Paine Albert Bigelow
The Lucky Piece: A Tale of the North Woods

CHAPTER XV
EDITH AND FRANK

It may have been an hour – perhaps two of them – since Robin with Constance and her mother had passed him on the way to the Lodge, when suddenly Frank heard some one hurrying down the path. It was the rustle of skirts that he heard, and he knew that it was a woman running. Just at the little grove of birches she stopped and seemed to hesitate. In the silence of the place he could hear her breath come pantingly, as from one laboring under heavy excitement. Then there was a sort of sobbing moan, and a moment later a voice that he scarcely recognized as that of Edith Morrison, so full of wild anguish it was, called his name. He had already risen, and was at her side in an instant.

"What is it?" he demanded; "tell me everything – tell me quickly!"

"Oh," she wailed, "I knew you must be here. They couldn't find you, and I knew why. I knew you had been here, and had seen what I saw, and heard what I heard. Oh, you must go to her – you must go at once!"

She had seized his arm with both hands, shaking with a storm of emotion – of terror, it seemed – her eyes burning through the dark.

"When I saw that, I went mad," she raved on. "I saw everything through a black mist, and out of it the devil came and tempted me. He put the means in my hands to destroy my enemy, and I have done it – oh, I have done it! You said it was the Devil's Garden, and it is! Oh, it is his – I know it! I know it!"

The girl was fairly beside herself – almost incoherent – but there was enough in her words and fierce excitement to fill Frank with sudden apprehension.

"What is it you have done?" he demanded. "Tell me what you mean by the devil tempting you to destroy your enemy. What have you done?"

A wave of passion, anguish, remorse broke over her, and she clung to him heavily. She could not find voice at first. When she did, it had become a shuddering whisper.

"I have killed her!" she managed to gasp. "I have killed her! I did it with the Yellow Danger – you remember – the Yellow Danger – that day in the Devil's Garden – that poison one – that deadly one with the cup – there were some among those she brought to-night. She must have left them there by mistake. I knew them – I remembered that day – and, oh, I have been there since. But I was about to throw them away when the devil came from his garden and tempted me. He said no one could ever suspect or blame me. I put one of the deadly ones among those that went to her place at dinner. When it was too late I was sorry. I realized, all at once, that I was a murderer and must not live. So I ran down here to throw myself in the lake. Then I remembered that you were here, and that perhaps you could do something to save her. Oh, she doesn't know! She is happy up there, but she is doomed. You must help her! You must! Oh, I do not want to die a murderer! I cannot do that – I cannot!"

The girl's raving had been in part almost inaudible, but out of it the truth came clearly. Constance had brought some mushrooms to the Lodge, and these, as usual, had been sent in to Edith to prepare. Among them Edith had found some which she recognized as those declared by Constance to be deadly, and these she had allowed to go to Constance's plate. Later, stricken with remorse, she had rushed out to destroy herself, and was now as eager to save her victim.

All this rushed through Frank's brain in an instant, and for a moment he remembered only that day in the Devil's Garden, and the fact that a deadly fungus which Constance had called the Yellow Danger was about to destroy her life. But then, in a flash, came back the letter, written from Lake Placid, in which Constance had confessed a mistake, and referred to a certain Amanita which she had thought poisonous as a choice edible mushroom, called by the ancients "food of the gods." He remembered now that this was the Orange Amanita or "Yellow Danger," and a flood of hope swept over him; but he must be certain of the truth.

"Miss Morrison," he said, in a voice that was at once gentle and grave, "this is a bitter time for us all. But you must be calm, and show me, if you can, one of those yellow mushrooms you did not use. I have reason to hope that they are not the deadly ones after all. But take me where I can see them, at once."

His words and tone seemed to give the girl new strength and courage.

"Oh, don't tell me that unless it is true!" she pleaded. "Don't tell me that just to get me to go back to the Lodge! Oh, I will do anything to save her! Come – yes – come, and I will show them to you!"

She started hurriedly in the direction of the Lodge, Frank keeping by her side. As they neared the lights she seized his arm and detained him an instant.

"You will not let her die?" She trembled, her fear returning. "She is so young and beautiful – you will not let her die? I will give up Robin, but she must not die."

He spoke to her reassuringly, and they pushed on, making a wide detour which brought them to the rear of the Lodge. Through the window they saw the servants still passing to and fro into the dining-room serving a few belated guests. From it a square of light penetrated the woods behind, and on the edge of this they paused – the girl's eyes eagerly scanning the ground.

"I hid them here," she said. "I did not put them in the waste, for fear some one would see them."

Presently she knelt and brushed aside the leaves. Something like gold gleamed before her and she seized upon it. A moment later she had uncovered another similar object.

"There," she said chokingly; "there they are! Tell me – tell me quick! Are they the deadly ones?"

He gave them a quick glance in the light, then he said:

"I think not, but I cannot be sure here. Come with me to the guide's cabin. It was dark as we came up, but it was open. I will strike a light."

They hurried across to the little detached cabin and pushed in. Frank struck a match and lit a kerosene bracket lamp. Then he laid the two yellow mushrooms on the table beneath it, and from an inner pocket drew a small and rather mussed letter and opened it – his companion watching every movement with burning eager eyes.

"This is a letter from Miss Deane," he said, "written me from Lake Placid. In it she says that she made a mistake about the Orange Amanita that she called the Yellow Danger. These are her words – a rule taken from the book:

"'If the cup of the Yellow Amanita is present, the plant is harmless. If the cup is absent, it is poisonous.'"

He bent forward and looked closely at the specimens before him.

"That is surely the cup," he said. "She gathered these and put them among the others by intention, knowing them to be harmless. She is safe, and you have committed no crime."

His last words fell on insensate ears. Edith drew a quick breath that was half a cry, and an instant later Frank saw that she was reeling. He caught her and half lifted her to a bench by the door, where she lay insensible. An approaching step caught Frank's ear and, as he stepped to the door, Robin Farnham, who had seen the light in the cabin, was at the entrance. A startled look came into his eyes as he saw Edith's white face, but Frank said quietly:

"Miss Morrison has had a severe shock – a fright. She has fainted, but I think there is no danger. I will remain while you bring a cup of water."

There was a well at the end of the Lodge, and Robin returned almost immediately with a filled cup.

Already Edith showed signs of returning consciousness, and Frank left the two, taking his way to the veranda, where he heard the voices of Constance and her mother, mingled with that of Miss Carroway. He ascended the steps with a resolute tread and went directly to Constance, who came forward to meet him.

"And where did you come from?" she demanded gayly. "We looked for you all about. Mamma and I came over on purpose to dine with you, and I brought a very especial dish, which I had all to myself. Still, we did miss you, and Miss Carroway has been urging us to send out a searching party."

Frank shook hands with Mrs. Deane and Miss Carroway, apologizing for his absence and lateness. Then he turned to Constance, and together they passed down to the further end of the long veranda. Neither spoke until they were out of earshot of the others. Then the girl laid her hand gently on her companion's arm.

"I have something to tell you," she began. "I came over on purpose – something I have been wanting to say a long time, only – "

He interrupted her.

"I know," he said; "I can guess what it is. That was why I did not come sooner. I came now because I have something to say to you. I did not intend to come at all, but then something happened and – I have changed my mind. I will only keep you a moment."

His voice was not quite steady, but grave and determined, with a tone in it which the girl did not recognize. Her hand slipped from his arm.

"Tell me first," he went on, "if you are quite sure that the mushrooms you brought for dinner – all of them – the yellow ones – are entirely harmless."

Certainly this was an unexpected question. Something in the solemn manner and suddenness of it may have seemed farcical. For an instant she perhaps thought him jesting, for there was a note of laughter in her voice as she replied:

"Oh, yes; quite certain. Those are the Cæsar mushrooms – food of the gods – I brought them especially for you. But how did you know of them?"

He did not respond to this question, nor to her light tone.

"Miss Deane," he went on, "I know perfectly well what you came here to say. I happened to be in the little grove of birches to-night when you landed with your mother and Robin Farnham, and I saw and heard what took place on the dock, almost before I realized that I was eavesdropping. Unfortunately, though I did not know it then, another saw and heard, as well, and the shock of it was such that it not only crushed her spirit but upset her moral balance for the time. You will know, of course, that I refer to Edith Morrison. She had to know, and perhaps no one is to blame for her suffering – and mine; only it seems unfortunate that the revelation should have come just as it did rather than in the gentler way which you perhaps had planned."

He paused a moment to collect words for what he had to say next. Constance was looking directly at him, though her expression was lost in the dusk. Her voice, however, was full of anxiety.

"There is a mistake," she began eagerly. "Oh, I will explain, but not now. Where is Edith? Tell me first what has happened to Edith."

"I will do that, presently. She is quite safe. The man she was to marry is with her. But first I have something to say – something that I wish to tell you before – before I go. I want to say to you in all honesty that I consider Robin Farnham a fine, manly fellow – more worthy of you than I – and that I honor you in your choice, regretting only that it must bring sorrow to other hearts. I want to confess to you that never until after that day upon the mountain did I realize the fullness of my love for you – that it was all in my life that was worth preserving – that it spoke to the best there was in me. I want you to know that it stirred old ambitions and restored old dreams, and that I awoke to renewed effort and to the hope of achievement only because of you and of your approval. The story I read to you that day on the mountain was my story. I wrote it those days while you were away. It was the beginning of a work I hoped to make worth while. I believed that you cared, and that with worthy effort I could win you for my own. I had Robin Gray's character in mind for my hero, not dreaming that I should be called upon to make a sacrifice on my own account, but now that the time is here I want you to know that I shall try not to make it grudgingly or cravenly, but as manfully as I can. I want to tell you from my heart and upon my honor that I wish you well – that if ever the day comes when I can be of service to you or to him, I will do whatever lies in my power and strength. It is not likely such a time will ever come, for in the matter of means you will have ample and he will have enough. Those bonds which poor old Robin Gray believed worthless all these years have been restored to their full value, and more; and, even if this were not true, Robin Farnham would make his way and command the recognition and the rewards of the world. What will become of my ambition I do not know. It awoke too late to mean anything to you, and the world does not need my effort. As a boy, I thought it did, and that my chances were all bright ahead. But once, a long time ago, in these same hills, I gave my lucky piece to a little mountain girl, and perhaps I gave away my opportunities with it, and my better strength. Now, there is no more to say except God bless you and love you, as I always will."

And a moment later he added:

"I left Miss Morrison with Robin Farnham in the guide's cabin. If she is not there you will probably find her in her room. Be as kind to her as you can. She needs everything."

He held out his hand then, as if to leave her. But she took it and held it fast. He felt that hers trembled.

"You are brave and true," she said, "and you cannot go like this. You will not leave the Lodge without seeing me again. Promise me you will not. I have something to say to you – something it is necessary you should know. It is quite a long story and will take time. I cannot tell it now. Promise me that you will walk once more with me to-morrow morning. I will go now to Edith; but promise me what I ask. You must."

"It is not fair," he said slowly, "but I promise you."

"You need not come for me," she said. "Our walk will be in the other direction. I will meet you here quite early."

He left her at the entrance of the wide hall and, ascending to his room, began to put his traps together in readiness for departure by stage next day.

Constance descended the veranda steps and crossed over to the guides' cabin, where a light still shone. As she approached the open door she saw Edith and Robin sitting on the bench, talking earnestly. Edith had been crying, but appeared now in a calmer frame of mind. Robin held both her hands in his, and she made no apparent attempt to withdraw them. Then came the sound of footsteps and Constance stood in the doorway. For a moment Edith was startled. Then, seeing who it was, she sprang up and ran forward with extended arms.

"Forgive me! Oh, forgive me!" she cried; "I did not know! I did not know!"

CHAPTER XVI
THE LUCKY PIECE

True to her promise, Constance was at the Lodge early next morning. Frank, a trifle pale and solemn, waited on the veranda steps. Yet he greeted her cheerfully enough, for the Circle of Industry, daily dwindling in numbers but still a quorum, was already in session, and Miss Carroway and the little woman in black had sharp eyes and ears. Constance went over to speak to this group. With Miss Carroway she shook hands.

Frank lingered by the steps, waiting for her, but instead of returning she disappeared into the Lodge and was gone several minutes.

"I wanted to see Miss Morrison," she exclaimed, in a voice loud enough for all to hear. "She did not seem very well last night. I find she is much better this morning."

Frank did not make any reply, or look at her. He could not at all comprehend. They set out in the old way, only they did not carry the basket and book of former days, nor did the group on the veranda call after them with warning and advice. But Miss Carroway looked over to the little woman in black with a smile of triumph. And Mrs. Kitcher grimly returned the look with another which may have meant "wait and see."

A wonderful September morning had followed the perfect September night. There was a smack of frost in the air, but now, with the flooding sunlight, the glow of early autumn and the odors of dying summer time, the world seemed filled with anodyne and glory. Frank and Constance followed the road a little way and then, just beyond the turn, the girl led off into a narrow wood trail to the right – the same they had followed that day when they had visited the Devil's Garden.

She did not pause for that now. She pushed ahead as one who knew her ground from old acquaintance, with that rapid swinging walk of hers which seemed always to make her a part of these mountains, and their uncertain barricaded trails. Frank followed behind, rarely speaking save to comment upon some unusual appearance in nature – wondering at her purpose in it all, realizing that they had never continued so far in this direction before.

They had gone something less than a mile, perhaps, when they heard the sound of tumbling water, and a few moments later were upon the banks of a broad stream that rushed and foamed between the bowlders. Frank said, quietly:

"This is like the stream where I caught the big trout – you remember?"

"It is the same," she said, "only that was much farther up. Come, we will cross."

He put out his hand as if to assist her. She did not take it, but stepped lightly to a large stone, then to another and another – springing a little to one side here, just touching a bowlder all but covered with water there, and so on, almost more rapidly than Frank could follow – as one who knew every footing of that uncertain causeway. They were on the other side presently, and took up the trail there.

"I did not know you were so handy crossing streams," said Frank. "I never saw you do it before."

"But that was not hard. I have crossed many worse ones. Perhaps I was lighter of foot then."

They now passed through another stretch of timber, Constance still leading the way. The trail was scarcely discernible here and there, as one not often used, but she did not pause. They had gone nearly a mile farther when a break of light appeared ahead, and presently they came to a stone wall and a traveled road. Constance did not scale the wall, but seated herself on it as if to rest. A few feet away Frank leaned against the barrier, looking at the road and then at his companion, curious but silent. Presently Constance said:

"You are wondering what I have to tell you, and why I have brought you all this way to tell it. Also, how I could follow the trail so easily – aren't you?" and she smiled up at him in the old way.

"Yes," admitted Frank; "though as for the trail, I suppose you must have been over it before – some of those times before I came."

She nodded.

"That is true. You were not here when I traveled this trail before. It was Robin who came with me the last time. But that was long ago – almost ten years."

"You have a good memory."

"Yes, very good – better than yours. That is why I brought you here to-day – to refresh your memory."

There was something of the old banter in her voice, and something in her expression, inscrutable though it was, that for some reason set his heart to beating. He wondered if she could be playing with him. He could not understand, and said as much.

"You brought me here to tell me a story," he concluded. "Isn't that what you said? I shall miss the Lake Placid hack if we do not start back presently."

Again that inscrutable, disturbing look.

"Is it so necessary that you should start to-day?" she asked. "Mr. Meelie, I am sure, will appreciate your company just as much another time. And to-day is ours."

That look – it kept him from saying something bitter then.

"The story – you are forgetting it," he said, quietly.

"No, I am not forgetting." The banter had all gone out of her voice, and it had become gentle – almost tender. A soft, far-away look had come into her eyes. "I am only trying to think how to tell it – how to begin. I thought perhaps you might help me – only you don't – your memory is so poor."

He had no idea of her meaning now, and ventured no comment.

"You do not help me," she went on. "I must tell my little story alone. After all, it is only a sequel – do you care for sequels?"

There was something in her face just then that, had it not been for all that had come between them, might have made him take her in his arms.

"I – I care for what you are about to tell," he said.

She regarded him intently, and a great softness came into her eyes.

"It is the sequel of a story we heard together," she began, "that day on McIntyre, in the hermit's cabin. You remember that he spoke of the other child – a little girl – hers. This is the story of that little girl. You have heard something of her already – how the brother toiled for her and his mother – how she did not fully understand the bitterness of it all. Yet she tried to help – a little. She thought of many things. She had dreams that grew out of the fairy book her mother used to read to her, and she looked for Aladdin caves among the hills, and sometimes fancied herself borne away by the wind and the sea to some far Eastern land where the people would lay their treasures at her feet. But more than all she waited for the wonderful fairy prince who would one day come to her with some magic talisman of fortune which would make them all rich, and happy ever after.

"Yet, while she dreamed, she really tried to help in other ways – little ways of her own – and in the summer she picked berries and, standing where the stage went by, she held them out to the tourists who, when the stage halted, sometimes bought them for a few pennies. Oh, she was so glad when they bought them – the pennies were so precious – though it meant even more to her to be able to look for a moment into the faces of those strangers from another world, and to hear the very words that were spoken somewhere beyond the hills."

She paused, and Frank, who had leaned a bit nearer, started to speak, but she held up her hand for silence.

"One day, when the summer was over and all the people were going home – when she had gathered her last few berries, for the bushes were nearly bare – she stood at her place on the stone in front of the little house at the top of the hill, waiting for the stage. But when it came, the people only looked at her, for the horses did not stop, but galloped past to the bottom of the hill, while she stood looking after them, holding that last saucer of berries, which nobody would buy.

"But at the foot of the hill the stage did stop, and a boy, oh, such a handsome boy and so finely dressed, leaped out and ran back all the way up the hill to her, and stood before her just like the prince in the fairy tales she had read, and told her he had come to buy her berries. And then, just like the prince, he had only an enchanted coin – a talisman – his lucky piece. And this he gave to her, and he made her take it. He took her hand and shut it on the coin, promising he would come for it again some day, when he would give her for it anything she might wish, asking only that she keep it safe. And then, like the prince, he was gone, leaving her there with the enchanted coin. Oh, she hardly dared to look, for fear it might not be there after all. But when she opened her hand at last and saw that it had not vanished, then she was sure that all the tales were true, for her fairy prince had come to her at last."

Again Frank leaned forward to speak, a new light shining in his face, and again she raised her hand to restrain him.

"You would not help me," she said, "your memory was so poor. Now, you must let me tell the story.

"The child took the wonderful coin to her mother. I think she was very much excited, for she wept and sobbed over the lucky talisman that was to bring fortune for them all. And I know that her mother, pale, and in want, and ill, kissed her and smiled, and said that now the good days must surely come.

"They did not come that winter – a wild winter of fierce cold and terrible storms. When it was over and the hills were green with summer, the tired mother went to sleep one day, and so found her good fortune in peace and rest.

"But for the little girl there came a fortune not unlike her dreams. That year a rich man and woman had built a camp in the hills. There was no Lodge, then; everything was wild, and supplies hard to get. The child's brother sold vegetables to the camp, sometimes letting his little sister go with him. And because she was of the same age as a little girl of the wealthy people, now and then they asked her to spend the day, playing, and her brother used to come all the way for her again at night. There was one spot on the hillside where they used to play – an open, sunny place that they loved best of all – and this they named their Garden of Delight; and it was truly that to the little girl of the hills who had never had such companionship before.

"But then came a day when a black shadow lay on the Garden of Delight, for the little city child suddenly fell ill and died. Oh, that was a terrible time. Her mother nearly lost her mind, and was never quite the same again. She would not confess that her child was dead, and she was too ill to be taken home to the city, so a little grave was made on the hillside where the children had played together, and by and by the feeble woman crept there to sit in the sun, and had the other little girl brought there to play, as if both were still living. It was just then that the mother of Robin and his little sister died, and the city woman, when she heard of it, said to the little girl: 'You have no mother and I have no little girl. I will be your mother and you shall be my little girl. You shall have all the dresses and toys; even the name – I will give you that.' She would have helped the boy, too, but he was independent, even then, and would accept nothing. Then she made them both promise that neither would ever say to any one that the little girl was not really hers, and she made the little girl promise that she would not speak of it, even to her, for she wanted to make every one, even herself, believe that the child was really hers. She thought in time it might take the cloud from her mind, and I believe it did, but it was years before she could even mention the little dead girl again. And the boy and his sister kept their promise faithfully, though this was not hard to do, for the rich parents took the little girl away. They sailed across the ocean, just as she had expected to do some day, and she had beautiful toys and dresses and books, just as had always happened in the fairy tales.

"They did not come back from across the ocean. The child's foster father had interests there and could remain abroad for most of the year, and the mother cared nothing for America any more. So the little girl grew up in another land, and did not see her brother again, and nobody knew that she was not really the child of the rich people, or, if any did know, they forgot.

"But the child remembered. She remembered the mountains and the storms, and the little house at the top of the hill, and her mother, and the brother who had stayed among the hills, and who wrote now and then to tell them he was making his way. But more than all she remembered the prince – her knight she called him as she grew older – because it seemed to her that he had been so noble and brave to come back up the hill and give her his lucky piece that had brought her all the fortune. Always she kept the coin for him, ready when he should call for it, and when she read how Elaine had embroidered a silken covering for the shield of Launcelot, she also embroidered a little silken casing for the coin and wore it on her neck, and never a day or night did she let it go away from her. Some day she would meet him again, and then she must have it ready, and being a romantic schoolgirl, she wondered sometimes what she might dare to claim for it in return. For he would be a true, brave knight, one of high purpose and noble deeds; and by day the memory of the handsome boy flitted across her books, and by night she dreamed of him as he would some day come to her, all shining with glory and high resolve."

Again she paused, this time as if waiting for him to speak. But now he only stared at the bushes in front of him, and she thought he had grown a little pale. She stepped across the wall into the road.

"Come," she said; "I will tell you the rest as we walk along."

He followed her over the wall. They were at the foot of a hill, at the top of which there was a weather-beaten little ruin, once a home. He recognized the spot instantly, though the hill seemed shorter to him, and less steep. He turned and looked at her.

"My memory has all come back," he said; "I know all the rest of the story."

"But I must tell it to you. I must finish what I have begun. The girl kept the talisman all the years, as I have said, often taking it out of the embroidered case to study its markings, which she learned to understand. And she never lost faith in it, and she never failed to believe that one day the knight with the brave, true heart would come to claim it and to fulfill his bond.

"And by and by her school-days were ended, and then her parents decided to return to their native land. The years had tempered the mother's sorrow, and brought back a measure of health. So they came back to America, and for the girl's sake mingled with gay people, and by and by, one day – it was at a fine place and there were many fine folk there – she saw him. She saw the boy who had been her fairy prince – who had become her knight – who had been her dream all through the years.

"She knew him instantly, for he looked just as she had known he would look. He had not changed, only to grow taller, more manly and more gentle – just as she had known he would grow with the years. She thought he would come to her – that like every fairy prince, he must know – but when at last he stood before her, and she was trembling so that she could hardly stand, he bowed and spoke only as a stranger might. He had forgotten – his memory was so poor.

"Yet something must have drawn him to her. For he came often to where she was, and by and by they rode and drove and golfed together over the hills, during days that were few but golden, for the child had found once more her prince of the magic coin – the knight who did not remember, yet who would one day win his coin – and again she dreamed, this time of an uplifting, noble life, and of splendid ambitions realized together.