Darrel of the Blessed Isles by Irving Bacheller

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"I insist on making the tea," said Mrs. Vaughn, with amusement.

"Shall we let her make the tea?" he asked, looking thoughtfully at
Polly.

"Perhaps we'd better," said she, laughing.

"All right; we'll let her make the tea--we don't have to drink it."

"You," said the widow, "are like Governor Wright, who said to Mrs.
Perkins, 'Madam, I will praise your tea, but hang me if I'll drink
it.'"

"I'm going to teach the primer class in the morning," said Polly,
as she filled the tea-kettle.

"Look out, young man," said Mrs. Vaughn, turning to the teacher.
"In a short time she'll be thinking she can teach you."

"I get my first lesson to-night," said the young man. "She's to
teach me dancing."

"And you've no fear for your soul?"

"I've more fear for my body," said he, glancing down upon his long
figure. "I've never lifted my feet save for the purpose of
transportation. I'd like to learn how to dance because Deacon
Tower thinks it wicked and I've learned that happiness and sin mean
the same thing in his vocabulary."

"I fear you're a downward and backsliding youth," said the widow.

"You know what Ezra Tower said of Ebenezer Fisher, that he was 'one
o' them mush-heads that didn't believe in hell'? Are you one o'
that kind?" Proclaimers of liberal thought were at work there in
the north.

"Since I met Deacon Tower I'm sure it's useful and necessary. He's
got to have some place for his enemies. If it were not for hell,
the deacon would be miserable here and, maybe, happy hereafter."

"It's a great hope and comfort to him," said the widow, smiling.

"Well, God save us all!" said Trove, who had now a liking for both
the phrase and philosophy of Darrel. They had taken chairs at the
table.

"Tom," said he, "we'll pause a moment, while you give us the fourth
rule of syntax."

"Correct," said he, heartily, as the last word was spoken. "Now
let us be happy."

"Paul," said the teacher, as he finished eating, "what is the
greatest of all laws?"

"Thou shalt not lie," said the boy, promptly.

"Correct," said Trove; "and in the full knowledge of the law, I
declare that no better blueberries and biscuit ever passed my lips."

Supper over, Polly disappeared, and young Mr. Trove helped with the
dishes. Soon Polly came back, glowing in her best gown and
slippers.

"Why, of all things! What a foolish child!" said her mother. For
answer Polly waltzed up and down the room, singing gayly.

She stopped before the glass and began to fuss with her ribbons.
The teacher went to her side.

"May I have the honour, Miss Vaughn," Said he, bowing politely.
"Is that the way to do?"

"You might say, 'Will you be my pardner,'" said she, mimicking the
broad dialect of the region.

"I'll sacrifice my dignity, but not my language," said he. "Let us
dance and be merry, for to-morrow we teach."

"If you'll watch my feet, you'll see how I do it," said she; and
lifting her skirt above her dainty ankles, glided across the floor
on tiptoe, as lightly as a fawn at play. But Sidney Trove was not
a graceful creature. The muscles on his lithe form, developed in
the school of work or in feats of strength at which he had met no
equal, were untrained in all graceful trickery. He loved dancing
and music and everything that increased the beauty and delight of
life, but they filled him with a deep regret of his ignorance.

"Hard work," said he, breathing heavily, "and I don't believe I'm
having as much fun as you are."

The small company of spectators had been laughing with amusement.

"Reminds me of a story," said the teacher. "'What are all the
animals crying about?' said one elephant to another. 'Why, don't
you know?--it's about the reindeer,' said the other elephant; 'he's
dead. Never saw anything so sad in my life. He skipped so, and
made a noise like that, and then he died.' The elephant jumped up
and down, trying the light skip of the reindeer and gave a great
roar for the bleat of the dying animal, 'What,' said the first
elephant, 'did he skip so, and cry that way?' And he tried it.
'No, not that way but this way,' said the other; and he went
through it again. By this time every animal in the show had begun
to roar with laughter. 'What on earth are you doing?' said the
rhinoceros. 'It's the way the reindeer died,' said one of the
elephants.

"'Never saw anything so funny,' said the rhinoceros; 'if the poor
thing died that way, it's a pity he couldn't repeat the act.'

"'This is terrible,' said the zebra, straining at his halter. 'The
reindeer is dead, and the elephants have gone crazy.'"

"Sidney Trove," said the teacher, as he was walking away that
evening, "you'll have to look out for yourself. You're a teacher
and you ought to be a man--you must be a man or I'll have nothing
more to do with you."

XIX

Amusement and Learning

There was much doing that winter in the Linley district. They were
a month getting ready for the school "exhibition." Every home in
the valley and up Cedar Hill rang with loud declamations. The
impassioned utterances of James Otis, Daniel Webster, and Patrick
Henry were heard in house, and field, and stable. Every evening
women were busy making costumes for a play, while the young
rehearsed their parts. Polly Vaughn, editor of a paper to be read
that evening, searched the countryside for literary talent. She
found a young married woman, who had spent a year in the State
Normal School, and who put her learning at the service of Polly, in
a composition treating the subject of intemperance. Miss Betsey
Leech sent in what she called "a piece" entitled "Home." Polly,
herself, wrote an editorial on "Our Teacher," and there was hemming
and hawing when she read it, declaring they all had learned much,
even to love him. Her mother helped her with the alphabetical
rhymes, each a couplet of sentimental history, as, for example:--

"A is for Alson, a jolly young man,
He'll marry Miss Betsey, they say, if he can."

They trimmed the little schoolhouse with evergreen and erected a
small stage, where the teacher's desk had been. Sheets were hung,
for curtains, on a ten-foot rod.

A while after dark one could hear a sound of sleigh-bells in the
distance. Away on drifted pike and crossroad the bells began to
fling their music. It seemed to come in rippling streams of sound
through the still air, each with its own voice. In half an hour
countless echoes filled the space between them, and all were as one
chorus, wherein, as it came near, one could distinguish song and
laughter.

Young people from afar came in cutters and by the sleigh load;
those who lived near, afoot with lanterns. They were a merry
company, crowding the schoolhouse, laughing and whispering as they
waited for the first exhibit. Trove called them to order and made
a few remarks.

"Remember," said he, "this is not our exhibition. It is only a
sort of preparation for one we have planned. In about twenty years
the Linley School is to give an exhibition worth seeing. It will
be, I believe, an exhibition of happiness, ability, and success on
the great stage of the world. Then I hope to have on the programme
speeches in Congress, in the pulpit, and at the bar. You shall see
in that play, if I mistake not, homes full of love and honour, men
and women of fair fame. It may be you shall see, then, some whose
names are known and honoured of all men."

Each performer quaked with fear, and both sympathy and approval
were in the applause. Miss Polly Vaughn was a rare picture of
rustic beauty, her cheeks as red as her ribbons, her voice low and
sweet. Trove came out in the audience for a look at her as she
read. Ringing salvos of laughter greeted the play and stirred the
sleigh-bells on the startled horses beyond the door. The programme
over, somebody called for Squire Town, a local pettifogger, who
flung his soul and body into every cause. He often sored his
knuckles on the court table and racked his frame with the violence
of his rhetoric. He had a stock of impassioned remarks ready for
all occasions.

He rose, walked to the centre of the stage, looked sternly at the
people, and addressed them as "Fellow Citizens." He belaboured the
small table; he rose on tiptoe and fell upon his heels; often he
seemed to fling his words with a rapid jerk of his right arm as one
hurls a pebble. It was all in praise of his "young friend," the
teacher, and the high talent of Linley School.

The exhibition ended with this rare exhibit of eloquence. Trove
announced the organization of a singing-school for Monday evening
of the next week, and then suppressed emotion burst into noise.
The Linley school-house had become as a fount of merry sound in the
still night; then the loud chorus of the bells, diminishing as they
went away, and breaking into streams of music and dying faint in
the far woodland.

One Nelson Cartright--a jack of all trades they called him--was the
singing-master. He was noted far and wide for song and penmanship.
Every year his intricate flourishes in black and white were on
exhibition at the county fair.

"Wal, sir," men used to say thoughtfully, "ye wouldn't think he
knew beans. Why, he's got a fist bigger'n a ham. But I tell ye,
let him take a pen, sir, and he'll draw a deer so nat'ral, sir,
ye'd swear he could jump over a six-rail fence. Why, it is
wonderful!"

Every winter he taught the arts of song and penmanship in the four
districts from Jericho to Cedar Hill. He sang a roaring bass and
beat the time with dignity and precision. For weeks he drilled the
class on a bit of lyric melody, of which a passage is here given:--

"One, two, three, ready, sing," he would say, his ruler cutting the
air, and all began:--

Listen to the bird, and the maid, and the bumblebee,
Tra, la la la la, tra, la la la la,
Joyfully we'll sing the gladsome melody,
Tra, la, la, la, la.

The singing-school added little to the knowledge or the
cheerfulness of that neighbourhood. It came to an end the last day
of the winter term. As usual, Trove went home with Polly. It was
a cold night, and as the crowd left them at the corners he put his
arm around her.

"School is over," said she, with a sigh, "and I'm sorry."

"For me?" he inquired.

"For myself," she answered, looking down at the snowy path.

There came a little silence crowded with happy thoughts.

"At first, I thought you very dreadful," she went on, looking up at
him with a smile. He could see her sweet face in the moonlight and
was tempted to kiss it.

"Why?"

"You were so terrible," she answered. "Poor Joe Beach! It seemed
as if he would go through the wall."

"Well, something had to happen to him," said the teacher.

"He likes, you now, and every one likes you here. I wish we could
have you always for a teacher."

"I'd be willing to be your teacher, always, if I could only teach
you what you have taught me."

"Oh, dancing," said she, merrily; "that is nothing. I'll give you
all the lessons you like."

"No, I shall not let you teach me that again," said he.

"Why?"

"Because your pretty feet trample on me."

Then came another silence.

"Don't you enjoy it?" she asked, looking off at the stars.

"Too much." said he. "First, I must teach you something--if I can."

He was ready for a query, if it came, but she put him off.

"I intend to be a grand lady," said she, "and, if you do not learn,
you'll never be able to dance with me."

"There'll be others to dance with you," said he. "I have so much
else to do."

"Oh, you're always thinking about algebra and arithmetic and those
dreadful things," said she.

"No, I'm thinking now of something very different."

"Grammar, I suppose," said she, looking down.

"Do you remember the conjugations?"

"Try me," said she.

"Give me the first person singular, passive voice, present tense,
of the verb to love."

"I am loved," was her answer, as she looked away.

"And don't you know--I love you," said he, quickly.

"That is the active voice," said she, turning with a smile.

"Polly," said he, "I love you as I could love no other in the
world."

He drew her close, and she looked up at him very soberly.

"You love me?" she said in a half whisper.

"With all my heart," he answered. "I hope you will love me
sometime."

Their lips came together.

"I do not ask you, now, to say that you love me," said the young
man. "You are young and do not know your own heart."

She rose on tiptoe and fondly touched his cheek with her fingers.

"But I do love you," she whispered.

"I thank God you have told me, but I shall ask you for no promise.
A year from now, then, dear, I shall ask you to promise that you
will be my wife sometime."

"Oh, let me promise now," she whispered.

"Promise only that you will love me if you see none you love
better."

They were slowly nearing the door. Suddenly she stopped, looking
up at him.

"Are you sure you love me?" she asked.

"Yes," he whispered.

"Sure?"

"As sure as I am that I live."

"And will love me always?"

"Always," he answered.

She drew his head down a little and put her lips to his ear. "Then
I shall love you always," she whispered.

Mrs. Vaughn, was waiting for them at the fireside. They sat
talking a while.

"You go off to bed, Polly," said the teacher, presently. "I've
something to say, and you're not to hear it."

"I'll listen," said she, laughing.

"Then we'll whisper," Trove answered.

"That isn't fair," said she, with a look of injury, as she held the
candle. "Besides, you don't allow it yourself."

"Polly ought to go away to school," said he, after Polly had gone
above stairs. "She's a bright girl."

"And I so poor I'm always wondering what'll happen to-morrow," said
Mrs. Vaughn. "The farm has a mortgage, and it's more than I can do
to pay the interest. Some day I'll have to give it up."

"Perhaps I can help you," said the young man, feeling the fur on
his cap.

There was an awkward silence.

"Fact is," said the young man, a bit embarrassed, "fact is, I love
Polly."

In the silence that followed Trove could hear the tick of his watch.

"Have ye spoken to her?" said the widow, with a serious look.

"I've told her frankly to-night that I love her," said he. "I
couldn't help it, she was so sweet and beautiful."

"If you couldn't help it, I don't see how I could," said she. "But
Polly's only a child. She's a big girl, I know, but she's only
eighteen."

"I haven't asked her for any promise. It wouldn't be fair. She
must have a chance to meet other young men, but, sometime, I hope
she will be my wife."

"Poor children!" said Mrs. Vaughn, "you don't either of you know
what you're doing."

He rose to go.

"I was a little premature," he added, "but you mustn't blame me.
Put yourself in my place. If you were a young man and loved a girl
as sweet as Polly and were walking home with her on a moonlit
night--"

"I presume there'd be more or less love-making," said the widow.
"She is a pretty thing and has the way of a woman. We were
speaking of you the other day, and she said to me: 'He is
ungrateful. You can teach the primer class for him, and be so good
that you feel perfectly miserable, and give him lessons in dancing,
and put on your best clothes, and make biscuit for him, and then,
perhaps, he'll go out and talk with the hired man.' 'Polly,' said
I, 'you're getting to be very foolish.' 'Well, it comes so easy,'
said she. 'It's my one talent'"

XX

At the Theatre of the Woods

Next day Trove went home. He took with him many a souvenir of his
first term, including a scarf that Polly had knit for him, and the
curious things he took from the Frenchman Leblanc, and which he
retained partly because they were curious and partly because Mrs.
Leblanc had been anxious to get rid of them. He soon rejoined his
class at Hillsborough, having kept abreast of it in history and
mathematics by work after school and over the week's end. He was
content to fall behind in the classics, for they were easy, and in
them his arrears gave him no terror. Walking for exercise, he laid
the plan of his tale and had written some bits of verse. Of an
evening he went often to the Sign of the Dial, and there read his
lines and got friendly but severe criticism. He came into the shop
one evening, his "Horace" under his arm.

"'_Maecenas, atavis, edite regibus_'" Trove chanted, pausing to
recall the lines.

The tinker turned quickly. "'_O et presidium et duice decus
meum_,'" he quoted, never stopping until he had finished She ode.

"Is there anything you do not know?" Trove inquired.

"Much," said the tinker, "including the depth o' me own folly. A
man that displays knowledge hath need o' more."

Indeed, Trove rarely came for a talk with Darrel when he failed to
discover something new in him--a further reach of thought and
sympathy or some unsuspected treasure of knowledge. The tinker
loved a laugh and would often search his memory for some phrase of
bard or philosopher apt enough to provoke it. Of his great store
of knowledge he made no vainer use.

Trove had been overworking; and about the middle of June they went
for a week in the woods together. They walked to Allen's the first
day, and, after a brief visit there, went off in the deep woods,
camping on a pond in thick-timbered hills. Coming to the lilied
shore, they sat down a while to rest. A hawk was sailing high
above the still water. Crows began to call in the tree-tops. An
eagle sat on a dead pine at the water's edge and seemed to be
peering down at his own shadow. Two deer stood in a marsh on the
farther shore, looking over at them. Near by were the bones of
some animal, and the fresh footprints of a painter. Sounds echoed
far in the hush of the unbroken wilderness.

"See, boy," said Darrel, with a little gesture of his right hand,
"the theatre o' the woods! See the sloping hills, tree above tree,
like winding galleries. Here is a coliseum old, past reckoning.
Why, boy, long before men saw the Seven Hills it was old. Yet see
how new it is--how fresh its colour, how strong its timbers! See
the many seats, each with a good view, an' the multitude o' the
people, yet most o' them are hidden. Ten thousand eyes are looking
down upon us. Tragedies and comedies o' the forest are enacted
here. Many a thrilling scene has held the stage--the spent deer
swimming for his life, the painter stalking his prey or leaping on
it."

"Tis a cruel part," said Trove. "He is the murderer of the play.
I cannot understand why there are so many villains in its cast,
Both the cat and the serpent baffle me."

"Marry, boy, the world is a great school--an' this little drama o'
the good God is part of it," said Darrel. "An' the play hath a
great moral--thou shalt learn to use thy brain or die. Now, there
be many perils in this land o' the woods--so many that all its
people must learn to think or perish by them. A pretty bit o'
wisdom it is, sor. It keeps the great van moving--ever moving, in
the long way to perfection. Now, among animals, a growing brain
works the legs of its owner, sending them far on diverse errands
until they are strong. Mind thee, boy, perfection o' brain and
body is the aim o' Nature. The cat's paw an' the serpent's coil
are but the penalties o' weakness an' folly. The world is for the
strong. Therefore, God keep thee so, or there be serpents will
enter thy blood an' devour thee--millions o' them."

"And what is the meaning of this law?"

"That the weak shall not live to perpetuate their kind," said
Darrel. "Every year there is a tournament o' the sparrows. Which
deserves the fair--that is the question to be settled. Full tilt
they come together, striking with lance and wing. Knight strives
with knight, lady with lady, and the weak die. Lest thou forget,
I'll tell thee a tale, boy, wherein is the great plan. The queen
bee--strongest of all her people--is about to marry.[1] A clear
morning she comes out o' the palace gate--her attendants following.
The multitude of her suitors throng the vestibule; the air, now
still an' sweet, rings with the sound o' fairy timbrels. Of a
sudden she rises into the blue sky, an' her suitors follow. Her
swift wings cleave the air straight as a plummet falls. Only the
strong may keep in sight o' her; bear that in mind, boy. Her
suitors begin to fall wearied. Higher an' still higher the good
queen wings her way. By an' by, of all that began the journey,
there is but one left with her, an' he the strongest of her people.
An' they are wed, boy, up in the sun-lit deep o' heaven. So the
seed o' life is chosen, me fine lad."

[1 In behalf of Darrel, the author makes acknowledgment of his
indebtedness to M. Maurice Maeterlinck for an account of the
queen's flight in his interesting "Life of the Bee."]

They sat a little time in silence, looking at the shores of the
pond.

"Have ye never felt the love passion?" said Darrel.

"Well, there's a girl of the name of Polly," Trove answered.

"Ah, Polly! she o' the red lip an' the dark eye," said Darrel,
smiling. "She's one of a thousand." He clapped his hand upon his
knee, merrily, and sang a sentimental couplet from an old Irish
ballad.

"Have ye won her affection, boy?" he added, his hand on the boy's
arm.

"I think I have."

"God love thee! I'm glad to hear it," said the old man. "She is a
living wonder, boy, a living wonder, an' had I thy youth I'd give
thee worry."

"Since her mother cannot afford to do it, I wish to send her away
to school," said Trove.

"Tut, tut, boy; thou hast barely enough for thy own schooling."

"I've eighty-two dollars in my pocket," said Trove, proudly. "I do
not need it. The job in the mill--that will feed me and pay my
room rent, and my clothes will do me for another year."

"On me word, boy; I like it in thee," said Darrel; "but surely she
would not take thy money."

"I could not offer it to her, but you might go there, and perhaps
she would take it from you."

"Capital!" the tinker exclaimed. "I'll see if I can serve thee.
Marry, good youth, I'll even give away thy money an' take credit
for thy benevolence. Teacher, philanthropist, lover--I believe
thou'rt ready to write."

"The plan of my first novel is complete," said Trove. "That poor
thief,--he shall be my chief character,--the man of whom you told
me."

"Poor man! God make thee kind to him," said the tinker. "An'
thou'rt willing, I'll hear o' him to-night. When the firelight
flickers,--that is the time, boy, for tales."

They built a rude lean-to, covered with bark, and bedded with
fragrant boughs. Both lay in the firelight, Darrel smoking his
pipe, as the night fell.

"Now for thy tale," said the tinker.

The tale was Trove's own solution of his life mystery, shrewdly
come to, after a long and careful survey of the known facts. And
now, shortly, time was to put the seal of truth upon it, and daze
him with astonishment, and fill him with regret of his cunning. It
should be known that he had never told Darrel or any one of his
coming in the little red sleigh.

He lay thinking for a time after the tinker spoke. Then he began:--

"Well, the time is 1833, the place a New England city on the sea.
Chapter I: A young woman is walking along a street, with a child
sleeping in her arms. She is dark-skinned,--a Syrian. It is
growing dusk; the street is deserted, save by her and two sailors,
who are approaching her. They, too, are Syrians. One seems to
strike her,--it is mere pretence, however,--and she falls. The
other seizes the child, who, having been drugged, is still asleep.
A wagon is waiting near. They drive away hurriedly, their captive
under a blanket. The kidnappers make for the woods in New
Hampshire. Officers of the law drive them far. They abandon their
horse, tramping westward over trails in the wilderness, bearing the
boy in a sack of sail-cloth, open at the top. They had guns and
killed their food as they travelled. Snow came deep; by and by
game was scarce and they had grown weary of bearing the boy on
their backs. One waited in the woods with the little lad while the
other went away to some town or city for provisions. He came back,
hauling them in a little sleigh. It was much like those made for
the delight of the small boy in every land of snow. It had a box
painted red and two bobs and a little dashboard. They used it for
the transportation of boy and impedimenta. In the deep wilderness
beyond the Adirondacks they found a cave in one of the rock ledges.
They were twenty miles from any post-office but shortly discovered
one. Letters in cipher were soon passing between them and their
confederates. They learned there was no prospect of getting the
ransom. He they had thought rich was not able to raise the money
they required or any large sum. Two years went by, and they
abandoned hope. What should they do with the boy? One advised
murder, but the other defended him. It was unnecessary, he
maintained, to kill a mere baby, who knew not a word of English,
and would forget all in a month. And murder would only increase
their peril. Now eight miles from their cave was the cabin of a
settler. They passed within a mile of it on their way out and in.
They had often met the dog of the settler roving after small
game--a shepherd, trustful, affectionate, and ever ready to make
friends. One day they captured the dog and took him to their cave.
They could not safely be seen with the boy, so they planned to let
the dog go home with him in the little red sleigh. Now the
settler's cabin was like that of my father, on the shore of a pond.
It was round, as a cup's rim, and a mile or so in diameter.
Opposite the cabin a trail came to the water's edge, skirting the
pond, save in cold weather, when it crossed the ice. They waited
for a night when their tracks would soon disappear. Then, having
made a cover of the sail-cloth sack in which they had brought the
boy, and stretched it on withes, and made it fast to the sleigh
box, they put the sleeping boy in the sleigh, with hot stones
wrapped in paper, and a robe of fur, to keep him warm, hitched the
dog to it, and came over hill and trail, to the little pond, a
while after midnight. Here they buckled a ring of bells on the
dog's neck and released him. He made for his home on the clear
ice; the bells and his bark sounding as he ran. They at the cabin
heard him coming and opened their door to dog and traveller. So
came my hero in a little red sleigh, and was adopted by the settler
and his wife, and reared by them with generous affection. Well, he
goes to school and learns rapidly, and comes to manhood. It's a
pretty story--that of his life in the big woods. But now for the
love tale. He meets a young lady--sweet, tender, graceful,
charming."

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