The Lucky Piece: A Tale of the North Woods

"Which we are as likely to do as to go anywhere," she said, rather crossly. They passed through the corridor of statuary and up the stairway to wander among the paintings of masters old and young. By a wall where the works of Van Dyck, Rembrandt and Velasquez hung, she turned on him reproachfully.

"These men have left something behind them," she commented – "something which the world will preserve and honor. What will you leave behind you?"

"I fear it won't be a picture," he said humbly. "I can't imagine one of my paintings being hung here or any place else. They might hang the painter, of course, though not just here, I fancy."

In another room they lingered before a painting of a boy and a girl driving home the cows – Israel's "Bashful Suitor." The girl contemplated it through half-closed lids.

"You did not look like that," she said. "You were a self-possessed big boy, with smart clothes, and an air of ownership that comes of having a lot of money. You were a good-hearted boy, rather impulsive, I should think, but careless and spoiled. Had Israel chosen you it would have been the girl who was timid, not you."

He laughed easily.

"Now, how can you possibly know what I looked like as a boy?" he demanded. "Perhaps I was just such a slim, diffident little chap as that one. Time works miracles, you know."

"But even time has its limitations. I know perfectly well how you looked at that boy's age. Sometimes I see boys pass along in front of the house, and I say: 'There, he was just like that!'"

Frank felt his heart grow warm. It seemed to him that her confession showed a depth of interest not acknowledged before.

"I'll try to make amends, Constance," he said, "by being a little nearer what you would like to have me now," and could not help adding, "only you'll have to decide just what particular thing you want me to be, and please don't have the North Pole in it."

Out in the blowy wet weather again, by avenues and by-ways, they raced through the Park, climbing up to look over at the wind-driven water of the old reservoir, clambering down a great wet bowlder on the other side – the girl as agile and sure of foot as a boy. Then they pushed toward Eighth Avenue, missed the entrance and wandered about in a labyrinth of bridle-paths and footways, suddenly found themselves back at the big bowlder again, scrambled up it warm and flushed with the exertion, and dropped down for a moment to breathe and to get their bearings.

"I always did get lost in this place," he said. "I have never been able to cross the Park and be sure just where I was coming out." Then they laughed together happily, glad to be lost – glad it was raining and blowing – glad, as children are always glad, to be alive and together.

They were more successful, this time, and presently took an Eighth Avenue car, going down – not because they especially wanted to go down, but because at that time in the afternoon the down cars were emptier. They had no plans as to where they were going, it being their habit on such excursions to go without plans and to come when the spirit moved.

They transferred at the Columbus statue, and she stood looking up at it as they waited for a car.

"That is my kind of a discoverer," she said; "one who sails out to find a new world."

"Yes," he agreed, "and the very next time there is a new world to be discovered I am going to do it."

The lights were already coming out along Broadway, this gloomy wet evening, and the homing throng on the pavements were sheltered by a gleaming, tossing tide of umbrellas. Frank and Constance got out at Madison Square, at the Worth monument, and looked down toward the "Flat-iron" – a pillar of light, looming into the mist.

"Everywhere are achievements," said the girl. "That may not be a thing of beauty, but it is a great piece of engineering. They have nothing like those buildings abroad – at least I have not seen them. Oh, this is a wonderful country, and it is those splendid engineers who have helped to make it so. I know of one young man who is going to be an engineer. He was just a poor boy – so poor – and has worked his way. He would never take help from anybody. I shall see him this summer, when we go to the mountains. He is to be not far away. Oh, you don't know how proud I shall be of him, and how I want to see him and tell him so. Wouldn't you be proud of a boy like that, a – a son or – a brother, for instance?"

She looked up at him expectantly – a dash of rain glistening on her cheek and in the little tangle of hair about her temples. She seemed a bit disappointed that he was not more responsive.

"Wouldn't you honor him?" she demanded, "and love him, too – a boy who had made his way alone?"

"Oh, why, y-yes, of course – only, you know, I hope he won't spend his life building these things" – indicating with his head the great building which they were now passing, the gusts of wind tossing them and making it impossible to keep the umbrella open.

"Oh, but he's to build railroads and great bridges – not houses at all."

"Um – well, that's better. By the way, I believe you go to the Adirondacks this summer."

"Yes, Father has a cottage – he calls it a camp – there. That is, he had. He says he supposes it's a wreck by this time. He hasn't seen it, you know, for years."

"I suppose there is no law against my going to the Adirondacks, too, is there?" he asked, rather meekly. "You know, I should like to see that young man of yours. Maybe I might get some idea of what I ought to be like to make you proud of me. I haven't been there since I was a boy, but I remember I liked it then. No doubt I'd like it this year if – if that young man is there. I suppose I could find a place to stay not more than twenty miles or so from your camp, so you could send word, you know, any time you were getting proud of me."

She laughed – he thought a little nervously.

"Why, yes," she admitted, "there's a sort of hotel or lodge or something, not far away. I know that from Father. He said we might have to stay there awhile until our camp is ready. Oh, but this talk of the mountains makes me want to be there. I wish I were starting to-night!"

It seemed a curious place to discuss a summer's vacation – under a big wind-tossed umbrella, along Broadway on a March evening. Perhaps the incongruity of it became more manifest with the girl's last remark, for her companion chuckled.

"Pretty disagreeable up there to-night," he objected; "besides, I thought you liked all this a few minutes ago."

"Yes, oh, yes; I do, of course! It's all so big and bright and wonderful, though after all there is nothing like the woods, and the wind and rain in the hills."

What a strange creature she was, he thought. The world was so big and new to her, she was confused and disturbed by the wonder of it and its possibilities. She longed to have a part in it all. She would settle down presently and see things as they were – not as she thought they were. He was not altogether happy over the thought of the young man who had made his way and was to be a civil engineer. He had not heard of this friend before. Doubtless it was some one she had known in childhood. He was willing that Constance should be proud of him; that was right and proper, but he hoped she would not be too proud or too personal in her interest. Especially if the young man was handsome. She was so likely to be impulsive, even extreme, where her sympathies were concerned. It was so difficult to know what she would do next.

Constance, meanwhile, had been doing some thinking and observing on her own account. Now she suddenly burst out: "Did you notice the headlines on the news-stand we just passed? The bill that the President has just vetoed? I don't know just what the bill is, but Father is so against it. He'll think the President is fine for vetoing it!" A moment later she burst out eagerly, "Oh, why don't you go in for politics and do something great like that? A politician has so many opportunities. I forgot all about politics."

He laughed outright.

"Try to forget it again," he urged. "Politicians have opportunities, as you say; but some of the men who have improved what seemed the best ones have gone to jail."

"But others had to send them there. You could be one of the noble ones!"

"Yes, of course, but you see I've just made up my mind to work my way through a school of technology and become a civil engineer, so you'll be proud of me – that is, after I've uncovered a few buried cities and found the North Pole. I couldn't do those things so well if I went into political reform." Then they laughed again, inconsequently, and so light-hearted she seemed that Frank wondered if her more serious moods were not for the most part make-believe, to tease him.

At Union Square they crossed by Seventeenth Street back to Fifth Avenue. When they had tacked their way northward for a dozen or more blocks, the cheer of an elaborate dining-room streamed out on the wet pavement.

"It's a good while till dinner," Frank observed. "If your stern parents would not mind, I should suggest that we go in there and have, let me see – something hot and not too filling – I think an omelette soufflé would be rather near it, don't you?"

"Wonderful!" she agreed, "and, do you know, Father said the other day – of course, he's a gentle soul and too confiding – but I heard him say that you were one person he was perfectly willing I should be with, anywhere. I don't see why, unless it is that you know the city so well."

"Mr. Deane's judgment is not to be lightly questioned," avowed the young man, as they turned in the direction of the lights.

"Besides," she supplemented, "I'm so famished. I should never be able to wait for dinner. I can smell that omelette now. And may I have pie – pumpkin pie – just one piece? You know we never had pie abroad, and my whole childhood was measured by pumpkin pies. May I have just a small piece?"

Half an hour later, when they came out and again made their way toward the Deane mansion, the wind had died and the rain had become a mild drizzle. As they neared the entrance of her home they noticed a crouching figure on the lower step. The light from across the street showed that it was a woman, dressed in shabby black, wearing a drabbled hat, decorated with a few miserable flowers. She hardly noticed them, and her face was heavy and expressionless. The girl shrank away and was reluctant to enter.

"It's all right," he whispered to her. "That is the Island type. She wants nothing but money. It's a chance for philanthropy of a very simple kind." He thrust a bill into the poor creature's hand. The girl's eye caught a glimpse of its denomination.

"Oh," she protested, "you should not give like that. I've heard it does much more harm than good."

"I know," he assented. "My mother says so. But I've never heard that she or anybody else has discovered a way really to help these people."

They stood watching the woman, who had muttered something doubtless intended for thanks and was tottering slowly down the street. The girl held fast to her companion's arm, and it seemed to him that she drew a shade closer as they mounted the steps.

"I suppose it's so, about doing them harm," she said, "and I don't think you will ever lead as a philanthropist. Still, I'm glad you gave her the money. I think I shall let you stay to dinner for that."

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 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."