bevy ofchatterers leaped away from him, scampering back to their retreats.Frank, who stood watching, saw a number of them go racing to a tree ofgoodly size and disappear into a hole near the floor.
The hermit turned, smiling a little, and the firelight fell on his face.For the first time Frank noticed the refinement and delicacy of themeager features. The hermit said:
"That is their outlet. The tree is hollow, and there is another openingabove the roof. In winter the birds use it, too."
He disappeared now into what seemed to be another apartment, shutting adoor behind. Frank dropped down on the settle by Constance, thoroughlytired, stretched out his legs, and gave himself up to the comfort of thewarm glow.
"Isn't it all wonderful?" murmured Constance. "It is just a dream, ofcourse. We are not really here, and I shall wake up presently. I hadjust such fancies when I was a child. Perhaps I am still wandering inthat awful mist, and this is the delirium. Oh, are you sure we arereally here?"
"Quite sure," said Frank. "And it seems just a matter of course to me. Ihave known all along that this wood was full of mysteries--enchantments,and hermits, and the like. Probably there are many such things if weknew where to look for them."
The girl's voice dropped still lower.
"How quaintly he talks. It is as if he had stepped out of some oldbook."
Frank nodded toward the stone shelf by the fire.
"He lives chiefly in books, I fancy, having had but one other visitor."
The young man lifted one of the worn volumes and held it to the light.It was a copy of Shakespeare's works--a thick book, being a completeedition of the plays. He laid it back tenderly.
"He dwells with the men and women of the master," he said, softly.
There followed a little period of silence, during which they drank inthe cheer and comfort of the blazing hearth. Outside, the thunderrolled heavily now and then, and the rain beat against the door. Whatdid it matter? They were safe and sheltered, and together. Constanceasked presently: "What time is it?" And, looking at his watch, Frankreplied:
"A little after three. An hour ago we were wandering up there in themist. It seems a year since then, and a lifetime since I took that bigtrout."
"It is ages since I started this morning," mused Constance. "Yet wedivide each day into the same measurements, and by the clock it is onlya little more than six hours."
"It is nine since I left the Lodge," reflected Frank, "after a verylight and informal breakfast at the kitchen door. Yes, I am willing toconfess that such time should not be measured in the ordinary way."
There was a sharper crash of thunder and a heavier gust of rain. Then afierce downpour that came to them in a steady, muffled roar.
"When shall we get home?" Constance asked, anxiously.
"We won't worry, now. Likely this is only a shower. It will not takelong to get down the mountain, once we're in the trail, and it's light,you know, until seven."
The door behind was pushed open and the hermit re-entered. He bore aflat stone and a wooden bowl, and knelt down with them before the fire.The glowing embers he heaped together and with the aid of a large pebbleset the flat stone at an angle before them. Then from the wooden bowl heemptied a thick paste of coarse meal upon the baking stone, and smoothedit with a wooden paddle.
Rising he said:
"I fear my rude ways will not appetize you, but I can only offer youwhat cheer I have."
The aroma of the cooking meal began to fill the room.
"Please don't apologize," pleaded Constance. "M
y only hope is that I canrestrain myself until the food is ready."
"I'll ask you to watch the bread for a moment," the hermit said, turningthe stone a little.
"And if I let it burn you may punish me as the goodwife did KingAlfred," answered Constance. Then a glow came into her cheeks that wasnot all of the fire, for the man's eyes--they were deep, burningeyes--were fixed upon her, and he seemed to hang on her every word. Yethe smiled without replying, and again disappeared.
"Conny," admonished Frank, "if you let anything happen to that cake I'lleat the stone."
So they watched the pone carefully, turning it now and then, though theembers glowed very hot and a certain skill was necessary.
The hermit returned presently with a number of the trout dressed, andthese were in a frying-pan that had a long wooden handle, whichConstance and Frank held between them, while their host installed twolarge potatoes in the hot ashes. Then he went away for a little andplaced some things on the table in the middle of the room, returning nowand then to superintend matters. And presently the fish and the cakesand the potatoes were ready, and the ravenous wanderers did not wait tobe invited twice to partake of them. The thunder still rolled atintervals and the rain still beat at the door, but they did not heed.Within, the cheer, if not luxurious, was plenteous and grateful. Thetable furnishings were rude and chiefly of home make. But the guestswere young, strong of health and appetite, and no king's table couldhave supplied goodlier food. Oh, never were there such trout as those,never such baked potatoes, nor never such hot, delicious hoecake. Andbeside each plate stood a bowl of fruit--berries--delicious freshraspberries of the hills.
Presently their host poured a steaming liquid into each of the emptycups by their plates.
"Perhaps you will not relish my tea," he said, "but it is soothing andnot harmful. It is drawn from certain roots and herbs I have gathered,and it is not ill-tasting. Here is sweet, also; made from the mapletree."
An aromatic odor arose from the cups, and, when Constance tasted thebeverage and added a lump of the sugar, she declared the resultdelicious--a decision in which Frank willingly concurred.
The host himself did not join the feast, and presently fell to cookinganother pan of trout. It was a marvel how they disappeared. Even thesquirrels came out of their hiding places to witness this wonderfulfeasting, a few bolder ones leaping upon the table, as was their wont,to help themselves from a large bowl of cracked nuts. And all thisdelighted the visitors. Everything was so extraordinary, so simple andnear to nature, so savoring of the romance of the old days. This wide,rambling room with its recesses lost in the shadows; the low, dim roofsupported by its living columns; the glowing fireplace and the blazingknot; the wild pelts scattered here and there, and the curious skin-cladfigure in the firelight--certainly these were things to stirdelightfully the heart of youth, to set curious fancies flitting throughthe brain.
"Oh," murmured Constance, "I wish we might stay in a place like thisforever!" Then, reddening, added hastily, "I mean--I mean----"
"Yes," agreed Frank, "I mean that, too--and I wish just the same. Wecould have fish every day, and such hoecake, and this nice tea, and Iwould pick berries like these, and you could gather mushrooms. And wewould have squirrels to amuse us, and you would read to me, and perhapsI should write poems of the hills and the storms and the haunted woods,and we could live so close to nature and drink so deeply of its everrenewing youth that old age could not find us, and we should live on andon and be always happy--happy ever after."
The girl's hand lay upon the table, and when his heavier palm closedover it she did not draw it away.
"I can almost love you when you are like this," she whispered.
"And if I am always like this----?"
They spoke very low, and the hermit sat in the high-back chair, bowedand staring into the blaze. Yet perhaps something of what they saiddrifted to his ear--perhaps it was only old and troubling memoriesstirring within him that caused him to rise and walk back and forthbefore the fire.
His guests had finished now, and they came back presently to the big,deep settle, happy in the comfort of plenteous food, the warmth and thecosy seat, and the wild unconvention of it all. The beat of the rain didnot trouble them. Secretly they were glad of any excuse for remaining bythe hermit's hearth.
Their host did not appear to notice them at first, but paced a turn upand down, then seated himself in the high-backed chair and gazed intothe embers. A bevy of the little squirrels crept up and scaled his kneesand shoulders, but with that curious note of warning he sent themscampering. The pine knot sputtered low and he tossed it among thecoals, where it renewed its blaze. For a time there was silence, withonly the rain sobbing at the door. Then by and by--very, very softly,as one who muses aloud--he spoke: "I, too, have had my dreams--dreamswhich were ever of happiness for me--and for another; happiness thatwould not end, yet which was to have no more than its rare beginning.
"That was a long time ago--as many as thirty years, maybe. I have keptbut a poor account of time, for what did it matter here?"
He turned a little to Constance.
"Your face and voice, young lady, bring it all back now, and stir me tospeak of it again--the things of which I have spoken to no onebefore--not even to Robin."
"To Robin!" The words came involuntarily from Constance.
"Yes, Robin Farnham, now of the Lodge. He found his way here once, justas you did. It was in his early days on the mountains, and he came to meout of a white mist, just as you came, and I knew him for her son."
Constance started, but the words on her lips were not uttered.
"I knew him for her son," the hermit continued, "even before he told mehis name, for he was her very picture, and his voice--the voice of aboy--was her voice. He brought her back to me--he made her liveagain--here, in this isolated spot, even as she had lived in mydreams--even as a look in your face and a tone in your voice have madeher live for me again to-day."
There was something in the intensity of the man's low speech, almostmore than in what he said, to make the listener hang upon his words.Frank, who had drawn near Constance, felt that she was trembling, and helaid his hand firmly over hers, where it rested on the seat beside him.
"Yet I never told him," the voice went on, "I never told Robin that Iknew him--I never spoke his mother's name. For I had a fear that itmight sadden him--that the story might send him away from me. And Icould have told nothing unless I told it all, and there was no need. SoI spoke to him no word of her, and I pledged him to speak to no one ofme. For if men knew, the curious would come and I would never have mylife the same again. So I made him promise, and after that first time hecame as he chose. And when he is here she who was a part of my happydream lives again in him. And to you I may speak of her, for to you itdoes not matter, and it is in my heart now, when my days are not many,to recall old dreams."