Darrel of the Blessed Isles by Irving Bacheller

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"A moment," said Darrel, raising his hand. "Prithee, boy, ring
down the curtain for a brief parley. Thou say'st they were
Syrians--they that stole the lad. Now, tell me, hast thou reason
for that?"

"Ample," said Trove. "When they took him out of the sleigh the
first words he spoke were "Anah jouhan." He used them many times,
and while he forgot they remembered them. Now "Anah jouhan" is a
phrase of the Syrian tongue, meaning 'I am hungry.'"

"Very well!" said the old man, with emphasis, "and sailors--that is
a just inference. It was a big port, and far people came on the
four winds. Very well! Now, for the young lady. An' away with
thy book unless I love her."

"She is from life--a simple-hearted girl, frank and beautiful
and--" Trove hesitated, looking into the dying fire.

"Noble, boy, make sure o' that, an' nobler, too, than girls are apt
to be. If Emulation would measure height with her, see that it
stand upon tiptoes."

"So I have planned. The young man loves her. She is in every
thought and purpose. She has become as the rock on which his hope
is founded. Now he loves honour, too, and all things of good
report. He has been reared a Puritan. By chance, one day, it
comes to him that his father was a thief."

The boy paused. For a moment they heard only the voices of the
night.

"He dreaded to tell her," Trove continued; "yet he could not ask
her to be his wife without telling. Then the question, Had he a
right to tell?--for his father had not suffered the penalty of the
law and, mind you, men thought him honest."

"'Tis just," said Darrel; "but tell me, how came he to know his
father was a thief?"

"That I am thinking of, and before I answer, is there more you can
tell me of him or his people?"

Darrel rose; and lighting a torch of pine, stuck it in the ground.
Then he opened his leathern pocket-book and took out a number of
cuttings, much worn, and apparently from old newspapers. He put on
his glasses and began to examine the cuttings.

"The other day," said he, "I found an account of his mother's
death. I had forgotten, but her death was an odd tragedy."

And the tinker began reading, slowly, as follows:--

"'She an' her mother--a lady deaf an' feeble--were alone, saving
the servants in a remote corner o' the house. A sound woke her in
the still night. She lay a while listening. Was it her husband
returning without his key? She rose, feeling her way in the dark
and trembling with the fear of a nervous woman. Descending stairs,
she came into a room o' many windows. The shades were up, an'
there was dim moon-light in the room. A door, with panels o' thick
glass, led to the garden walk. Beyond it were the dark forms of
men. One was peering in, his face at a panel, another kneeling at
the lock. Suddenly the door opened; the lady fell fainting with a
loud cry. Next day the kidnapped boy was born.'"

Darrel stopped reading, put the clipping into his pocket-book, and
smothered the torch.

"It seems the woman died the same day," said he.

"And was my mother," the words came in a broken voice.

Half a moment of silence followed them. Then Darrel rose slowly,
and a tremulous, deep sigh came from the lips of Trove.

"Thy mother, boy!" Darrel whispered.

The fire had burnt low, and the great shadow of the night lay dark
upon them. Trove got to his feet and came to the side of Darrel.

"Tell me, for God's sake, man, tell me where is my father," said he.

"Hush, boy! Listen. Hear the wind in the trees?" said Darrel.

There was a breath of silence broken by the hoot of an owl and the
stir of high branches. "Ye might as well ask o' the wind or the
wild owl," Darrel said. "I cannot tell thee. Be calm, boy, and
say how thou hast come to know."

Again they sat down together, and presently Trove told him of those
silent men who had ever haunted the dark and ghostly house of his
inheritance.

"'Tis thy mother's terror,--an' thy father's house,--I make no
doubt," said Darrel, presently, in a deep voice. "But, boy, I
cannot tell any man where is thy father; not even thee, nor his
name, nor the least thing, tending to point him out, until--until I
am released o' me vow. Be content; if I can find the man, ere
long, thou shalt have word o' him."

Trove leaned against the breast of Darrel, shaking with emotion.
His tale had come to an odd and fateful climax.

The old man stroked his head tenderly.

"Ah, boy," said he, "I know thy heart. I shall make haste--I
promise thee, I shall make haste. But, if the good God should
bring thy father to thee, an' thy head to shame an' sorrow for his
sin, forgive him, in the name o' Christ, forgive him. Ay, boy,
thou must forgive all that trespass against thee."

"If I ever see him, he shall know I am not ungrateful," said the
young man.

A while past twelve o'clock, those two, lying there in the
firelight, thinking, rose like those startled in sleep. A mighty
voice came booming over the still water and echoed far and wide.
Slowly its words fell and rang in the great, silent temple of the
woods:--

"'Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have
not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.

"'And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all
mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that
I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing.

"'And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I
give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me
nothing.

"'Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity
vaunteth not itself; is not puffed up,

"'Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not
easily provoked, thinketh no evil;

"'Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things,
endureth all things.

"'Charity never faileth: but whether there be prophecies, they
shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether
there be knowledge, it shall vanish away.'"

As the last words died away in the far woodland, Trove and Darrel
turned, wiping their eyes in silence. That flood of inspiration
had filled them. Big thoughts had come drifting down with its
current. They listened a while, but heard only the faint crackle
of the fire.

"Strange!" said Trove, presently.

"Passing strange, and like a beautiful song," said Darrel.

"It may be some insane fanatic."

"Maybe, but he hath the voice of an angel," said the old man.

They passed a sleepless night and were up early, packing to leave
the woods. Darrel was to go in quest of the boy's father. Within
a week he felt sure he should be able to find him.

They skirted the pond, crossing a long ridge on its farther shore.
At a spring of cool water in a deep ravine they halted to drink and
rest. Suddenly they heard a sound of men approaching; and when the
latter had come near, a voice, deep, vibrant, and musical as a
harp-string, in these lines of Hamlet:--

"'Why right; you are i' the right;
And so without more circumstance at all,
I hold it fit that we shake hands and part;
You as your business and desire shall point you;
For every man has business and desire
Such as it is; and for mine own part
Look you, I'll go pray.'"

Then said Darrel, loudly:--

"'These are but wild and whirling words, my lord.'"

Two men, a guide in advance, came along the trail--one, a most
impressive figure, tall, erect, and strong; its every move
expressing grace and power.

Again the deep music of his voice, saying:--

"'I'm sorry they offend you heartily; yes, faith, heartily.'"

And Darrel rejoined, his own rich tone touching the note of
melancholy in the other:--

"'There's no offence, my lord.'"

"'What Horatio is this?" the stranger inquired, offering his hand.
"A player?"

"Ay, as are all men an' women," said Darrel, quickly. "But I, sor,
have only a poor part. Had I thy lines an' makeup, I'd win
applause."

The newcomers sat down, the man who had spoken removing his hat.
Curly locks of dark hair, with now a sprinkle of silver in them,
fell upon his brows. He had large brown eyes, a mouth firm and
well modelled, a nose slightly aquiline, and wore a small, dark
imperial--a mere tuft under his lip.

"Well, Colonel, you have paid me a graceful compliment," said he.

"Nay, man, do not mistake me rank," said Darrel.

"Indeed--what is it?"

"Friend," he answered, quickly. "In good company there's no higher
rank. But if ye think me unworthy, I'll be content with 'Mister.'"

"My friend, forgive me," said the stranger, approaching Darrel.
"Murder and envy and revenge and all evil are in my part, but no
impertinence."

"I know thy rank, sor. Thou art a gentleman," said Darrel. "I've
seen thee 'every inch a king.'"

Darrel spoke to the second period in that passage of Lear, the
majesty and despair of the old king in voice and gesture. The
words were afire with feeling as they came off his tongue, and all
looked at him with surprise.

"Ah, you have seen me play it," said the stranger. "There's no
other Lear that declares himself with that gesture."

"It is Edwin Forrest," said Darrel, as the stranger offered his
hand.

"The same, and at your service," the great actor replied. "And may
I ask who are you?"

"Roderick Darrel, son of a wheelwright on the river Bann, once a
fellow of infinite jest, believe me, but now, alas! like the skull
o' Yorick in the churchyard."

"The churchyard'" said Forrest, thoughtfully. "That to me is the
saddest of all scenes. When it's over and I leave the stage, it is
to carry with me an awe-inspiring thought of the end which is
coming to all."

He crumbled a lump of clay in his palm.

"Dust!" he whispered, scattering it in the air.

"Think ye the dust is dead? Nay, man; a mighty power is in it,"
said Darrel. "Let us imagine thee dead an' turned to clay. Leave
the clay to its own law, sor, an' it begins to cleanse an' purge
itself. Its aim is purity, an' it never wearies. Could I live
long enough, an' it were under me eye, I'd see the clay bleaching
white with a wonderful purity. Then, slowly, it would begin to
come clear, an' by an' by it would be clearer an' lovelier than a
drop o' dew at sunrise. Lo and behold! the clay has become a
sapphire. So, sor, in the waters o' time God washes the great
world. In every grain o' dust the law is written, an' I may read
the destiny o' the nobler part in the fate o' the meaner.

"'Imperious Forrest, dead an' turned to clay,
Might stop a hole to keep despair away.'"

"Delightful and happy man! I must know you better," said the great
tragedian. "May I ask, sir, what is your calling?"

"I, sor, am a tinker o' clocks."

"A tinker of clocks!" said the other, looking at him thoughtfully.
"I should think it poorly suited to your talents."

"Not so. I've only a talent for happiness an' good company."

"And you find good company here?"

"Yes; bards, prophets, an' honest men. They're everywhere."

"Tell me," said Forrest, "were you not some time a player?"

"Player of many parts, but all in God's drama--fool, servant of a
rich man, cobbler, clock tinker, all in the coat of a poor man. Me
health failed me, sor, an' I took to wandering in the open air.
Ten years ago in the city of New York me wife died, since when I
have been tinkering here in the edges o' the woodland, where I have
found health an' friendship an' good cheer. Faith, sor, that is
all one needs, save the company o' the poets.

"'I pray an' sing an' tell old tales an' laugh
At gilded butterflies, an' hear poor rogues
Talk o' court news.'"

Trove had missed not a word nor even a turn of the eye in all that
scene. After years of acquaintance with the tinker he had not yet
ventured a question as to his life history. The difference of age
and a certain masterly reserve in the old gentleman had seemed to
discourage it. A prying tongue in a mere youth would have met
unpleasant obstacles with Darrel. Never until that day had he
spoken freely of his past in the presence of the young man.

"I must see you again," said the tragedian, rising. "Of those
parts I try to play, which do you most like?"

"St. Paul," said Darrel, quickly. "Last night, sor, in this great
theatre, we heard the voice o' the prophet. Ah, sor, it was like a
trumpet on the walls of eternity. I commend to thee the part o'
St. Paul. Next to that--of all thy parts, Lear."

"Lear?" said Forrest, rising. "I am to play it this autumn. Come,
then, to New York. Give me your address, and I'll send for you."

"Sor," said Darrel, thoughtfully, "I can give thee much o' me love
but little o' me time. Nay, there'd be trouble among the clocks.
I'd be ashamed to look them in the face. Nay,--I thank thee,--but
I must mind the clocks."

The great player smiled with amusement.

"Then," said he, "I shall have to come and see you play your part.
Till then, sir, God give you happiness."

"Once upon a time," said Darrel, as he held the hand of the player,
"a weary traveller came to the gate o' Heaven, seeking entrance.

"'What hast thou in thy heart?' said the good St. Peter.

"'The record o' great suffering an' many prayers,' said the poor
man. 'I pray thee now, give me the happiness o' Heaven.'

"'Good man, we have none to spare,' said the keeper. 'Heaven hath
no happiness but that men bring. It is a gift to God and comes not
from Him. Would ye take o' that we have an' bring nothing? Nay,
go back to thy toil an' fill thy heart with happiness, an' bring it
to me overflowing. Then shalt thou know the joy o' paradise.
Remember, God giveth counsel, but not happiness.'"

"If I only had your wisdom," said Forrest, as they parted.

"Ye'd have need o' more," the tinker answered.

Trove and Darrel walked to the clearing above Faraway. At a corner
on the high hills, where northward they could see smoke and spire
of distant villages, each took his way,--one leading to
Hillsborough, the other to Allen's.

"Good-by; an' when I return I hope to bear the rest o' thy tale,"
said Darrel, as they parted.

"Only God is wise enough to finish it," said the young man.

"'Well, God help us; 'tis a world to see,'" Darrel quoted, waving
his hand. "If thy heart oppress thee, steer for the Blessed Isles."

XXI

Robin's Inn

A big maple sheltered the house of the widow Vaughn. After the
noon hour of a summer day its tide of shadow began flowing fathoms
deep over house and garden to the near field, where finally it
joined the great flood of night. The maple was indeed a robin's
inn at some crossing of the invisible roads of the air. Its green
dome towered high above and fell to the gable end of the little
house. Its deep and leafy thatch hid every timber of its frame
save the rough column. Its trunk was the main beam, each limb a
corridor, each tier of limbs a floor, and branch rose above branch
like steps in a stairway. Up and down the high dome of the maple
were a thousand balconies overlooking the meadow.

From its highest tier of a summer morning the notes of the bobolink
came rushing off his lyre, and farther down the golden robin
sounded his piccolo. But, chiefly, it was the home and refuge of
the familiar red-breasted robin. The inn had its ancient customs.
Each young bird, leaving his cradle, climbed his own stairway till
he came out upon a balcony and got a first timid look at field and
sky. There he might try his wings and keep in the world he knew by
using bill and claw on the lower tiers.

At dawn the great hall of the maple rang with music, for every
lodger paid his score with song. Therein it was ever cool, and
clean, and shady, though the sun were hot. Its every nook and
cranny was often swept and dusted by the wind. Its branches
leading up and outward to the green wall were as innumerable
stairways. Each separate home was out on rocking beams, with its
own flicker of sky light overhead. For a time at dusk there was a
continual flutter of weary wings at the lower entrance, a good
night twitter, and a sound of tiny feet climbing the stairways in
that gloomy hall. At last, there was a moment of gossip and then
silence on every floor. There seemed to be a night-watch in the
lower hall, and if any green young bird were late and noisy going
up to his home, he got a shaking and probably lost a few feathers
from the nape of his neck. Long before daybreak those hungry,
half-clad little people of the nests began to worry and crowd their
mothers. At first, the old birds tried to quiet them with
caressing movements, and had, at last, to hold their places with
bill and claw. As light came an old cock peered about him,
stretched his wings, climbed a stairway, and blew his trumpet on
the outer wall. The robin's day had begun.

Mid-autumn, when its people shivered and found fault and talked of
moving, the maple tried to please them with new and brighter
colours--gold, with the warmth of summer in its look; scarlet,
suggesting love and the June roses. Soon it stood bare and
deserted. Then what was there in the creak-and-whisper chorus of
the old tree for one listening in the night? Belike it might be
many things, according to the ear, but was it not often something
to make one think of that solemn message: "Man that is born of a
woman is of few days and full of trouble"? They who lived in that
small house under the tree knew little of all that passed in the
big world. Trumpet blasts of fame, thunder of rise and downfall,
came faintly to them. There the delights of art and luxury were
unknown. Yet those simple folk were acquainted with pleasure and
even with thrilling and impressive incidents. Field and garden
teemed with eventful life and hard by was the great city of the
woods.

XXII

Comedies of Field and Dooryard

Trove was three days in Brier Dale after he came out of the woods.
The filly was now a sleek and shapely animal, past three years of
age. He began at once breaking her to the saddle, and, that done,
mounting, he started for Robin's Inn. He carried a game rooster in
a sack for the boy Tom. All came out with a word of welcome; even
the small dog grew noisy with delight Tunk Hosely, who had come to
work for Mrs. Vaughn, took the mare and led her away, his shoulder
leaning with an added sense of horsemanship. Polly began to hurry
dinner, fussing with the table, and changing the position of every
dish, until it seemed as if she would never be quite satisfied.
Covered with the sacred old china and table-linen of her
grandmother, it had, when Polly was done with it, a very smart
appearance indeed. Then she called the boys and bade them wash
their hands and faces and whispered a warning to each, while her
mother announced that dinner was ready.

"Paul, what's an adjective?" said the teacher, as they sat down.

"A word applied to a noun to qualify or limit its meaning," the boy
answered glibly.

"Right! And what adjective would you apply to this table?"

The boy thought a moment.

"Grand!" said he, tentatively.

"Correct! I'm going to have just such a dinner every day on my
farm."

"Then you'll have to have Polly too," said Tom, innocently.

"Well, you can spare her."

"No, sir," the boy answered. "You ain't good to her; she cries
every time you go away."

There was an awkward silence and the widow began to laugh and Polly
and Trove to blush deeply.

"Maybe she whispered, an' he give her a talkin' to," said Paul.

"Have you heard about Ezra Tower?" said Mrs. Vaughn, shaking her
head at the boys and changing the topic with shrewd diplomacy.

"Much; but nothing new," said Trove.

"Well, he swears he'll never cross the Fadden bridge or speak to
anybody in Pleasant Valley."

"Why?"

"The taxes. He don't believe in improvements, and when he tried to
make a speech in town-meeting they all jeered him. There ain't any
one good enough for him to speak to now but himself an'--an' his
Creator."

In the midst of dinner, they heard an outcry in the yard. Tom's
game-cock had challenged the old rooster, and the two were leaping
and striking with foot and wing. Before help came the old rooster
was badly cut in the neck and breast. Tunk rescued him, and
brought him to the woodshed, where Trove sewed up his wounds. He
had scarcely finished when there came a louder outcry among the
fowls. Looking out they saw a gobbler striding slowly up the path
and leading the game-cock with a firm hold on the back of his neck.
The whole flock of fowls were following. The rooster held back and
came on with long but unequal strides, Never halting, the turkey
led him into the full publicity of the open yard. Now the cock was
lifted so his feet came only to the top of the grass; now his head
was bent low, and his feet fell heavily. Through it all the
gobbler bore himself with dignity and firmness. There was no show
of wrath or unnecessary violence. He swung the cock around near
the foot of the maple tree and walked him back and then returned
with him. Half his journey the poor cock was reaching for the
grass and was then lowered quickly, so he had to walk with bent
knees. Again and again the gobbler walked up and down with him
before the assembled flock. Hens and geese cackled loudly and
clapped their wings. Applause and derision rose high each time the
poor cock swung around, reaching for the grass. But the gobbler
continued his even stride, deliberately, and as it seemed,
thoughtfully, applying correction to the quarrelsome bird. Walking
the grass tips had begun to tire those reaching legs. The cock
soon straddled along with a serious eye and an open mouth. But the
gobbler gave him no rest. When, at length, he released his hold,
the game-cock lay weary and wild-eyed, with no more fight in him
than a bunch of rags. Soon he rose and ran away and hid himself in
the stable. The culprit fowl was then tried, convicted, and
sentenced to the block.

"It's the fate of all fighters that have only a selfish cause,"
said the teacher. He was sitting on the grass, Polly, and Tom, and
Paul, beside him.

"Look here," said he, suddenly. "I'll show you another fight."

All gathered about him. Down among the grass roots an ant stood
facing a big, hairy spider. The ant backed away, presently, and
made a little detour, the spider turning quickly and edging toward
him. The ant stood motionless, the spider on tiptoe, with daggers
drawn. The big, hairy spider leaped like a lion to its prey. They
could see her striking with the fatal knives, her great body
quivering with fierce energy. The little ant was hidden beneath
it. Some uttered a cry of pity, and Paul was for taking sides.

"Wait a moment," said the teacher, restraining his hand. The
spider had begun to tremble in a curious manner.

"Look now," said Trove, with some excitement.

Her legs had begun to let go and were straightening stiff on both
sides of her. In a moment she tilted sideways and lay still. They
saw a twinkle of black, legs and the ant making off in the stubble.
They picked up the spider's body; it was now only an empty shell.
Her big stomach had been torn away and lay in little strips and
chunks, down at the roots of the stubble.

"It's the end of a bit of history," said the teacher, as he tore
away the curved blades of the spider and put them in Polly's palm.

"Let's see where the ant goes."

He got down upon his hands and knees and watched the little black
tiger, now hurrying for his lair. In a moment he was joined by
others, and presently they came into a smooth little avenue under
the grass. It took them into the edge of the meadow, around a
stalk of mullen, where there were a number of webs.

"There's where she lived--this hairy old woman," said the
teacher,--"up there in that tower. See her snares in the
grass--four of them?"

He rapped on the stalk of mullen with a stick, peering into the
dusty little cavern of silk near the top of it.

"Sure enough! Here is where she lived; for the house is empty, and
there's living prey in the snares."

"What a weird old thing!" said Polly. "Can you tell us more about
her?"

"Well, every summer," said Trove, "a great city grows up in the
field. There are shady streets in it, no wider than a cricket's
back, and millions living in nest and tower and cave and cavern.
Among its people are toilers and idlers, laws and lawbreakers,
thieves and highwaymen, grand folk and plain folk. Here is the
home of the greatest criminal in the city of the field. See! it is
between two leaves,--one serving as roof, the other as floor and
portico. Here is a long cable that comes out of her sitting room
and slopes away to the big snare below. Look at her sheets of silk
in the grass. It's like a washing that's been hung out to dry.
From each a slender cord of silk runs to the main cable. Even a
fly's kick or a stroke of his tiny wing must have gone up the tower
and shaken the floor of the old lady, maybe, with a sort of
thunder. Then she ran out and down the cable to rush upon her
helpless prey. She was an arrant highwayman,--this old lady,--a
creature of craft and violence. She was no sooner married than she
slew her husband--a timid thing smaller than she--and ate him at
one meal. You know the ants are a busy people. This road was
probably a thoroughfare for their freight,--eggs and cattle and
wild rice. I'll warrant she used to lie and wait for them; and woe
to the little traveller if she caught him unawares, for she could
nip him in two with a single thrust of her knives. Then she, would
seize the egg he bore and make off with it. Now the ants are
cunning. They found her downstairs and cut her off from her home
and drove her away into the grass jungle. I've no doubt she faced
a score of them, but, being a swift climber, with lots of rope in
her pocket, was able to get away. The soldier ants began to beat
the jangle. They separated, content to meet her singly, knowing
she would refuse to fight if confronted by more than one. And you
know what happened to her."

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