CHAPTER IV
A BRIEF LECTURE AND SOME INTRODUCTIONS
The outside of Spruce Lodge suggested to Frank the Anglo-Saxon castle offive or six hundred years ago, though it was probably better constructedthan most of the castles of that early day. It was really an immenseaffair, and there were certain turrets and a tower which carried out thefeudal idea. Its builder, John Morrison, had been a faithful reader ofScott, and the architecture of the Lodge had in some manner been anexpression of his romantic inclination. Frank thought, however, that thefeudal Saxon might not have had the long veranda facing the little jewelof a lake, where were mirrored the mountains that hemmed it in. WithConstance he sat on the comfortable steps, looking through the tallspruces at the water or at mountain peaks that seemed so near the bluethat one might step from them into the cloudland of an undiscoveredcountry.
No one was about for the moment, the guests having collected in theoffice for the distribution of the daily mail. Robin had gone, too,striding away toward a smaller cabin where the guides kept theirparaphernalia. Frank said:
"You don't know how glad I am to be here with you in this wonderfulplace, Conny. I have never seen anything so splendid as this forest, andI was simply desperate in town as soon as you were gone."
She had decided not to let him call her that again, but concluded tooverlook this offense. She began arranging the contents of her basket onthe step beside her--a gay assortment of toadstools gathered during hermorning walk.
"You see what _I_ have been doing," she said. "I don't suppose it willinterest you in the least, but to me it is a fascinating study. Perhapsif I pursue it I may contribute something to the world's knowledge andto its food supply."
Frank regarded the variegated array with some solemnity.
"I hope, Conny, you don't mean to eat any of those," he said.
"Probably not; but see how beautiful they are."
They were indeed beautiful, for no spot is more rich in fungi of variedhues than the Adirondack woods. There were specimens ranging from paleto white, from cream to lemon yellow--pink that blended into shades ofred and scarlet--gray that deepened to blue and even purple--numerousshades of buff and brown, and some of the mottled coloring. Some werelarge, almost gigantic; some tiny ones were like bits of ivory or coral.Frank evinced artistic enthusiasm, but a certain gastronomic reserve.
"Wonderful!" he said. "I did not suppose there were such mushrooms inthe world--so beautiful. I know now what the line means which says, 'Howbeautiful is death.'"
There was a little commotion just then at the doorway of the Lodge, anda group of guests--some with letters, others with looks of resignationor disappointment--appeared on the veranda. From among them, Mrs. Deane,a rather frail, nervous woman, hurried toward Mr. Weatherby with evidentpleasure. She had been expecting him, she declared, though Constance hadinsisted that he would think twice before he started once for thatforest isolation. They would be in their own quarters in a few days, andit would be just a pleasant walk over there. There were no hard hillsto climb. Mr. Deane walked over twice a day. He was there now,overseeing repairs. The workmen were very difficult.
"But there are _some_ hills, Mamma," interposed Constance--"little ones.Perhaps Mr. Weatherby won't care to climb at all. He has alreadydeclared against my mushrooms. He said something just now about theirfatal beauty--I believe that was it. He's like all the rest ofyou--opposed to the cause of science."
Mrs. Deane regarded the young man appealingly.
"Try to reason with her," she said nervously. "Perhaps she'll listen toyou. She never will to me. I tell her every day that she will poisonherself. She's always tasting of new kinds. She's persuaded me to eatsome of those she had cooked, and I've sent to New York for every knownantidote for mushroom poisoning. It's all right, perhaps, to study themand collect them, but when it comes to eating them to prove that thebook is right about their being harmless, it seems like flying in theface of Providence. Besides, Constance is careless."
"I remember her telling me, as reason for not wanting to be a doctor,something about giving you the wrong medicine last winter."
"She did--some old liniment--I can taste the stuff yet. Constance, I doreally think it's sinful for you to meddle with such uncertain subjects.Just think of eating any of those gaudy things. Constance! How can you?"
Constance patted the nervous little lady on the cheek.
"Be comforted," she said. "I am not going to eat these. I brought themfor study. Most of them are harmless enough, I believe, but they are ofa kind that even experts are not always sure of. They are called_Boleti_--almost the first we have found. I have laid them out here fordisplay, just as the lecturer did last week at Lake Placid."
Miss Deane selected one of the brightly colored specimens.
"This," she began, with mock gravity and a professional air, "is a_Boletus_--known as _Boletus speciosus_--that is, I think itis." She opened the book and ran hastily over the leaves. "Yes,_speciosus_--either that or the _bicolor_--I can't be certain justwhich."
"There, Constance," interrupted Mrs. Deane, "you confess, yourself, youcan't tell the difference. Now, how are we going to know when we arebeing poisoned? We ate some last night. Perhaps they were deadlypoison--how can we know?"
"Be comforted, Mamma; we are still here."
"But perhaps the poison hasn't begun to work yet."
"It should have done so, according to the best authorities, some hoursago. I have been keeping watch of the time."
Mrs. Deane groaned.
"The best authorities? Oh, dear--oh, dear! Are there really anyauthorities in this awful business? And she has been watching the timefor the poison to work--think of it!"
A little group of guests collected to hear the impromptu discussion.Frank, half reclining on the veranda steps, ran his eye over theassembly. For the most part they seemed genuine seekers after recreationand rest in this deep forest isolation. There were brain-workers amongthem--painters and writer folk. Some of the faces Frank thought herecognized. In the foreground was a rather large woman of the NewEngland village type. She stood firmly on her feet, and had a wide,square face, about which the scanty gray locks were tightly curled. Shemoved closer now, and leaning forward, spoke with judicial deliberation.
"Them's tudstools!" she said--a decision evidently intended to be final.She adjusted her glasses a bit more carefully and bent closer to the gaycollection. "The' ain't a single one of 'em a mushroom," she proceeded."We used to have 'em grow in our paster, an' my little nephew, Charlie,that I brought up by hand and is now in the electric works down toHaverford, he used to gather 'em, an' they wa'n't like them at all."
A ripple of appreciation ran through the group, and others drew near toinspect the fungi. Constance felt it necessary to present Frank to thosenearest, whom she knew. He arose to make acknowledgments. With the oldlady, whose name, it appeared, was Miss Carroway, he shook hands. Sheregarded him searchingly.
"You're some taller than my Charlie," she said, and added, "I hope youdon't intend to eat them tudstools, do you? Charlie wouldn't a et one o'them kind fer a thousand dollars. He knew the reel kind that grows inthe medders an' pasters."
Constance took one of Miss Carroway's hands and gave it a friendlysqueeze.
"You are spoiling my lecture," she laughed, "and aiding Mamma indiscrediting me before the world. I will tell you the truth aboutmushrooms. Not the whole truth, but an important one. All toadstools aremushrooms and all mushrooms are toadstools. A few kinds arepoisonous--not many. Most of them are good to eat. The only difficultylies in telling the poison ones."
Miss Carroway appeared interested, but incredulous. Constance continued.
"The sort your Charlie used to gather was the _Agaricus Campestris_, ormeadow mushroom--one of the commonest and best. It has gillsunderneath--not pores, like this one. The gills are like little leavesand hold the spores, or seed as we might call it. The pores of this_Boletus_ do the same thing. You see they are bright yellow, while thetop is purple-red. The stem
is yellow, too. Now, watch!"
She broke the top of the _Boletus_ in two parts--the audience pressingcloser to see. The flesh within was lemon color, but almost instantly,with exposure to the air, began to change, and was presently a darkblue. Murmurs of wonder ran through the group. They had not seen thismarvel before.
"Bravo!" murmured Frank. "You are beginning to score."
"Many of the _Boleti_ do that," Constance resumed. "Some of them arevery bad tasting, even when harmless. Some are poisonous. One of them,the _Satanus_, is regarded as deadly. I don't think this is one of them,but I shall not insist on Miss Carroway and the rest of you eating it."
Miss Carroway sent a startled glance at the lecturer and sweepinglyincluded the assembled group.
"Eat it!" she exclaimed. "Eat that? Well, I sh'd think not! I wouldn'teat that, ner let any o' my folks eat it, fer no money!"
There was mirth among the audience. A young mountain climber in a momentof recklessness avowed his faith by declaring that upon Miss Deane'srecommendation he would eat the whole assortment for two dollars.
"You'd better make it enough for funeral expenses," commented MissCarroway; whereupon the discussion became general and hilarious, and theextempore lecture ceased.
"You see," Constance said to Frank, "I cannot claim serious attention,even upon so vital a subject as the food supply."
"But you certainly entertained them, and I, for one, have a growingrespect for your knowledge." Then, rising, he added, "Speaking of foodreminds me that you probably have some sort of midday refreshment here,and that I would better arrange for accommodations and make myselfpresentable. By the way, Constance," lowering his voice, "I saw astriking-looking girl on the veranda as we were approaching the house awhile ago. I don't think you noticed her, but she had black eyes and aface like an Indian princess. She came out for a moment again, while youwere talking. I thought she rather looked as if she belonged here, butshe couldn't have been a servant."
They had taken a little turn down the long veranda, and Constance waiteduntil they were well out of earshot before she said:
"You are perfectly right--she could not. She is the daughter of Mr.Morrison, who owns the Lodge--Edith Morrison--her father's housekeeper.I shall present you at the first opportunity so that you may lose notime falling in love with her. It will do you no good, though, for sheis going to marry Robin Farnham. The wedding will not take place, ofcourse, until Robin is making his way, but it is all settled, and theyare both very happy."
"And quite properly," commented Frank with enthusiasm. "I heardsomething about it coming over. Mr. Meelie told me. He said they were ahandsome pair. I fully agree with him." The young man smiled down at hiscompanion and added: "Do you know, Conny, if that young man Farnham wereunencumbered, I might expect you to do some falling in love, yourself."
The girl laughed, rather more than seemed necessary, Frank thought, andan added touch of color came into her cheeks.
"I did that years ago," she owned. "I think as much of Robin already asI ever could." Then, less lightly, "Besides, I should not like to be arival of Edith Morrison's. She is a mountain girl, with rather primitiveideas. I do not mean that she is in any sense a savage or evenuncultured. Far from it. Her father is a well-read man for hisopportunities. They have a good many books here, and Edith has learnedthe most of them by heart. Last winter she taught school. But she hasthe mountains in her blood, and in that black hair and those eyes ofhers. Only, of course, you do not quite know what that means. Themountains are fierce, untamed, elemental--like the sea. Such things getinto one's blood and never entirely go away. Of course, you don't quiteunderstand."
Regarding her curiously, Frank said:
"I remember your own hunger for the mountains, even in March. One mightalmost think you native to them, yourself."
"My love for them makes me understand," she said, after a pause; then inlighter tone added, "and I should not wish to get in Edith Morrison'sway, especially where it related to Robin Farnham."
"By which same token I shall avoid getting in Robin Farnham's way,"Frank said, as they entered the Lodge hall--a wide room, which in somemeasure carried out the Anglo-Saxon feudal idea. The floor was strewnwith skins, the dark walls of unfinished wood were hung with antlers andother trophies of the chase. At the farther end was a deep stonefireplace, and above it the mounted head of a wild boar.
"You see," murmured Constance, "being brought up among these things andin the life that goes with them, one is apt to imbibe a good deal ofnature and a number of elementary ideas, in spite of books."
A door by the wide fireplace opened just then, and a girl with jettyhair and glowing black eyes--slender and straight as a young birch--cametoward them with step as lithe and as light as an Indian's. There wassomething of the type, too, in her features. Perhaps in a formergeneration a strain of the native American blood had mingled and blendedwith the fairer flow of the new possessors. Constance Deane went forwardto meet her.
"Miss Morrison," she said cordially, "this is Mr. Weatherby, of NewYork--a friend of ours."
The girl took Frank's extended hand heartily. Indeed, it seemed to theyoung man that there was rather more warmth in her welcome than theoccasion warranted. Her face, too, conveyed a certain gratification inhis arrival--almost as if here were an expected friend. He could nothelp wondering if this was her usual manner of greeting--perhaps due tothe primitive life she had led--the untrammeled freedom of the hills.But Constance, when she had passed them, said:
"I think you are marked for especial favor. Perhaps, after all, Robin isto have a rival."
* * * * *
Yet not all is to be read upon the surface, even when one is sounskilled at dissembling as Edith Morrison. We may see signs, but we maynot always translate their meaning. Her love affair had been one of longstanding, begun when Robin had guided his first party over Marcy to theLodge, then just built--herself a girl of less than a dozen years,trying to take a dead mother's place. How many times since then he hadpassed to and fro, with tourists in summer and hunting parties inwinter. Often during fierce storms he had stayed at the Lodge for a weekor more--gathered with her father and herself before the great log firein the hall while the winds howled and the drifts banked up against thewindows, gleaning from the Lodge library a knowledge of such things asbooks can teach--history, science and the outside world. Then had comethe time when he had decided on a profession, when, with his hoardedearnings and such employment as he could find in the college town, hehad begun his course in a school of engineering. The mountain winterswithout Robin had been lonely ones, but with her father she had devotedthem to study, that she might not be left behind, and had taken thelittle school at last on the North Elba road in order to feel somethingof the independence which Robin knew. In this, the last summer of hismountain life, he had come to her father as chief guide, mainly thatthey might have more opportunity to perfect their plans for the yearsahead. All the trails carried their story, and though young men stillfell in love with Edith Morrison and maids with Robin Farnham, no momentof distrust had ever entered in.
But there would appear to be some fate which does not fail to justifythe old adage concerning true love. With the arrival of Constance Deaneat the Lodge, it became clear to Edith that there had been some curiouschange in Robin. It was not that he became in the least degreeindifferent--if anything he had been more devoted than before. He madeit a point to be especially considerate and attentive when Miss Deanewas present--and in this itself there lay a difference. No other guesthad ever affected his bearing toward her, one way or the other. Edithremembered, of course, that he had known the Deanes, long before, whenthe Lodge was not yet built. Like Constance, she had only been a littlegirl then, her home somewhere beyond the mountains where she had neverheard of Robin. Yet her intuition told her that the fact of a long agoacquaintance between a child of wealthy parents and the farm boy who hadsold them produce and built toy boats for the little girl could not havecaused this difference
now. It was nothing that Constance had engagedRobin to guide her about the woods and carry her book or her basket ofspecimens. Edith had been accustomed to all that, but this time therewas a different attitude between guide and guest--something so subtlethat it could hardly be put into words, yet wholly evident to the eyesof love. Half unconsciously, at first, Edith revolved the problem in hermind, trying to locate the cause of her impression. When next she sawthem alone together, she strove to convince herself that it was nothing,after all. The very effort had made her the more conscious of a reality.
Now had come the third time--to-day--the moment before Frank Weatherby'sarrival. They were approaching the house and did not see her, while shehad lost not a detail of the scene. Robin's very carriage--and hers--theturn of a face, the manner of a word she could not hear, all spoke of acertain tenderness, an understanding, a sort of ownership, itseemed--none the less evident because, perhaps, they themselves were allunconscious of it. The mountain girl remarked the beauty of that otherone and mentally compared it with her own. This girl was taller thanshe, and fairer. Her face was richer in its coloring--she carriedherself like one of the noble ladies in the books. Oh, they were ahandsome pair--and not unlike, she thought. Not that they resembled, yetsomething there was common to both. It must be that noble carriage ofwhich she had been always so proud in Robin. There swept across hermental vision a splendid and heart-sickening picture of Robin going outinto the world with this rich, cultured girl, and not herself, his wife.The Deanes were not pretentious people, and there was wealth enoughalready. They might well be proud of Robin. Edith cherished no personalbitterness toward either Constance or Robin--not yet. Neither did sherealize to what lengths her impetuous, untrained nature might carry her,if really aroused. Her only conscious conclusion thus far was thatRobin and Constance, without knowing it themselves, were drifting into adangerous current, and that this new arrival might become a guide backto safety. Between Frank Weatherby and herself there was the bond of acommon cause.