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Lucky Piece: A Story of the North Woods

<h2>CHAPTER X</h2> <h3>THE HERMIT'S STORY</h3> The hermit paused and gazed into the bed of coals on the hearth. His listeners waited without speaking. Constance did not move—scarcely did she breathe. "As I said, it may have been thirty years ago," the gentle voice continued. "It may have been more than that—I do not know. It was on the Sound shore, in one of the pretty villages there—it does not matter which. "I lived with my uncle in the adjoining village. Both my parents were dead—he was my guardian. In the winter, when the snow fell, there was merry-making between these villages. We drove back and forth in sleighs, and there were nights along the Sound when the moon path followed on the water and the snow, and all the hills were white, and the bells jingled, and hearts were gay and young. "It was on such a night that I met her who was to become Robin's mother. The gathering was in our village that night, and, being very young, she had come as one of a merry sleighful. Half way to our village their sleigh had broken down, and the merry makers had gayly walked the remainder, trusting to our hospitality to return them to their homes. I was one of those to welcome them and to promise conveyance, and so it was that I met her, and from that moment there was nothing in all the world for me but her." The hermit lifted his eyes from the fire and looked at Constance. "My girl," he said, "there are turns of your face and tones of your voice that carry me back to that night. But Robin, when he first came here to my door, a stripling, he was her very self. "I recall nothing of that first meeting but her. I saw nothing but her. I think we danced—we may have played games—it did not matter. There was nothing for me but her face. When it was over, I took her in my cutter and we drove together across the snow—along the moonlit shore. I do not remember what we said, but I think it was very little. There was no need. When I parted from her that night the heritage of eternity was ours—the law that binds the universe was our law, and the morning stars sang together as I drove homeward across the hills. "That winter and no more holds my happiness. Yet if all eternity holds no more for me than that, still have I been blest as few have been blest, and if I have paid the price and still must pay, then will I pay with gladness, feeling only that the price of heaven is still too small, and eternity not too long for my gratitude." The hermit's voice had fallen quite to a whisper, and he was as one who muses aloud upon a scene rehearsed times innumerable. Yet in the stillness of that dim room every syllable was distinct, and his listeners waited, breathless, at each pause for him to continue. Into Frank's eyes had come the far-away look of one who follows in fancy an old tale, but the eyes of Constance shone with an eager light and her face was tense and white against the darkness. "It was only that winter. When the spring came and the wild apple was in bloom, and my veins were all a-tingle with new joy, I went one day to tell her father of our love. Oh, I was not afraid. I have read of trembling lovers and halting words. For me the moments wore laggingly until he came, and then I overflowed like any other brook that breaks its dam in spring. "And he—he listened, saying not a single word; but as I talked his eyes fell, and I saw tears gather under his lids. Then at last they rolled down his cheeks and he bowed his head and wept. And then I did not speak further, but waited, while a dread that was cold like death grew slow upon me. When he lifted his head he came and sat by me and took my hand. 'My boy,' he said, 'your father was my friend. I held his hand when he died, and a year later I followed your mother to her grave. You were then a little blue-eyed fellow, and my heart was wrung for you. It was not that you lacked friends, or means, for there were enough of both. But, oh, my boy, there was another heritage! Have they not told you? Have you never learned that both your parents were stricken in their youth by that scourge of this coast—that fever which sets a foolish glow upon the cheek while it lays waste the life below and fills the land with early graves? Oh, my lad! you do not want my little girl.'" The hermit's voice died, and he seemed almost to forget his listeners. But all at once he fixed his eyes on Constance as if he would burn her through. "Child," he said, "as you look now, so she looked in the moment of our parting. Her eyes were like yours, and her face, God help me! as I saw it through the dark that last night, was as your face is now. Then I went away. I do not remember all the places, but they were in many lands, and were such places as men seek who carry my curse. I never wrote—I never saw her, face to face, again. "When I returned her father was dead, and she was married—to a good man, they told me—and there was a child that bore my name, Robin, for I had been called Robin Gray. And then there came a time when a stress was upon the land—when fortunes tottered and men walked the streets with unseeing eyes—when his wealth and then hers vanished like smoke in the wind—when my own patrimony became but worthless paper—a mockery of scrolled engravings and gaudy seals. To me it did not matter—nothing matters to one doomed. To them it was shipwreck. John Farnham, a high-strung, impetuous man, was struck down. The tension of those weeks, and the final blow, broke his spirit and undermined his strength. They had only a pittance and a little cottage in these mountains, which they had used as a camp for summer time. It stood then where it stands to-day, on the North Elba road, in view of this mountain top. There they came in the hope that Robin's father might regain health to renew the fight. There they remained, for the father had lost courage and only found a little health by tilling the few acres of ground about the cottage. There, that year, a second child—a little girl—was born." It had grown very still in the hermitage. There was only a drip of the rain outside—the thunder had rolled away. The voice, too, ceased for a little, as if from weariness. The others made no sign, but it seemed to Frank that the hand locked closely in his had become quite cold. "The word of those things drifted to me," so the tale went on, "and it made me sad that with my own depleted fortune and failing health I could do nothing for their comfort or relief. But one day my physician said to me that the air and the altitude of these mountains had been found beneficial for those stricken like me. He could not know how his words made my heart beat. Now, indeed, there was a reason for my coming—an excuse for being near her—with a chance of seeing her, it might be, though without her knowledge. For I decided that she must not know. Already she had enough burden without the thought that I was near—without the sight of my doleful, wasting features. "So I sold the few belongings that were still mine—such things as I had gathered in my wanderings—my books, save those I loved most dearly—my furnishings, my ornaments, even to my apparel—and with the money I bought the necessaries of mountain life—implements, rough wear and a store of food. These, with a tent, my gun, the few remaining volumes, and my field glass—the companion of all my travels—I brought to the hills." He pointed to the glass and the volumes lying on the stone at his hand. "Those have been my life," he went on. "The books have brought me a world wherein there was ever a goodly company, suited to my mood. For me, in that world, there are no disappointments nor unfulfilled dreams. King, lover, courtier and clown—how often at my bidding have they trooped out of the shadows to gather with me about this hearth! Oh, I should have been poor indeed without the books! Yet the glass has been to me even more, for it brought me her. "I have already told you that their cottage could be seen from this mountain top. I learned this when I came stealthily to the hills and sought out their home, and some spot amid the overhanging peaks where I might pitch my camp and there unseen look down upon her life. This is the place I found. I had my traps borne up the trail to the foot of the little fall, as if I would camp there. Then when the guides were gone I carried them here, and reared my small establishment, away from the track of hunters, on this high finger of rock which commanded the valley and her home. There is a spring here and a bit of fertile land. It was State land and free, and I pitched my tent here, and that summer I cleared an open space for tillage and built a hut for the winter. The sturdy labor and the air of the hills strengthened my arm and renewed my life. But there was more than that. For often there came a clear day, when the air was like crystal and other peaks drew so near that it seemed one might reach out and stroke them with his hand. On such a day, with my glass, I sought a near-by point where the mountain's elbow jutted out into the sky, and when from that high vantage I gazed down on the roof which covered her, my soul was filled with strength to tarry on. For distance became as nothing to my magic glass. Three miles it may be as the crow flies, but I could bring the tiny cottage and the door-yard, as it stood there at the turn of the road above the little hill, so close to me that it seemed to lie almost at my very feet." Again the speaker rested for a moment, but presently the tale went on. "You can never know what I felt when I first saw her. I had watched for her often, and I think she had been ill. I had seen him come and go, and sometimes I had seen a child—Robin it was—playing about the yard. But one day when I had gone to my point of lookout and had directed my glass—there, just before me, she stood. There she lived and moved—she who had been, who was still my life—who had filled my being with a love that made me surrender her to another, yet had lured me at last to this lonely spot, forever away from men, only that I might now and again gaze down across the tree tops, and all unseen, unknown to her, make her the companion of my hermit life. "She walked slowly and the child walked with her, holding her hand. When presently she looked toward me, I started and shrank, forgetting for the moment that she could not see me. Not that I could distinguish her features at such a range, only her dear outline, but in my mind's eyes her face was there before me just as I had seen it that last time—just as I have seen yours in the firelight." He turned to Constance, whose features had become blurred in the shadows. Frank felt her tremble and caught the sound of a repressed sob. He knew the tears were streaming down her cheeks, and his own eyes were not dry. "After that I saw her often, and sometimes the infant, Robin's sister, was in her arms. When the autumn came, and the hills were glorified, and crowned with snow, she stood many times in the door-yard to behold their wonder. When at last the leaves fell, and the trees were bare, I could watch even from the door of my little hut. The winter was long—the winter is always long up here—from November almost till May—but it did not seem long to me, when she was brought there to my door, even though I might not speak to her. "And so I lived my life with her. The life in that cottage became my life—day by day, week by week, year by year—and she never knew. After that first summer I never but once left the mountain top. All my wants I supplied here. There was much game of every sort, and the fish near by were plentiful. I had a store of meal for the first winter, and during the next summer I cultivated my bit of cleared ground, and produced my full need of grain and vegetables and condiments. One trip I made to a distant village for seeds, and from that day never left the mountain again. "It was during the fifth winter, I think, after I came here, that a group of neighbors gathered in the door-yard of the cottage, and my heart stood still, for I feared that she was dead. The air dazzled that day, but when near evening I saw a woman with a hand to each child re-enter the little house I knew that she still lived—and had been left alone. "Oh, then my heart went out to her! Day and night I battled with the impulse to go to her, with love and such comfort and protection as I could give. Time and again I rose and made ready for the journey to her door. Then, oh, then I would remember that I had nothing to offer her—nothing but my love. Penniless, and a dying man, likely to become a helpless burden at any time, what could I bring to her but added grief. And perhaps in her unconscious heart she knew. For more than once that winter, when the trees were stripped and the snow was on the hills, I saw her gaze long and long toward this mountain, as if she saw the speck my cabin made, and once when I stretched my arms out to her across the waste of deadly cold, I saw a moment later that her arms, too, were out-stretched, as if somehow she knew that I was there." A low moan interrupted the tale. It was from Constance. "Don't, oh, don't," she sobbed. "You break my heart!" But a moment later she added, brokenly, "Yes, yes—tell me the rest. Tell me all. Oh, she was so lonely! Why did you never go to her?" "I would have gone then. I went mad and cried out, 'My wife! my wife! I want my wife!' And I would have rushed down into the drifts of the mountain, but in that moment the curse of my heritage fell heavily upon me and left me powerless." The hermit's voice had risen—it trembled and died away with the final words. In the light of the fading embers only his outline could be seen—wandering into the dusk and silence. When he spoke again his tone was low and even. "And so the years went by. I saw the sturdy lad toil with his mother for a while, and then alone, and I knew by her slow step that the world was slipping from her grasp. I did not see the end. I might have gone, then, but it came at a time when the gloom hung on the mountains and I did not know. When the air cleared and for days I saw no life, I knew that the little house was empty—that she had followed him to rest. They two, whose birthright had been health and length of days, both were gone, while I, who from the cradle had made death my bed-fellow, still lingered and still linger through the years. "I put the magic glass aside after that for my books. Nothing was left me but my daily round, with them for company. Yet from a single volume I have peopled all the woods about, and every corner of my habitation. Through this forest of Arden I have walked with Orlando, and with him hung madrigals on the trees, half believing that Rosalind might find them. With Nick the Weaver on a moonlit bank I have waited for Titania and Puck and all that lightsome crew. On the wild mountain top I have met Lear, wandering with only a fool for company, and I have led them in from the storm and warmed them at this hearthstone. In that recess Romeo has died with Juliet in the Capulets' tomb. With me at that table Jack Falstaff and Prince Hal have crossed their wit and played each the rôle of king. Yonder, beneath the dim eaves, in the moment just before you came, Macbeth had murdered Duncan, and I saw him cravenly vanish at the sound of your fearsome knocking. "But what should all this be to you? It is but my shadow world—the only world I had until one day, out of the mist as you have come, so Robin came to me—her very self, it seemed—from heaven. At first it lay in my heart to tell him. But the fear of losing him held me back, as I have said. And of himself he told me as little. Rarely he referred to the past. Only once, when I spoke of kindred, he said that he was an orphan, with only a sister, who had found a home with kind people in a distant land. And with this I was content, for I had wondered much concerning the little girl." The voice died away. The fire had become ashes on the hearth. The drip of the rain had ceased—light found its way through the parchment-covered window. The storm had passed. The hermit's story was ended. Neither Constance nor Frank found words, and for a time their host seemed to have forgotten their presence. Then, arousing, he said: "You will wish to be going now. I have detained you too long with my sad tale. But I have always hungered to pour it into some human ear before I died. Being young, you will quickly forget and be merry again, and it has lifted a heaviness from my spirit. I think we shall find the sun on the hills once more, and I will direct you to the trail. But perhaps you will wish to pause a moment to see something of my means of providing for life in this retreat. I will ask of you, as I did of Robin, to say nothing of my existence here to the people of the world. Yet you may convey to Robin that you have been here—saying no more than that. And you may say that I would see him when next he builds his campfire not far away, for my heart of hearts grows hungry for his face." Rising, he led them to the adjoining room. "This was my first hut," he said. "It is now my storehouse, where, like the squirrels, I gather for the winter. I hoard my grain here, and there is a pit below where I keep my other stores from freezing. There in the corner is my mill—the wooden mortar and pestle of our forefathers—and here you see I have provided for my water supply from the spring. Furs have renewed my clothing, and I have never wanted for sustenance—chiefly nuts, fruits and vegetables. I no longer kill the animals, but have made them my intimate friends. The mountains have furnished me with everything—companions, shelter, clothing and food, savors—even salt, for just above a deer lick I found a small trickle from which I have evaporated my supply. Year by year I have added to my house—making it, as you have seen, a part of the forest itself—that it might be less discoverable; though chiefly because I loved to build somewhat as the wild creatures build, to know the intimate companionship of the living trees, and to be with the birds and squirrels as one of their household." They passed out into the open air, and to a little plot of cultivated ground shut in by the thick forest. It was an orderly garden, with well-kept paths, and walks of old-fashioned posies. Bright and fresh after the summer rain, it was like a gay jewel, set there on the high mountain side, close to the bending sky. It was near sunset, and a chorus of birds were shouting in the tree tops. Coming from the dim cabin, with its faded fire and its story of human sorrow, into this bright living place, was stepping from enchantment of the play into the daylight of reality. Frank praised the various wonders in a subdued voice, while Constance found it difficult to speak at all. Presently, when they were ready to go, the hermit brought the basket and the large trout. "You must take so fine a prize home," he said. "I do not care for it." Then he looked steadily at Constance and added: "The likeness to her I loved eludes me by daylight. It must have been a part of my shadows and my dreams." Constance lifted her eyes tremblingly to the thin, fine, weather-beaten face before her. In spite of the ravage of years and illness she saw, beneath it all, the youth of long ago, and she realized what he had suffered. "I thank you for what you have told us to-day," she said, almost inaudibly. "It shall be—it is—very sacred to me." "And to me," echoed Frank, holding out his hand. He led them down the steep hillside by a hidden way to the point where the trail crossed the upper brook, just below the fall. "I have sometimes lain concealed here," he said, "and heard mountain climbers go by. Perhaps I caught a glimpse of them. I suppose it is the natural hunger one has now and then for his own kind." A moment later he had grasped their hands, bidden them a fervent godspeed, and disappeared into the bushes. The sun was already dipping behind the mountain tops and they did not linger, but rapidly and almost in silence made their way down the mountain. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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