Darrel of the Blessed Isles by Irving Bacheller

I >> Irving Bacheller >> Darrel of the Blessed Isles

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She stood close to him, and as she spoke her lips trembled. He
could delay no longer with a subject knocking at the gate of speech.

"Do you believe in love at first sight?" he asked.

She turned, looking up at him seriously. Her lips parted in a
smile that showed her white teeth. Then her glance fell. "I shall
not tell you that," said she, in a half whisper.

"I hope we shall meet again," he said,

"Do you?" said she, glancing up at him shyly.

"Yes."

"Well, if I were you and wanted to see a girl,--I'd--I'd come and
see her."

"What if you didn't know whether she was willing or not?" he asked.

"I'd take my chances," said she, soberly.

There were pauses in which their souls went far beyond their words
and seemed to embrace each other fondly with arms of the spirit
invisible and resistless. And whatever was to come, in that hour
the great priest of Love in the white robe of innocence had made
them one. The air about them was full of strange delight, They
were in deep dusk as they neared the house. For one moment of
long-remembered joy she let him put his arm about her waist, but
when he kissed her cheek she drew herself away.

They walked a little time in silence.

"I am no flirt," she whispered presently. Neither spoke for a
moment.

Then she seemed to feel and pity his emotion. Something slowed the
feet of both.

"There," she whispered; "you may kiss my hand if you care to."

He kissed the pretty hand that was offered to him, and her whisper
seemed to ring in the dusky silence like the dying rhythm of a bell.

IX

Drove and Drovers

A little after daybreak they went on with the cows. For half a
mile or more until the little house had sunk below the hill crest
Trove was looking backward. Now and ever after he was to think and
tarry also in the road of life and look behind him for the golden
towers of memory. The drovers saw a change in Trove and flung at
him with their stock of rusty, ancestral witticisms. But Thurst
Tilly had a way of saying and doing quite his own,

"Never see any one knocked so flat as you was," said he. "Ye
didn't know enough t' keep ahead o' the cattle. I declare I
thought they'd trample ye 'fore ye could git yer eye unsot."

Trove made no answer.

"That air gal had a mighty power in her eye," Thurst went on.
"When I see her totin' you off las' night I says t' the boys, says
I, 'Sid is goin' t' git stepped on. He ain't never goin' t' be the
same boy ag'in.'"

The boy held his peace, and for days neither ridicule nor
excitement--save only for the time they lasted--were able to bring
him out of his dream.

That night they came to wild country, where men and cattle lay down
to rest by the roadway--a thing Trove enjoyed. In the wagon were
bread and butter and boiled eggs and tea and doughnuts and cake and
dried herring. The men built fires and made tea and ate their
suppers, and sang, as the night fell, those olden ballads of the
frontier--"Barbara Allen," "Bonaparte's Dream," or the "Drover's
Daughter."

For days they were driving in the wild country. At bedtime each
wound himself in a blanket and lay down to rest, beneath a rude
lean-to if it were raining, but mostly under the stars. On this
journey Trove got his habit of sleeping, out-of-doors in fair
weather. After it, save in midwinter, walls seemed to weary and
roofs to smother him. The drove began to low at daybreak, and soon
they were all cropping the grass or browsing in the briers. Then
the milking, and breakfast over a camp fire, and soon after sunrise
they were all tramping in the road again.

It was a pleasant journey--the waysides glowing with the blue of
violets, the green of tender grass, the thick-sown, starry gold of
dandelions. Wild fowl crossed the sky in wedge and battalion,
their videttes out, their lines now firm, now wheeling in a long
curve to take the path of the wind. Every thicket was a fount of
song that fell to silence when darkness came and the low chant of
the marshes.

When they came into settled country below the big woods they began
selling. At length the drove was reduced to one section; Trove
following with the helper named Thurston Tilly, familiarly known as
"Thurst."

He was a tall, heavy, good-natured man, distinguished for fat,
happiness, and singular aptitudes. He had lifted a barrel of salt
by the chimes and put it on a wagon; once he had eaten two mince
pies at a meal; again he had put his heel six inches above his head
on a barn door, and, any time, he could wiggle one ear or both or
whistle on his thumb. At every lodging place he had left a feeling
of dread and relief as well as a perennial topic of conversation.
At every inn he added something to his stock of fat and happiness.
Then, often, he seemed to be overloaded with the latter and would
sit and shake his head and roar with laughter, now and then giving
out a wild yell. He had a story of which no one had ever heard the
finish. He began it often, but, somehow, never got to the end. He
always clung to the lapel of his hearer's coat as if in fear of
losing him, and never tried his tale but once on the same pair of
ears. Having got his inspiration he went in quest of his hearer,
and having hitched him, as it were, by laying hold of his elbow or
coat collar, began the tale. It was like pouring molasses on a
level place--it moved slowly and spread and got nowhere in
particular. At first his manner was slow, dignified, and
confidential, changing to fit his emotion. He whispered, he
shouted, he laughed, he looked sorrowful, he nudged the stranger in
his abdomen, he glared upon him, eye close to eye, he shook him by
the shoulder, and slowly wore him out. Some endured long and were
patient, but soon or late all began to back and dodge, and finally
broke away, and seeing the hand of the narrator reach for them,
dodged quickly and, being pursued, ran. Often this odd chase took
them around trees and stumps and buildings, the stranger escaping,
frequently, through some friendly door which he could lock or hold
fast. Then Thurst, knocking loudly, gave out a wild yell or two,
peered in at the nearest window, and came at last to his chair,
sorrowful and much out of breath, his tale unfinished. There was
in the man a saving element of good nature, and no one ever got
angry with him. At each new attempt be showed a grimmer
determination to finish, but even there, in a land of strong and
patient men, not one, they used to say, had ever the endurance to
hear the end of that unfinished tale.

It was not easy to dispose of cattle in the southern counties that
year, but they found a better market as they bore west, and were
across the border of Ohio when the last of the drove were sold.
That done, Trove and Thurst Tilly took the main road to Cleveland,
whence they were to return home by steamboat.

It led them into woods and by stumpy fields and pine-odoured
hamlets. The first day of their walk was rainy, and they went up a
toteway into thick timber and built a fire and kept dry and warm
until the rain ceased. That evening they fell in with emigrants on
their way to the far west.

The latter were camped on the edge of a wood, near the roadway, and
cooking supper as the two came along. Being far from a town, Trove
and Tilly were glad to accept the hospitality of the travellers.

They had come to the great highway of travel from east to west.
Every day it was cut by wagons of the mover overloaded with Lares
and Penates, with old and young, enduring hardships and the loss of
home and old acquaintance for hope of better fortune.

A man and wife and three boys were the party, travelling with two
wagons. They were bound for Iowa and, being heavy loaded, were
having a hard time. All sat on a heap of boughs in the firelight
after supper.

"It's a long, long road to Iowa, father," said the woman.

"It'll soon be over," said he, with a tone of encouragement.

"I've been thinking all day of the lilacs and the old house," said
she.

They looked in silence at the fire a moment.

"We're a bit homesick," said the man, turning to Trove, "an' no
wonder. It's been hard travelling, an' we've broke down every few
miles. But we'll have better luck the rest o' the journey."

Evidently his cheerful courage had been all that kept them going.

"Lost all we had in the great fire of '35," said he, thoughtfully.
"I went to bed a rich man, but when I rose in the morning I had not
enough to pay a week's board. Everything had been swept away."

"A merchant?" Trove inquired.

"A partner in the great Star Mill on East River," said the man. "I
could have got a fortune for my share--at least a hundred thousand
dollars--and I had worked hard for it."

"And were you not able to succeed again?"

"No," said the traveller, sadly, shaking his head. "If some time
you have to lose all you possess. God grant you still have youth
and a strong arm. I tried--that is all--I tried."

The boy looked up at him, his heart touched. The man was near
sixty years of age; his face had deep lines in it; his voice the
dull ring of loss, and failure, and small hope. The woman covered
her face and began to sob.

"There, mother," said the man, touching her head; "we'd better
forget. I'll never speak of that again--never. We're going to
seek our fortune. Away in the great west we'll seek our fortune."

His effort to be cheerful was perhaps the richest colour of that
odd scene there in the still woods and the firelight.

"We're going to take a farm in the most beautiful country in the
world. It's easy to make money there."

"If you've no objection I'd like to go with you," said Thurst
Tilly. "I'm a good farmer."

"Can you drive a team?" said the man.

"Drove horses all my life," said Thurst; whereupon they made a
bargain.

Trove and Tilly went away to the brook for water while the
travellers went to bed in their big, covered wagon. Trove lay down
with his blanket on the boughs, reading over the indelible record
of that day. And he said, often, as he thought of it, years after,
that the saddest thing in all the world is a man of broken courage.

X

An Odd Meeting

They were up betimes in the morning, and Trove ate hastily from his
own store and bade them all good-by and made off, for he had yet a
long road to travel.

That day Trove fell in with a great, awkward country boy, slouching
along the road on his way to Cleveland. He was an odd figure, with
thick hair of the shade of tow that burst out from under a slouch
hat and muffled his neck behind; his coat was thread-bare and a bit
too large; his trousers of satinet fell loosely far enough to break
joints with each bootleg; the dusty cowhide gave his feet a lonely
and arid look. He carried a bundle tied to a stick that lay on his
left shoulder. They met near a corner, nodded, and walked on a
while together in silence. For a little time they surveyed each
other curiously. Then each began to quicken the pace.

"Maybe you think you can walk the fastest," said he of the long
hair.

They were going a hot pace, their free arms flying. Trove bent to
his work stubbornly. They both began to tire and slow up. The big
boy looked across at the other and laughed loudly.

"Wouldn't give up if ye broke a leg, would ye?" said he.

"Not if I could swing it," said Trove.

"Goin' t' Cleveland?"

"Yes; are you?"

"Yes. I'm goin' t' be a sailor," said the strange boy.

"Goin' off on the ocean?" Trove inquired with deep interest.

"Yes; 'round the world, maybe. Then I'll come back an' go t'
school--if I don't git wrecked like Robi'son Crusoe."

"My stars!" said Trove, with a look of awe.

"Like t' go?" the other inquired.

"Guess I would!"

"Better stay t' home; it's a hard life." This with an air of
parental wisdom.

"I've read 'Robi'son Crusoe,'" said Trove, as if it were some
excuse.

"So 've I; an' Grimshaw's 'Napoleon,' an' Weems's 'Life o' Marion,'
an' 'The Pirates' Book,' an' the Bible."

"I've got half through the Bible," said Trove.

"Who slew Absolum?" the other inquired doubtfully.

Trove remembered the circumstances, but couldn't recall the name.

They sat down to rest and eat luncheon.

"You going to be a statesman?" Trove inquired.

"No; once I thought I'd try t' go t' Congress, but I guess I'd
rather go t' sea. What you goin' t' be?"

"I shall try to be an author," said Trove.

"Why, if I was you, I'd go into politics," said the other. "Ye
might be President some day, no telling. Do ye know how t' chop er
hoe er swing a scythe?"

"Yes."

"Wal, then, if ye don't ever git t' be President, ye won't have t'
starve. I saw an author one day."

"You did?"

"He was an awful-lookin' cuss," said the other, with a nod of
affirmation.

The strange boy took another bite of bread and butter.

"Wrote dime novels an' drank whisky an' wore a bearskin vest," he
added presently.

"Do you know the Declaration of Independence?"

"No."

"I do," said the strange boy, and gave it word for word.

They chatted and tried tricks and spent a happy hour there by the
roadside. It was an hour of pure democracy--neither knew even the
name of the other so far.

They got to Cleveland late in the afternoon.

"Now keep yer hand on yer wallet," said the strange boy, as they
were coming into the city. "I've got three dollars an'
seventy-five cents in mine, an' I don't propose t' have it took
away from me."

Trove went to a tavern, the other to stay with friends. Near noon
next day both boys met on the wharf, where Trove was to board a
steamboat.

"Got a job?" Trove inquired.

"No," said the other, with a look of dejection. "I tried, an' they
cursed an' damned me awful. I got away as quick as I could. Dunno
but I'll have t' go back an' try t' be a statesman er something o'
that kind. Guess it's easier than goin' t' sea. Give me yer name
an' address, an' maybe I'll write ye a letter."

Trove complied.

"Please give me yours," said he.

"It's James Abram Garfield, Orange, O.," said the other.

Then they spoke a long good-by.

XI

The Old Rag Doll

The second week of September Trove went down the hills again to
school, with food and furniture beside him in the great wagon. He
had not been happy since he got home. Word of that evening with
the pretty "Vaughn girl" had come to the ears of Allen.

"You're too young for that, boy," said he, the day Trove came.
"You must promise me one thing--that you'll keep away from her
until you are eighteen."

In every conviction Allen was like the hills about him--there were
small changes on the surface, but underneath they were ever the
same rock-boned, firm, unmoving hills.

"But I'm in love with her," said the boy, with dignity. "It is more
than I can bear. I tell you, sir, that I regard the young lady
with--with deep affection." He had often a dignity of phrase and
manner beyond his years.

"Then it will last," said Allen. "You're only a boy, and for a
while I know what is best for you."

Trove had to promise, and, as that keen edge of his feeling wore
away, doubted no more the wisdom of his father. He wrote Polly a
letter, quaint with boyish chivalry and frankness--one of a package
that has lain these many years in old ribbons and the scent of
lavender.

He went to the Sign of the Dial as soon as he got to Hillsborough
that day. Darrel was at home, and a happy time it was, wherein
each gave account of the summer. A stranger sat working at the
small bench. Darrel gave him no heed, chatting as if they were
quite alone.

"And what is the news in Hillsborough?" said Trove, his part of the
story finished.

"Have ye not heard?" said Darrel, in a whisper. "Parson Hammond
hath swapped horses."

Trove began to laugh.

"Nay, that is not all," said the tinker, his pipe in hand. "Deacon
Swackhammer hath smitten the head o' Brooke. Oh, sor, 'twas a
comedy. Brooke gave him an ill-sounding word. Swackhammer
removed his coat an' flung it down. 'Deacon, lie there,' said he.
Then each began, as it were, to bruise the head o' the serpent.
Brooke--poor man!--he got the worst of it. An' sad to tell! his
wife died the very next day."

"Of what?" Trove inquired,

"Marry, I do not know; it may have been joy," said the tinker,
lighting his pipe. "Ah, sor, Brooke is tough. He smites the
helping hand an' sickens the heart o' kindness. I offered him help
an' sympathy, an' he made it all bitter with suspicion o' me. I
turned away, an' said I to meself, 'Darrel, thy head is soft--a
babe could brain thee with a lady's fan.'"

Darrel puffed his pipe in silence a little time.

"Every one hates Brooke," said Trove.

"Once," said Darrel, presently, "a young painter met a small animal
with a striped back, in the woods. They exchanged compliments an'
suddenly the painter ran, shaking his head. As he came near his
own people, they all began to flee before him. He followed them
for days, an' every animal in the woods ran as he came near. By
an' by he stopped to rest. Then he looked down at himself an'
spat, sneeringly. When, after weeks o' travel, he was at length
admitted to the company of his kind, they sat in judgment on him.

"'Tell us,' said one, 'what evil hath befallen thee?'

"'Alas!' said the poor cat, 'I met a little creature with a striped
back.'

"'A little creature! an' thee so put about?' said another, with
great contempt.

"'Ay; but he hath a mighty talent,' said the sad painter. 'Let him
but stand before thee, an' he hath spoiled the earth, an' its
people, an' thou would'st even flee from thyself. But in fleeing
thou shalt think thyself on the way to hell.'"

For a moment Darrel shook with silent laughter. Then he rose and
put his pipe on the shelf.

"Well, I'd another chance to try the good law on him," said Darrel,
presently. "In July he fell sick o' fever, an' I delayed me trip
to nurse him. At length, when he was nearly well, an' I had come
to his home one evening, the widow Glover met me at his door.

"'If ye expect money fer comin' here, ye better go on 'bout yer
business,' Brooke shouted from the bedroom. 'I don't need ye any
more, an' I'll send ye a bushel o' potatoes by 'n by. Good day.'

"Not a word o' thanks!" the tinker exclaimed. "Wrath o' God! I
fear there is but one thing would soften him."

"And what is that?"

"A club," said Darrel. "But God forgive me! I must put away
anger. Soon it went about that Brooke was to marry the widow. All
were delighted, for each party would be in the nature of a
punishment. God's justice! they did deserve each other."

Darrel shook with happiness, and relighted his pipe.

"Mayhap ye've seen the dear lady," Darrel went on. "She is large,
bony, quarrelsome--a weaver of some fifty years--neither amiable
nor fair to look upon. Every one knows her--a survivor o' two
husbands an' many a battle o' high words.

"'Is it a case o' foreclosure, Brooke?' says I to him one day in
the road.

"'No, sor,' he snaps out; 'I had a little mortgage on her
furniture, but I'm going t' marry her for a helpmeet. She is a
great worker an' neat an' savin'.'

"'An' headstrong,' says I. 'Ye must have patience with her.'

"'I can manage her,' said Brooke. 'The first morning after we are
married I always say to my wife, "Here's the breeches; now if ye
want 'em, take 'em, an' I'll put on the dress."'

"He looked wise, then, as if 'twere a great argument.

"'Always?' says I. 'God bless thee, 'tis an odd habit.'

"Well, the boast o' Brooke went from one to another an' at last to
the widow's ear. They say a look o' firmness an' resolution came
into her face, an' late in August they were married of an evening
at the home o' Brooke. Well, about then, I had been having
trouble."

"Trouble?" said Trove.

"It was another's trouble--that of a client o' mine, a poor woman
out in the country. Brooke had a mortgage on her cattle, an' she
could not pay, an' I undertook to help her. I had some money due
me, but was unable to put me hand on it. That day before the
wedding I went to the old sinner.

"'Brooke, I came to see about the Martha Vaughn mortgage,' says I."

"Martha Vaughn!" said Trove, turning quickly.

"Yes, one o' God's people," said the tinker.

"Ye may have seen her?"

"I have seen her," said Trove.

"'At ten o'clock to-morrow I shall foreclose,' says Brooke, waving
his fist.

"'Give her a little time--till the day after to-morrow,--man, it is
not much to ask,' says I.

"'Not an hour,' says he; an' I came away."

Darrel rose and put on his glasses and brought a newspaper and gave
it to the boy.

"Read that," said he, his finger on the story, "an' see what came
of it."

The article was entitled "A Rag Doll--The Story of a Money-lender
whose Name, let us say, is Brown."

After some account of the marriage and of bride and groom, the
story went on as follows:--

"At midnight the charivari was heard--a noisy beating of pans and
pots in the door-yard of the unhappy groom, who flung sticks of
wood from the window, and who finally dispersed the crowd with an
old shotgun. Bright and early next day came the milkman--a veteran
of the war of 1812--who, agreeably with his custom, sounded the
call of boots and saddles on his battered bugle at Brown's door.
But none came to open it. The noon hour passed with no sign of
life in the old house.

"'Suthin' hes happened over there,' said his nearest neighbour,
peering out of the window. 'Mebbe they've fit an' disabled each
other.'

"'You'd better go an' rap on the door,' said his wife.

"He started, halting at his gate and looking over at the house of
mystery. While he stood there, the door of the money-lender opened
a little, and a head came out beckoning for help. He hurried to
the door, that swung open as he came near it.

"'Heavens!' said he, 'What is the matter?'

"Brown stood behind the door, in a gown of figured calico, his feet
bare, his shock of gray hair dishevelled. The gown was a poor fit,
stopping just below the knees.

"'That woman!' he gasped, sinking into a chair and making an angry
gesture with his fist. 'That woman has got every pair o' breeches
in the house.'

"His wife appeared in the rusty, familiar garments of the
money-lender.

"'He tried to humble me this morning,' said she, 'an' I humbled
him. He began to order me around, an' I told him I wouldn't hev
it. "Then," says he, "you better put on the breeches an' I'll put
on the dress." "Very well," says I, and grabbed the breeches, an'
give him the dress. I know ye, Brown; ye'll never abuse me.'

"'I'll get a divorce--I'll have the law on ye,' said the old man,
angrily, as he walked the floor in his gown of calico.

"'Go on,' said she. 'Go to the lawyer now.'

"'Will ye git me a pair o' breeches?'

"'No; I took yer offer, an' ye can't have 'em 'til ye've done the
work that goes with the dress. Come, now, I want my dinner.'

"'I can't find a stitch in the house,' said he, turning to his
neighbour. 'I wish ye'd bring me some clothes.'

"The caller made no reply, but came away smiling, and told of
Brown's dilemma.

"'It's good for him,' said the neighbour's wife. 'Don't ye take
him any clothes. He's bullied three wives to death, an' now I'm
glad he's got a wife that can bully him.'

"Brown waited long, but no help arrived. The wife was firm and he
very hungry. She called him 'wife'--a title not calculated to
soothe a man of his agility and vigour. He galloped across the
room at her, yelling as he brandished a poker. She quickly took it
away and drove him into a corner. He had taken up the poker and
now seemed likely to perish by it. Then, going to the stove with
this odd weapon, she stuck its end in the fire, and Brown had no
sooner flung a wash-basin across the room at her head than she ran
after him with the hot poker. Then, calling for help, he ran
around the stove and out of doors like a wild man, his dress of
calico and his long hair flying in the breeze. Pedestrians halted,
men and women came out of their homes. The bare feet of the
money-lender were flying with great energy.

"'She's druv him crazy,' a man shouted.

"'An' knocked the socks off him,' said another.

"'Must have been tryin' t' make him into a rag doll,' was the
comment of a third.

"'Brown, if yer goin' t' be a womern,' said one, as they surrounded
him, 'ye'd ought to put on a longer dress. Yer enough t' scare a
hoss.'

"Brown was inarticulate with anger.

"A number of men judging him insane, seized and returned him to his
punishment. They heard the unhappy story with loud laughter.

"'You'd better give up an' go to the kitchen. Brown,' said one of
them; and there are those who maintain that he got the dinner
before he got the trousers."

"Well, God be praised!" said Darrel, when Trove had finished
reading the story; "Brooke was unable to foreclose that day, an'
the next was Sunday, an' bright an' early on Monday morning I paid
the debt."

"Mrs. Vaughn has a daughter," said Trove, blushing.

"Ay; an' she hath a pretty redness in her lip," said Darrel,
quickly, "an' a merry flash in her eye. Thou hast yet far to go,
boy. Look not upon her now, or she will trip thee. By an' by,
boy, by an' by."

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