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Lucky Piece: A Story of the North Woods

<h2>CHAPTER VIII</h2> <h3>WHAT CAME OUT OF THE MIST</h3> It was several hours after Frank Weatherby had set out on the McIntyre trail—when the sun had risen to a point where it came mottling through the tree-tops and dried the vines and bushes along the fragrant, yielding path below—that a girl came following in the way which led up the mountain top. She wore a stout outing costume—short skirt and blouse, heavy boots, and an old felt school hat pinned firmly to luxuriant dark hair. On her arm she carried the basket of many wanderings, and her step was that of health and strength and purpose. One watching Constance Deane unawares—noting her carriage and sureness of foot, the easy grace with which she overcame the various obstructions in her path—might have said that she belonged by right to these woods, was a part of them, and one might have added that she was a perfect flowering of this splendid forest. On the evening before, she had inquired of Robin the precise entrance to the McIntyre trail, and with his general directions she had no hesitation now in setting out on her own account to make the climb which would bring her to the coveted specimens at the mountain top. She would secure them with the aid of no one and so give Frank an exhibition of her independence, and perhaps impress him a little with his own lack of ambition and energy. She had avoided the Lodge, making her way around the lake to the trail, and had left no definite word at home as to her destination, for it was quite certain that Mrs. Deane would worry if it became known that Constance had set off up the mountain alone. Yet she felt thoroughly equal to the undertaking. In her basket she carried some sandwiches, and she had no doubt of being able to return to the Lodge during the afternoon, where she had a certain half-formed idea of finding Frank disconsolately waiting—a rather comforting—even if pathetic—picture of humiliation. Constance did not linger at the trout-brook which had enticed Frank from the narrow upward path, save to dip up a cold drink with the little cup she carried, and to rest up a moment and watch the leaping water as it foamed and sang down the natural stairway which led from one mystery in the dark vistas above to another mystery and wider vistas below—somehow, at last, to reach that deeper and vaster and more impenetrable mystery—the sea. She recalled some old German lines beginning, "Du Bachlein, silberhell und klar," and then she remembered having once recited them to Frank, and how he had repeated them in an English translation: <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "Thou brooklet, silver-bright and clear— Forever passing—always here— Upon thy brink I sit, and think Whence comest thou? Whence goest thou?" </div> </div> He had not confessed it, but she suspected the translation to be his own, and it had exasperated her that one who could do a thing well and with such facility should set so little store by his gift, when another, with a heart hunger for achievement, should have been left so unfavored of the gods. She walked rather more slowly when she had passed the brook—musing upon these things. Then presently the path became precipitous and narrow, and led through thick bushes, and over or under difficult obstructions. Constance drew on a thick pair of gloves to grapple with rough limbs and sharp points of rock. Here and there were fairly level stretches and easy going, but for the most part it was up and up—steeper and steeper—over stones and logs, through heavy bushes and vines that matted across the trail, so that one must stoop down and burrow like a rabbit not to miss the way. Miss Deane began to realize presently that the McIntyre trail was somewhat less easy than she had anticipated. "If Robin calls this an easy trail, I should like to know what he means by a hard one," she commented aloud, as she made her way through a great tumble of logs only to find that the narrow path disappeared into a clump of bushes beyond and apparently brought up plump against a plunging waterfall on the other side. "One would have to be a perfect salmon to scale that!" But arriving at the foot of the fall, she found that the trail merely crossed the pool below and was clearly marked beyond. This was the brook which Frank had not reached. It was no great distance from the summit. But now the climb became steeper than ever—a hand over hand affair, with scratched face and torn dress and frequent pauses for breath. There was no longer any tall timber, but only masses of dwarfed and twisted little oak trees—a few feet high, though gnarled and gray with age, and loaded with acorns. Constance knew these for the scrub-oak, that degenerate but persistent little scion of a noble race, that pushes its miniature forests to the very edge and into the last crevice of the barren mountain top. Soon this diminutive wilderness began to separate into segments and the trail reached a comparative level. Then suddenly it became solid rock, with only here and there a clump of the stunted oak, or a bit of grass. The girl realized that she must be on the summit and would presently reach the peak, where, from a crevice, grew the object of her adventure. She paused a moment for breath, and to straighten her disheveled hair. Also she turned for a look at the view which she thought must lie behind her. But she gave a little cry of disappointment. A white wraith of mist, like the very ghost of a cloud, was creeping silently along the mountain side and veiled the vision of the wide lands below. Where she stood the air was still clear, but she imagined the cloud was creeping nearer and would presently envelop the mountain-top. She would hurry to the peak and try to get a view from the other side, which after all was considered the best outlook. The trail now led over solid granite and could be followed only by little cairns or heaps of stone, placed at some distance apart, but in the clear air easily seen from one to the other. She moved rapidly, for the way was no longer steep, and ere long the tripod which marked the highest point, and near which Robin had seen the strange waxen flower, was outlined against the sky. A moment later when she looked it seemed to her less clear. The air, too, had a chill damp feeling. She turned quickly to look behind her, and uttered a little cry of surprise that was almost terror. The cloud ghost was upon her—she was already enveloped in its trailing cerements. Behind, all was white, and when she turned again the tripod too had well-nigh disappeared. As if about to lose the object of her quest, she started to run, and when an instant later the beacon was lost in a thick fold of white she again opened her lips in a wild despairing cry. Yet she did not stop, but raced on, forgetting even the little guiding cairns which pointed the way. It would have made no difference had she remembered them, for the cloud became so dense that she could not have seen one from the other. How close it shut her in, this wall of white, as impalpable and as opaque as the smoke of burning grass! It seemed a long way to the tripod. It must have been farther than she had thought. Suddenly she realized that the granite no longer rose a little before her, but seemed to drop away. She had missed the tripod, then, and was descending on the other side. Turning, she retraced her steps, more slowly now, trying to keep the upward slope before her. But soon she realized that in this thick and mystifying whiteness she could not be certain of the level—that by thinking so she could make the granite seem to slope a little up or down, and in the same manner, now, she could set the tripod in any direction from her at will. Confused, half terrified at the thought, she stood perfectly still, trying to think. The tripod, she knew, could not be more than a few yards distant, but surrounded by these enchanted walls which ever receded, yet always closed about her she must only wander helplessly and find it by mere chance. And suppose she found it, and suppose she secured the object of her search, how, in this blind spot, would she find her way back to the trail? She recalled now what Robin had said of keeping the trail in the fog. Her heart became cold—numb. The chill mist had crept into her very veins. She was lost—lost as men have been lost in the snow—to die almost within their own door-yards. If this dread cloud would only pass, all would be well, but she remembered, too, hopelessly enough, that she had told no one of her venture, that no one would know where to seek her. And now the sun, also, must be obscured, for the world was darkening. An air that pierced her very marrow blew across the mountain and a drop of rain struck her cheek. Oh, it would be wretched without shelter to face a storm in that bleak spot. She must at least try—she must make every effort to find the trail. She set out in what she believed to be a wide circuit of the peak, and was suddenly rejoiced to come upon one of the little piles of stones which she thought must be one of the cairns, leading to the trail. But which way must she look for the next? She strained her eyes through the milky gloom, but could distinguish nothing beyond a few yards of granite at her feet. It did not avail her to remain by the cairn, yet she dreaded to leave a spot which was at least a point in the human path. She did so, at last, only to wander down into an unmarked waste, to be brought all at once against a segment of the scrub-oak forest and to find before her a sort of opening which she thought might be the trail. Eagerly in the gathering gloom she examined the face of the granite for some trace of human foot and imagined she could make out a mark here and there as of boot nails. Then she came to a bit of grass that seemed trampled down. Her heart leaped. Oh, this must be the trail, after all! She hastened forward, half running in her eagerness. Branches slapped and tore at her garments—long, tenuous filaments, wet and web-like, drew across her face. Twice she fell and bruised herself cruelly. And when she rose the second time, her heart stopped with fear, for she lay just on the edge of a ghastly precipice—the bottom of which was lost in mist and shadows. It had only been a false trail, after all. Weak and trembling she made her way back to the open summit, fearing even that she might miss this now and so be without the last hope of finding the way, or of being found at last herself. Back on the solid granite once more, she made a feeble effort to find one of the cairns, or the tripod, anything that had known the human touch. But now into her confused senses came the recollection that many parties climbed McIntyre, and she thought that one such might have chosen to-day and be somewhere within call. She stood still to listen for possible voices, but there was no sound, and the bitter air across the summit made her shrink and tremble. Then she uttered a loud, long, "Hoo-oo-woo-o!" a call she had learned of mountaineers as a child. She listened breathlessly for an answer. It was no use. Yet she would call again—at least it was an effort—a last hope. "Hoo-oo-woo-oo!" and again "Hoo-oo-woo-oo!" And then her very pulses ceased, for somewhere, far away it seemed, from behind that wall of white her ear caught an answering cry. Once more she called—this time wildly, with every bit of power she could summon. Once more came the answering "Hoo-oo-woo-oo!" and now it seemed much nearer. She started to run in the direction of the voice, stopping every few steps to call, and to hear the reassuring reply. She was at the brushy edge of the summit when through the mist came the words—it was a man's voice, and it made her heart leap—— "Stay where you are! Don't move—I will come to you!" She stood still, for in that voice there was a commanding tone which she was only too eager to obey. She called again and again, but she waited, and all at once, right in front of her it seemed, the voice said: "Well, Conny, it's a good thing I found you. If you had played around here much longer you might have got wet." But Constance was in no mood to take the matter lightly. "Frank! Oh, Frank!" she cried, and half running, half reeling forward, she fell into his arms. And then for a little she gave way and sobbed on his shoulder, just as any girl might have done who had been lost and miserable and had all at once found the shoulder of a man she loved. Then, brokenly—— "Oh, Frank—how did you know I was here?" His arm was about her and he was holding her close. But for the rest, he was determined to treat it lightly. "Well, you know," he said, "you made a good deal of noise about it, and I thought I recognized the tones." "But how did you come to set out to look for me? How did you know that I came? Oh, it was brave of you—in this awful fog and with no guide!" She believed, then, that he had set out purposely to search for her. He would let her think so for the moment. "Why, that's nothing," he said; "a little run up the mountain is just fun for me, and as for fogs, I've always had a weakness for fogs since a winter in London. I didn't really know you were up here, but that might be the natural conclusion if you weren't at home, or at the Lodge—after what happened yesterday, of course." "Oh, Frank, forgive me—I was so horrid yesterday." "Don't mention it—I didn't give it a second thought." "But, Frank—" then suddenly she stopped, for her eye had caught the basket, and the great fish dangling at his side. "Frank!" she concluded, "where in the world did you get that enormous trout?" It was no use after that, so he confessed and briefly told her the tale—how it was by accident that he had found her—how he had set out at daybreak to find the wonderful flower. "And haven't you found it either?" he asked, glancing down at her basket. Then, in turn, she told how she had missed the tripod just as the fog came down and could not get near it again. "And oh, I have lost my luncheon, too," she exclaimed, "and you must be starving. I must have lost it when I fell." "Then we'll waste no time in getting home. It's beginning to rain a little now. We'll be pretty miserable if we stay up here any longer." "But the trail—how will you find it in this awful mist?" "Well, it should be somewhere to the west, I think, and with the compass, you see——" He had been feeling in a pocket and now stared at her blankly. "I am afraid I have lost something, too," he exclaimed, "my compass. I had it a little while ago and put it in the change pocket of my coat to have it handy. I suppose the last time I fell down, it slipped out." He searched hastily in his other pockets, but to no purpose. "Never mind," he concluded, cheerfully. "All ways lead down the mountain. If we can't find the trail we can at least go down till we find something. If it's a brook or ravine we'll follow that till we get somewhere. Anything is better than shivering here." They set out in the direction where it seemed to Frank the trail must lie. Suddenly a tall shape loomed up before them. It was the tripod. "Oh!" Constance gasped, "and I hunted for it so long!" "Those flowers, or whatever they were, should be over here, I think," Frank said, and Constance produced a little plan which Robin had given her. But when in the semi-dusk they groped to the spot only some wet, blackened pulp remained of the curious growth. The tender flower of the peak had perhaps bloomed and perished in a day. Frank lamented this misfortune, but Constance expressed a slighter regret. They made an effort now to locate the cairns, but with less success. They did not find even one, and after wandering about for a little could not find the tripod again, either. "Never mind," consoled Frank, "we'll trust a little to instinct. Perhaps it will lead us to something." In fact, they came presently to the fringe of scrub-oak, and to what seemed an open way. But Constance shook her head. "I do not think this is the beginning of the trail. I followed just such an opening, and it led me to that dreadful cliff." Perhaps it was the same false lead, for presently an abyss yawned before them. "I shouldn't wonder," speculated Frank, "if this isn't a part of the cliff that I climbed. If we follow along, it may lead us to the same place. Then we may be able to make our way over it and down to the river and so home. It's a long way, but a sure one, if we can only find it." They proceeded cautiously along the brink for the light was dim and the way uncertain. They grew warmer now, for they were away from the bitter air of the mountain top, and in constant motion. When they had followed the cliff for perhaps half a mile, Frank suddenly stopped. "What is it?" asked Constance, "is this where you climbed up?" Her companion only pointed over the brink. "Look," he said, "it is not a cliff, here, but one side of a chasm. I can see trees on the other side." Sure enough, dimly through the gloom, not many feet away, appeared the outline of timber of considerable growth, showing that they had descended somewhat, also an increased depth of soil. It was further evident that the cañon was getting narrower, and presently they came upon two logs, laid across it side by side, forming a sort of bridge. Frank knelt and examined them closely. "Some one has used this," he said. "This may be a trail. Do you think we can get over, Conny?" The girl looked at the narrow crossing and at the darkening woods beyond. It was that period of stillness and deepening gloom which precedes a mountain storm. Still early in the day, one might easily believe that night was descending. Constance shuddered. She was a bit nervous and unstrung. "There is something weird about it," she said. "It is like entering the enchanted forest. Oh, I can cross well enough—it isn't that," and stepping lightly on the little footway she walked as steadily and firmly as did Frank, a moment later. "You're a brick, Conny," he said heartily. An opening in the bushes at the end of the little bridge revealed itself. They entered and pushed along, for the way led downward. The darkness grew momentarily. Rain was beginning to fall. Yet they hurried on, single file, Frank leading and parting the vines and limbs to make the way easier for his companion. They came presently to a little open space, where suddenly he halted. "There's a light," he said, "it must be a camp." But Constance clung to his arm. It was now quite dark where they stood, and there came a low roll of thunder overhead. "Oh, suppose it is something dreadful!" she whispered—"a robbers' den, or moonshiners. I've heard of such things." "It's more likely to be a witch," said Frank, "or an ogre, but I think we must risk it." The rain came faster and they hurried forward now and presently stood at the door of a habitation, though even in the mist and gloom it impressed them as being of a curious sort. There was a window and a light, certainly, but the window held no sash, and the single opening was covered with a sort of skin, or parchment. There was a door, too, and walls, but beyond this the structure seemed as a part of the forest itself, with growing trees forming the door and corner posts, while others rose apparently from the roof. Further outlines of this unusual structure were lost in the dimness. Under the low, sheltering eaves they hesitated. "Shall we knock?" whispered Constance. "It is all so queer—so uncanny. I feel as if it might be the home of a real witch or magician, or something like that." "Then we may at least learn our fate," Frank answered, and with his knuckles struck three raps on the heavy door. At first there was silence, then a sound of movement within, followed by a shuffling step. A moment later the heavy door swung ajar, and in the dim light from within Frank and Constance beheld a tall bowed figure standing in the opening. In a single brief glance they saw that it was a man—also that his appearance, like that of his house, was unusual. He was dressed entirely in skins. His beard was upon his breast, and his straggling hair fell about his shoulders. He stood wordless, silently regarding the strangers, and Frank at first was at a loss for utterance. Then he said, hesitatingly: "We missed our way on the mountain. We want shelter from the storm and directions to the trail that leads to Spruce Lodge." Still the tall bent figure in the doorway made no movement and uttered no word. They could not see his face, but Constance felt that his eyes were fixed upon her, and she clung closer to Frank's arm. Yet when the strange householder spoke at last there was nothing to cause fear, either in his words or tone. His voice was gentle—not much above a whisper. "I crave your pardon if I seem slow of hospitality," he said, quaintly, "but a visitor seldom comes to my door. Only one other has ever found his way here, and he comes not often." He pushed the rude door wider on its creaking withe hinges. "I bid you welcome," he added, then, as Constance came more fully into the light shed by a burning pine knot and an open fire, he stopped, stared at her still more fixedly and muttered something under his breath. But a moment later he said gently, his voice barely more than a whisper: "I pray you will pardon my staring, but in that light just now you recalled some one—a woman it was—I used to know. Besides, I have not been face to face with any woman for nearly a score of years." <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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