Darrel of the Blessed Isles by Irving Bacheller
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Irving Bacheller >> Darrel of the Blessed Isles
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"Oh!" said the others, nodding their heads, thoughtfully.
"When the nurse came," the sister Serene continued, "the widow went
to a desk and wrote a letter and brought it to Dick. Then says the
widow, says she: 'You take this to my uncle in Boston. If you can
make him give his consent, I'd be glad to see you again.'
"Dick, he rushed off that very evening an' took the cars at Madrid.
What do you suppose the letter said?"
The sister Serene began to shake with laughter.
"What?" was the eager demand of the two sisters.
"Well, the widow told the nurse and she told Mary Jones and Mary
told me. The letter was kind o' short and about like this:--
"'Pardon me for introducing a scamp by the name of Roberts. He's
engaged to a very sweet young lady and has the impudence to make
love to me. I wish to get him out of this town for a while, and
can't think of any better way. Don't use him too roughly. He was
a detective once himself.'
"Well, in a couple of days the widow got a telegraph message from
her uncle, an' what do you suppose it said?"
The sister Serene covered her face and began to quiver. The other
two were leaning toward her, smiling, their mouths open.
"What was it?" said the sister Lize.
"'Kicked him downstairs,'" the narrator quoted.
"Y!" the two whispered.
"Good enough for him." It was the verdict of the little
shopkeeper, sharply spoken, as she went on with her work.
"So I say,"--this from the other three, who were now quite serious.
"He'd better not come back here," said the sister Lize.
"He never will, probably."
"Who employed the widow?"
"Nobody knows," said the sister Serene. "Before she left town she
had a check cashed, an' it come from Riley Brooke. Some think
Martha Vaughn herself knows all about it. Sh-h-h! there goes
Sidney Trove."
"Ain't he splendid looking?" said she with the beads.
Ruth Tole had opened the door, and they were now observing the
street and those who were passing in it.
"One of these days there'll be some tall love-making up there at
the Widow Vaughn's," said she that was called Lize.
"Like to be behind the door"--this from her with the beads.
"I wouldn't," said the sister Serene.
"No, you wouldn't!"
"I'd rather be up next to the young man." A merry laugh, and then a
sigh from the sister Lize, who looked a bit dreamy and began to
tickle her head with a knitting-needle.
"What are you sighing for?" said she with the beads,
"Oh, well," said the other, yawning, "it makes me think o' the time
when I was a girl."
"Look! there's Jeanne Brulet,"--it was a quick whisper.
They gathered close and began to shake their heads and frown. Now,
indeed, they were as the Fates of old.
"Look at her clothes," another whispered.
"They're better than I can wear. I'd like to know where she gets
the money."
Then a look from one to the other--a look of fateful import, soon
to travel far, and loose a hundred tongues. That moment the bowl
was broken, but the weird sisters knew not the truth.
She that was called Lize, put up her knitting and rose from her
chair.
"There's work waiting for me at home," said she.
"Quilting?"
"No; I'm working on a shroud."
XXXVI
The Law's Approval
Trove had come to Hillsborough that very hour he passed the Golden
Spool. In him a touch of dignity had sobered the careless eye of
youth. He was, indeed, a comely young man, his attire fashionable,
his form erect. Soon he was on the familiar road to Robin's Inn.
There was now a sprinkle of yellow in the green valley; wings of
azure and of gray in the sunlight; a scatter of song in the
silence. High on distant hills, here and there, was a little bank
of snow. These few dusty rags were all that remained of the great
robe of winter. Men were sowing and planting. In the air was an
odour of the harrowed earth, and up in the hills a shout of
greeting came out of field or garden as Trove went by.
It was a walk to remember, and when he had come near the far side
of Pleasant Valley he could see Polly waving her hand to him at the
edge of the maple grove.
"Supper is waiting," said she, merrily, as she came to meet him.
"There's blueberries, and biscuit, and lots of nice things."
"I'm hungry," said be; "but first, dear, let us enjoy love and
kisses."
Then by the lonely road he held her close to him, and each could
feel the heart-beat of the other; and for quite a moment speech
would have been most idle and inadequate.
"Now the promise, Polly," said he soon. "I go not another step
until I have your promise to be my wife."
"You do not think I'd let one treat me that way unless I expected
to marry him, do you ?" said Polly, as she fussed with a ribbon
bow, her face red with blushes. "You've mussed me all up."
"I'm to be a teacher in the big school, and if you were willing, we
could be married soon."
"Oh, dear!" said she, sighing, and looking up at him with a smile;
"I'm too happy to think." Then followed another moment of silence,
in which the little god, if he were near them, must have smiled.
"Won't you name the day now?" he insisted.
"Oh, let's keep that for the next chapter!" said she. "Don't you
know supper is waiting?"
"It's all like those tales 'to be continued in our next,'" he
answered with a laugh.
Then they walked slowly up the long hill, arm in arm.
"How very grand you look!" said she, proudly. "Did you see the
Governor?"
"Yes, but he can do nothing now. It's the only cloud in the sky."
"Dear old man!" said Polly. "We'll find a way to help him."
"But he wouldn't thank us for help--there's the truth of it," said
Trove, quickly. "He's happy and content. Here is a letter that
came to-day. 'Dear Sidney,' he writes. 'Think of all I have said
to thee, an', if ye remember well, boy, it will bear thee up. Were
I, indeed, as ye believe, drinking the cup o' bitterness for thy
sake, know ye not the law will make it sweet for me? After all I
have said to thee, are ye not prepared? Is my work wasted; is the
seed fallen upon the rocks? And if ye hold to thy view,
consider--would ye rob the dark world o' the light o' sacrifice?
"Nay," ye will answer. Then I say: "If ye would give me peace, go
to thy work, boy, and cease to waste thyself with worry and foolish
wandering."'
"Somehow it puts me to shame," said Trove, as he put the letter in
his pocket. "I'm so far beneath him. I shall obey and go to work
and pray for the speedy coming of God's justice."
"It's the only thing to do," said she. "Sidney, I hope now I have
a right to ask if you know who is your father?"
"I believe him to be dead."
"Dead!" there was a note of surprise in the word.
"I know not even his name."
"It is all very strange," said Polly. In a moment she added, "I
hope you will forgive my mother if she seemed to doubt you."
"I forgive all," said the young man. "I know it was hard to
believe me innocent."
"And impossible to believe you guilty. She was only waiting for
more light."
The widow and her two boys came out to meet them.
"Mother, behold this big man! He is to be my husband." The girl
looked up at him proudly.
"And my son?" said Mrs. Vaughn, with a smile, as she kissed him.
"You've lost no time."
"Oh! I didn't intend to give up so soon," said Polly, "but--but
the supper would have been ruined."
"It's now on the table," said Mrs. Vaughn.
"I've news for you," said Polly, as they were sitting down. "Tunk
has reformed."
"He must have been busy," said Trove, "and he's ruined his epitaph."
"His epitaph?"
"Yes; that one Darrel wrote for him: 'Here lies Tunk. O Grave!
where is thy victory?'"
"Tunk has one merit: he never deceived any one but himself," said
the widow.
"Horses have run away with him," Trove continued. "His character
is like a broken buggy; and his imagination--that's the unbroken
colt. Every day, for a long time, the colt has run away with the
wagon, tipping it over and dragging it in the ditch, until every
bolt is loose, and every spoke rattling, and every wheel awry. I
do hope he's repaired his 'ex.'"
"He walks better and complains less," the widow answered.
"Often he stands very straight and walks like you," said Polly,
laughing.
"He thinks you are the only great man," so spoke the widow.
"Gone from one illusion to another," said Trove. "It's a lesson;
every one should go softly. Tom, will you now describe the
melancholy feat of Theophilus Thistleton?"
The fable was quickly repeated.
"That Mr. Thistleton was a foolish fellow, and there's many like
him," said Trove. "He had better have been thrusting blueberries
into his mouth. I declare!" he added, sitting back with a look of
surprise, "I'm happy again."
"And we are going to keep you so," Polly answered with decision.
"Darrel would tell me that I am at last in harmony with a great law
which, until now, I have been defying. It is true; I have thought
too much of my own desires."
"I do not understand you," said Polly. "Now, we heard of the shot
and iron--how you came by them and how, one night, you threw them
into the river at Hillsborough. That led, perhaps, to most of your
trouble. I'd like to know what moral law you were breaking when
you flung them into the river?"
"A great law," Trove answered; "but one hard to phrase."
"Suppose you try."
"The innocent shall have no fear," said he. "Until then I had kept
the commandment."
There was a little time of silence.
"If you watch a coward, you'll see a most unhappy creature." It
was Trove who spoke. "Darrel said once, 'A coward is the prey of
all evil and the mark of thunderbolts.'"
"I'll not admit you're a coward," were the words of Polly.
"Well," said he, rising, "I had fear of only one thing,--that I
should lose your love."
Reaching home next day, Trove found that Allen had sold Phyllis.
The mare had been shipped away.
"She brought a thousand dollars," said his foster father, "and I'll
divide the profit with you."
The young man was now able to pay his debt to Polly, but for the
first time he had a sense of guilt.
Trove bought another filly--a proud-stepping great-granddaughter of
old Justin Morgan.
A rough-furred, awkward creature, of the size of a small dog, fled
before him, as he entered the house in Brier Dale, and sought
refuge under a table. It was a young painter which Allen had
captured back in the deep woods, after killing its dam. Soon it
rushed across the floor, chasing a ball of yarn, but quickly got
under cover. Before the end of that day Trove and the new pet were
done with all distrust of each other. The big cat grew in size and
playful confidence. Often it stalked the young man with still foot
and lashing tail, leaping stealthily over chairs and, betimes,
landing upon Trove's back.
* * * * * *
It was a June day, and Trove was at Robin's Inn. A little before
noon Polly and he and the two boys started for Brier Dale. They
waded the flowering meadows in Pleasant Valley, crossed a great
pasture, and came under the forest roof. Their feet were muffled
in new ferns. Their trail wavered up the side of a steep ridge,
and slanted off in long loops to the farther valley. There it
crossed a brook and, for a mile or more, followed the mossy banks.
On a ledge, mottled with rock velvet, by a waterfall, they sat down
to rest, and Polly opened the dinner basket. Somehow the music and
the minted breath of the water and the scent of the moss and the
wild violet seemed to flavour their meal. Tom had brought a small
gun with him, and, soon after they resumed their walk, saw some
partridges and fired upon them. All the birds flew save a hen that
stood clucking with spread wings. Coming close, they could see her
eyes blinking in drops of blood. Trove put his hand upon her, but
she only bent her head a little and spread her wings the wider.
"Tom," said he, "look at this little preacher of the woods. Do you
know what she's saying?"
"No," said the boy, soberly.
"Well, she's saying: 'Look at me and see what you've done.
Hereafter, O boy! think before you pull the trigger.' It's a pity,
but we must finish the job."
As they came out upon Brier Road the boys found a nest of hornets.
It hung on a bough above the roadway. Soon Paul had flung a stone
that broke the nest open. Hornets began to buzz around them, and
all ran for refuge to a thicket of young firs. In a moment they
could hear a horse coming at a slow trot. Trove peered through the
bushes. He could see Ezra Tower--that man of scornful piety--on a
white horse. Trove shouted a warning, but with no effect.
Suddenly Tower broke his long silence, and the horse began to run.
The little party made a detour, and came again to the road.
"He did speak to the hornets," said Polly.
"Swore, too," said Paul.
"Nature has her own way with folly; you can't hold your tongue when
she speaks to you," Trove answered.
Near sunset, they came into Brier Dale. Tunk was to be there at
supper time, and drive home with Polly and her brothers. The widow
had told him not to come by the Brier Road; it would take him past
Rickard's Inn, where he loved to tarry and display horsemanship.
Mary Allen met them at the door.
"Mother, here is my future wife," said Trove, proudly.
Then ruddy lips of youth touched the faded cheek of the good woman.
"We shall be married in September," said Trove, tossing his hat in
the air. "We're going to have a grand time, and mind you, mother,
no more hard work for you. Where is Tige?" Tige was the young
painter.
"I don't know," said Mary Allen. "He's up in a tree somewhere,
maybe. Come in, all of you; supper's ready."
While they were eating. Trove heard a sound of wheels, and went to
the door. Tunk had arrived. He had a lump, the size of an
apple,-on his forehead; another on his chin. As Trove approached
him, he spat over a front wheel, and sat looking down sadly.
"Tunk, what's the matter ?"
"Kicked," said he, with growing sadness.
"A horse?" Trove inquired, with sympathy.
Tunk thought a moment.
"Couldn't say what 'twas," he answered presently.
"I fear," said Trove, smiling, "that you came by the Brier Road."
Suddenly there was a quick stir of boughs and a flash of tawny fur
above them. Then the young painter landed full on the back of
Tunkhannock Hosely. There was a wild yell; the horse leaped and
ran, breaking through a fence and wrecking the wagon; the painter
spat, and made for the woods, and was seen no more of men. Tunk
had picked up an axe, and climbed a ladder that stood leaning to
the roof. Trove and Allen caught the frightened horse.
"Now," said the former, "let's try and capture Tunk."
"He's taken to the roof," said Allen.
"Where's that air painter?" Tunk shouted, as they came near.
"Gone to the woods."
"Heavens!" said Tunk, gloomily. "I'm all tore up; there ain't
nothin' left o' me--boots full o' blood. I tell ye this country's
a leetle too wild fer me."
He came down the ladder slowly, and sat on the step and drew off
his boots. There was no blood in them. Trove helped him remove
his coat; all, save his imagination, was unharmed.
"Wal," said he, thoughtfully, "that's what ye git fer doin' suthin'
ye hadn't ought to. I ain't goin' t' take no more chances."
XXXVII
The Return of Santa Claus
Did ye hear the cock crow? By the beard of my father, I'd
forgotten you and myself and everything but the story. It's near
morning, and I've a weary tongue. Another log and one more pipe.
Then, sir, then I'll let you go. I'm near the end.
"Let me see--it's a winter day in New York City, after four years.
The streets are crowded. Here are men and women, but I see only
the horses,--you know, sir, how I love them. They go by with heavy
truck and cab, steaming, straining', slipping in the deep snow.
You hear the song of lashes, the whack of whips, and, now and then,
the shout of some bedevilled voice. Horses fall, and struggle, and
lie helpless, and their drivers--well, if I were to watch them
long, I should be in danger of madness and hell-fire. Well, here
is a big stable. A tall man has halted by its open door, and
addresses the manager.
"'I learn that you have a bay mare with starred face and a white
stocking.' It is Trove who speaks.
"'Yes; there she is, coming yonder.'
"The mare is a rack of bones, limping, weary, sore. But see her
foot lift! You can't kill the pride of the Barbary. She falters;
her driver lashes her over the head. Trove is running toward her.
He climbs a front wheel, and down comes the driver. In a minute
Trove has her by the bit. He calls her by name--Phyllis! The slim
ears begin to move. She nickers. God, sir! she is trying to see
him. One eye is bleeding, the other blind. His arms go round her
neck, sir, and he hides his face in her mane. That mare you
ride--she is the granddaughter of Phyllis. I'd as soon think of
selling my wife. Really, sir, Darrel was right. God'll mind the
look of your horses."
So spake an old man sitting in the firelight. Since they sat down
the short hand of the clock had nearly circled the dial. There was
a little pause. He did love a horse--that old man of the hills.
"Trove went home with the mare," he continued. "She recovered the
sight of one eye, and had a box-stall and the brook pasture--you
know, that one by the beech grove. He got home the day before
Christmas. Polly met him at the depot--a charming lady, sir, and a
child of three was with her,--a little girl, dark eyes and flaxen,
curly hair. You remember Beryl?--eyes like her mother's.
"I was there at the depot that day. Well, it looked as if they
were still in their honeymoon.
"'Dear little wife!' said Trove, as he kissed Polly. Then he took
the child in his arms, and I went to dinner with them. They lived
half a mile or so out of Hillsborough.
"'Hello!' said Trove, as we entered. 'Here's a merry Christmas!'
"Polly had trimmed the house. There against the wall was a
tapering fir-tree, hung with tinsel and popcorn. All around the
room were green branches of holly and hemlock.
"'I'm glad you found Phyllis,' said she.
"'Poor Phyllis!' he answered. 'They broke her down with hard work,
and then sold her. She'll be here to-morrow.'
"'You saw Darrel on the way?'
"'Yes, and he is the same miracle of happiness. I think he will
soon be free. Leblanc is there in prison--convicted of a crime in
Whitehall. As I expected, there is a red mark on the back of his
left hand. Day after to-morrow we go again to Dannemora.
Sweetheart! I hurried home to see you.' And then--well, I do like
to see it--the fondness of young people.
"Night came, dark and stormy, with snow in the west wind. They
were sitting there by the Christmas tree, all bright with
candles--Polly, Trove, and the little child. They were talking of
old times. They heard a rap at the door. Trove flung it open. He
spoke a word of surprise. There was the old Santa Claus of Cedar
Hill--upon my word, sir--the very one. He entered, shaking his
great coat, his beard full of snow. He let down his sack there by
the lighted tree. He beckoned to the little one.
"'Go and see him--it is old Santa Claus,' said Polly, her voice
trembling as she led the child.
"Then, quickly, she took the hand of her husband.
"'He is your father,' she whispered.
"A moment they stood with hearts full, looking at Santa Claus and
the child. That little one had her arms about a knee, and, dumb
with great wonder, gazed up at him. There was a timid appeal in
her sweet face.
"The man did not move; he was looking down at the child. In a
moment she began to prattle and tug at him. They saw his knees
bend a bit. Ah, sir, it seemed as if the baby were pulling him
down. He gently pushed the child away. They heard a little cry--a
kind of a wailing 'Oh-o-o,'--like that you hear in the chimney.
Then, sir, down he went in his tracks--a quivering little
heap,--and lay there at the foot of the tree. Polly and Trove were
bending over him. Cap and wig had fallen from his head. He was an
old man.
"'Father!' Trove whispered, touching the long white hair. 'O my
father! speak to me. Let me--let me see your face.'
"Slowly--slowly, the old man rose, Trove helping him, and put on
his cap. Then, sir, he took a step back and stood straight as a
king. He waved them away with his hand.
"'Nay, boy, remember,' he whispered. 'Ye were to let him pass.'
And then he started for the door.
"Trove went before him and stood against it.
"'Hear me, boy, 'tis better that ye let him sleep until the trumpet
calls an' ye both stand with all the quick an' the dead.'
"'No, I have waited long, and I love--I love him,' Trove answered.
"Those fair young people knelt beside the old man, clinging to his
hands.
"The good saint was crying.
"'I came not here to bring shame,' said he presently.
"'We honour and with all our souls we love you,' Trove answered.
"'Who shall stand before it?' said the old man. 'Behold--behold
how Love hath raised the dead!' He flung off his cap and beard.
"'If ye will have it so, know ye that I--Roderick Darrel--am thy
father.'"
"Now, sir, you may go. I wish ye merry Christmas!" said that old
man of the hills.
But the other tarried, thoughtfully puffing his pipe.
"And the father was not dead?"
"'Twas only the living death," said the old man, now lighting a
lantern. "You know that grave in a poem of Sidney Trove:
'It has neither sod nor stone;
It has neither dust nor bone.'
He planned to be as one dead to the world."
"And the other man of mystery--who was he?"
"Some child of misfortune. He was befriended by the tinker and did
errands for him."
"He took the money to Trove that night the latter slept in the
woods?"
"And, for Darrel, returned to Thompson his own with usury.
Thompson was the chief creditor."
"With usury?"
"Yes; for years it lay under the bed of Darrel. By and by he put
the money in a savings bank--all but a few dollars."
"And why did he wait so long, before returning it?"
"He tried to be rid of the money, but was unable to find Thompson.
And Trove, he lived to repay every creditor. Ah, sir, he was a man
of a thousand."
"That story of Darrel's in the little shop--I see--it was fact in a
setting of fiction."
"That's all it pretended to be," said the old man of the hills.
"One more query," said the other. He was now mounted. "I know
Darrel went to prison for the sake of the boy, but did some one set
him free?"
"His own character. Leblanc came to love him--like the other
prisoners--and, sir, he confessed. I declare!--it's daylight now
and here I am with the lantern. Good-by, and Merry Christmas!"
The other rode away, slowly, looking back at the dim glow of the
lantern, which now, indeed, was like a symbol of the past.
* * * * * *
Eben Holden
A Tale of the North Country
By IRVING BACHELLER. Bound in red silk cloth, decorative cover,
gilt top, rough edges. Size, 5 x 7 3/4 Price, $1.50
The most popular book in America.
Within eight months after publication it had reached its two
hundred and fiftieth thousand. The most American of recent novels,
it has indeed been hailed as the long looked for "American novel."
William Dean Howells says of it: "I have read 'Eben Holden' with a
great joy in its truth and freshness. You have got into your book
a kind of life not in literature before, and you have got it there
simply and frankly. It is 'as pure as water and as good as bread.'"
Edmund Clarence Stedman says of it: "It is a forest-scented,
fresh-aired, bracing, and wholly American story of country and town
life."
D'RI AND I
By IRVING BACHELLER, author of "Eben Holden." Seven drawings by F.
C. Yohn. Red silk cloth, illustrated cover, gilt top, rough edges.
Size, 5 1/4 x 7 3/4 Price, $1.50. 160th Thousand.
THE LONDON TIMES says; "Mr. Bacheller is admirable alike in his
scenes of peace and war. He paints the silent woods in the fall of
the year with the rich golden glow of the Indian summer. He is
eloquently poetical in the lonely watcher's contemplation of
thousands of twinkling stars reflected from the broad bosom of the
St. Lawrence, and he is grimly humorous in some of his dramatic
episodes. Nor does anything in Crane's 'Red Badge of Courage'
bring home to us more forcibly the horrors of war than the
between-decks and the cockpit of a crippled ship swept from stem to
stern by the British broadsides in an action brought a entrance on
Lake Erie."
CANDLE LIGHT
Being sundry tales and thoughts in verse. By IRVING BACHELLER,
author of "Eben Holden" and "D'ri and I." Six illustrations by
prominent illustrators. Decorative cover, gilt top, rough edges.
Price, $1.25, net.
MR. BACHELLER'S Poems in a book very handsome in the points of
typography, binding, and illustration is made up of a collection of
verse ranging from dramatic incidents of peace and war to lovely
idyllic pictures and verse read on academic occasions. The whole
collection is marked by virility, simplicity of manner, and genuine
strength and feeling. It will be widely welcomed by lovers of good
poetry and the admirers of Mr. Bacheller's famous books of fiction.
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