CHAPTER IV
A BRIEF LECTURE AND SOME INTRODUCTIONS
The outside of Spruce Lodge suggested to Frank the Anglo-Saxon castle of five or six hundred years ago, though it was probably better constructed than most of the castles of that early day. It was really an immense affair, and there were certain turrets and a tower which carried out the feudal idea. Its builder, John Morrison, had been a faithful reader of Scott, and the architecture of the Lodge had in some manner been an expression of his romantic inclination. Frank thought, however, that the feudal Saxon might not have had the long veranda facing the little jewel of a lake, where were mirrored the mountains that hemmed it in. With Constance he sat on the comfortable steps, looking through the tall spruces at the water or at mountain peaks that seemed so near the blue that one might step from them into the cloudland of an undiscovered country.
No one was about for the moment, the guests having collected in the office for the distribution of the daily mail. Robin had gone, too, striding away toward a smaller cabin where the guides kept their paraphernalia. Frank said:
"You don't know how glad I am to be here with you in this wonderful place, Conny. I have never seen anything so splendid as this forest, and I was simply desperate in town as soon as you were gone."
She had decided not to let him call her that again, but concluded to overlook this offense. She began arranging the contents of her basket on the step beside her – a gay assortment of toadstools gathered during her morning walk.
"You see what I have been doing," she said. "I don't suppose it will interest you in the least, but to me it is a fascinating study. Perhaps if I pursue it I may contribute something to the world's knowledge and to its food supply."
Frank regarded the variegated array with some solemnity.
"I hope, Conny, you don't mean to eat any of those," he said.
"Probably not; but see how beautiful they are."
They were indeed beautiful, for no spot is more rich in fungi of varied hues than the Adirondack woods. There were specimens ranging from pale to white, from cream to lemon yellow – pink that blended into shades of red and scarlet – gray that deepened to blue and even purple – numerous shades of buff and brown, and some of the mottled coloring. Some were large, almost gigantic; some tiny ones were like bits of ivory or coral. Frank evinced artistic enthusiasm, but a certain gastronomic reserve.
"Wonderful!" he said. "I did not suppose there were such mushrooms in the world – so beautiful. I know now what the line means which says, 'How beautiful is death.'"
There was a little commotion just then at the doorway of the Lodge, and a group of guests – some with letters, others with looks of resignation or disappointment – appeared on the veranda. From among them, Mrs. Deane, a rather frail, nervous woman, hurried toward Mr. Weatherby with evident pleasure. She had been expecting him, she declared, though Constance had insisted that he would think twice before he started once for that forest isolation. They would be in their own quarters in a few days, and it would be just a pleasant walk over there. There were no hard hills to climb. Mr. Deane walked over twice a day. He was there now, overseeing repairs. The workmen were very difficult.
"But there are some hills, Mamma," interposed Constance – "little ones. Perhaps Mr. Weatherby won't care to climb at all. He has already declared against my mushrooms. He said something just now about their fatal beauty – I believe that was it. He's like all the rest of you – opposed to the cause of science."
Mrs. Deane regarded the young man appealingly.
"Try to reason with her," she said nervously. "Perhaps she'll listen to you. She never will to me. I tell her every day that she will poison herself. She's always tasting of new kinds. She's persuaded me to eat some of those she had cooked, and I've sent to New York for every known antidote for mushroom poisoning. It's all right, perhaps, to study them and collect them, but when it comes to eating them to prove that the book is right about their being harmless, it seems like flying in the face of Providence. Besides, Constance is careless."
"I remember her telling me, as reason for not wanting to be a doctor, something about giving you the wrong medicine last winter."
"She did – some old liniment – I can taste the stuff yet. Constance, I do really think it's sinful for you to meddle with such uncertain subjects. Just think of eating any of those gaudy things. Constance! How can you?"
Constance patted the nervous little lady on the cheek.
"Be comforted," she said. "I am not going to eat these. I brought them for study. Most of them are harmless enough, I believe, but they are of a kind that even experts are not always sure of. They are called Boleti– almost the first we have found. I have laid them out here for display, just as the lecturer did last week at Lake Placid."
Miss Deane selected one of the brightly colored specimens.
"This," she began, with mock gravity and a professional air, "is a Boletus– known as Boletus speciosus– that is, I think it is." She opened the book and ran hastily over the leaves. "Yes, speciosus– either that or the bicolor– I can't be certain just which."
"There, Constance," interrupted Mrs. Deane, "you confess, yourself, you can't tell the difference. Now, how are we going to know when we are being poisoned? We ate some last night. Perhaps they were deadly poison – how can we know?"
"Be comforted, Mamma; we are still here."
"But perhaps the poison hasn't begun to work yet."
"It should have done so, according to the best authorities, some hours ago. I have been keeping watch of the time."
Mrs. Deane groaned.
"The best authorities? Oh, dear – oh, dear! Are there really any authorities in this awful business? And she has been watching the time for the poison to work – think of it!"
A little group of guests collected to hear the impromptu discussion. Frank, half reclining on the veranda steps, ran his eye over the assembly. For the most part they seemed genuine seekers after recreation and rest in this deep forest isolation. There were brain-workers among them – painters and writer folk. Some of the faces Frank thought he recognized. In the foreground was a rather large woman of the New England village type. She stood firmly on her feet, and had a wide, square face, about which the scanty gray locks were tightly curled. She moved closer now, and leaning forward, spoke with judicial deliberation.
"Them's tudstools!" she said – a decision evidently intended to be final. She adjusted her glasses a bit more carefully and bent closer to the gay collection. "The' ain't a single one of 'em a mushroom," she proceeded. "We used to have 'em grow in our paster, an' my little nephew, Charlie, that I brought up by hand and is now in the electric works down to Haverford, he used to gather 'em, an' they wa'n't like them at all."
A ripple of appreciation ran through the group, and others drew near to inspect the fungi. Constance felt it necessary to present Frank to those nearest, whom she knew. He arose to make acknowledgments. With the old lady, whose name, it appeared, was Miss Carroway, he shook hands. She regarded him searchingly.
"You're some taller than my Charlie," she said, and added, "I hope you don't intend to eat them tudstools, do you? Charlie wouldn't a et one o' them kind fer a thousand dollars. He knew the reel kind that grows in the medders an' pasters."
Constance took one of Miss Carroway's hands and gave it a friendly squeeze.
"You are spoiling my lecture," she laughed, "and aiding Mamma in discrediting me before the world. I will tell you the truth about mushrooms. Not the whole truth, but an important one. All toadstools are mushrooms and all mushrooms are toadstools. A few kinds are poisonous – not many. Most of them are good to eat. The only difficulty lies in telling the poison ones."
Miss Carroway appeared interested, but incredulous. Constance continued.
"The sort your Charlie