Next day Trove went home. He took with him many a souvenir of hisfirst term, including a scarf that Polly had knit for him, and thecurious things he took from the Frenchman Leblanc, and which heretained partly because they were curious and partly because Mrs.Leblanc had been anxious to get rid of them. He soon rejoined hisclass at Hillsborough, having kept abreast of it in history andmathematics by work after school and over the week's end. He wascontent to fall behind in the classics, for they were easy, and inthem his arrears gave him no terror. Walking for exercise, he laidthe plan of his tale and had written some bits of verse. Of anevening he went often to the Sign of the Dial, and there read hislines and got friendly but severe criticism. He came into the shopone evening, his "Horace" under his arm.
"'Maecenas, atavis, edite regibus'" Trove chanted, pausing torecall the lines.
The tinker turned quickly. "'O et presidium et duice decusmeum,'" 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. Aman that displays knowledge hath need o' more."
Indeed, Trove rarely came for a talk with Darrel when he failed todiscover something new in him--a further reach of thought andsympathy or some unsuspected treasure of knowledge. The tinkerloved a laugh and would often search his memory for some phrase ofbard or philosopher apt enough to provoke it. Of his great storeof knowledge he made no vainer use.
Trove had been overworking; and about the middle of June they wentfor a week in the woods together. They walked to Allen's the firstday, and, after a brief visit there, went off in the deep woods,camping on a pond in thick-timbered hills. Coming to the liliedshore, they sat down a while to rest. A hawk was sailing highabove the still water. Crows began to call in the tree-tops. Aneagle sat on a dead pine at the water's edge and seemed to bepeering down at his own shadow. Two deer stood in a marsh on thefarther shore, looking over at them. Near by were the bones ofsome animal, and the fresh footprints of a painter. Sounds echoedfar 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 seehow new it is--how fresh its colour, how strong its timbers! Seethe many seats, each with a good view, an' the multitude o' thepeople, yet most o' them are hidden. Ten thousand eyes are lookingdown upon us. Tragedies and comedies o' the forest are enactedhere. Many a thrilling scene has held the stage--the spent deerswimming for his life, the painter stalking his prey or leaping onit."
"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 agreat moral--thou shalt learn to use thy brain or die. Now, therebe many perils in this land o' the woods--so many that all itspeople must learn to think or perish by them. A pretty bit o'wisdom it is, sor. It keeps the great van moving--ever moving, inthe long way to perfection. Now, among animals, a growing brainworks the legs of its owner, sending them far on diverse errandsuntil they are strong. Mind thee, boy, perfection o' brain andbody is the aim o' Nature. The cat's paw an' the serpent's coilare but the penalties o' weakness an' folly. The world is for thestrong. Therefore, God keep thee so, or there be serpents willenter 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," saidDarrel. "Every year there is a tournament o' the sparrows. Whichdeserves the fair--that is the question to be settled. Full tiltthey come together, striking with lance and wing. Knight striveswith knight, lady with lady, and the weak die. Lest thou forget,I'll tell thee a tale, boy, wherein is the great plan. The queenbee--strongest of all her people--is about to marry.[1] A clearmorning she comes out o' the palace gate--her attendants following.The multitude of her suitors throng the vestibule; the air, nowstill an' sweet, rings with the sound o' fairy timbrels. Of asudden she rises into the blue sky, an' her suitors follow. Herswift wings cleave the air straight as a plummet falls. Only thestrong may keep in sight o' her; bear that in mind, boy. Hersuitors begin to fall wearied. Higher an' still higher the goodqueen 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 theseed o' life is chosen, me fine lad."
[1 In behalf of Darrel, the author makes acknowledgment of hisindebtedness to M. Maurice Maeterlinck for an account of thequeen's flight in his interesting "Life of the Bee."]
They sat a little time in silence, looking at the shores of thepond.
"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 hisknee, merrily, and sang a sentimental couplet from an old Irishballad.
"Have ye won her affection, boy?" he added, his hand on the boy'sarm.
"I think I have."
"God love thee! I'm glad to hear it," said the old man. "She is aliving wonder, boy, a living wonder, an' had I thy youth I'd givethee worry."
"Since her mother cannot afford to do it, I wish to send her awayto 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 donot need it. The job in the mill--that will feed me and pay myroom rent, and my clothes will do me for another year."
"On me word, boy; I like it in thee," said Darrel; "but surely shewould not take thy money."
"I could not offer it to her, but you might go there, and perhapsshe 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 creditfor thy benevolence. Teacher, philanthropist, lover--I believethou'rt ready to write."
"The plan of my first novel is complete," said Trove. "That poorthief,--he shall be my chief character,--the man of whom you toldme."
"Poor man! God make thee kind to him," said the tinker. "An'thou'rt willing, I'll hear o' him to-night. When the firelightflickers,--that is the time, boy, for tales."
They built a rude lean-to, covered with bark, and bedded withfragrant boughs. Both lay in the firelight, Darrel smoking hispipe, as the night fell.
"Now for thy tale," said the tinker.
The tale was Trove's own solution of his life mystery, shrewdlycome to, after a long and careful survey of the known facts. Andnow, shortly, time was to put the seal of truth upon it, and dazehim with astonishment, and fill him with regret of his cunning. Itshould be known that he had never told Darrel or any one of hiscoming 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 childsleeping in her arms. She is dark-skinned,--a Syrian. It isgrowing dusk; the street is deserted, save by her and two sailors,who are approaching her. They, too, are Syrians. One seems tostrike her,--it is mere pretence, however,--and she falls. Theother seizes the child, who, having been drugged, is still asleep.A wagon is waiting near. They drive away hurriedly, their captiveunder a blanket. The kidnappers make for the woods in NewHampshire. Officers of the law drive them far. They abandon theirhorse, tramping westward over trails in the wilderness, bearing theboy in a sack of sail-cloth, open at the top. They had guns andkilled their food as they travelled. Snow came deep; by and bygame was scarce and they had grown weary of bearing the boy ontheir backs. One waited in the woods with the little lad while theother went away to some town or city for provisions. He came back,hauling them in a little sleigh. It was much like those made forthe delight of the small boy in every land of snow. It had a boxpainted red and two bobs and a little dashboard. They used it forthe transportation of boy and impedimenta. In the deep wildernessbeyond the Adirondacks they found a cave in one of the rock ledges.They were twenty miles from any post-office but shortly discoveredone. Letters in cipher were soon passing between them and theirconfederates. They learned there was no prospect of getting theransom. He they had thought rich was not able to raise the moneythey required or any large sum. Two years went by, and theyabandoned hope. What should they do with the boy? One advisedmurder, but the other defended him. It was unnecessary, hemaintained, to kill a mere baby, who knew not a word of English,and would forget all in a month. And murder would only increasetheir peril. Now eight miles from their cave was the cabin of asettler. They passed within a mile of it on their way out and in.They had often met the dog of the settler roving after smallgame--a shepherd, trustful, affectionate, and ever ready to makefriends. 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 letthe dog go home with him in the little red sleigh. Now thesettler'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 thepond, save in cold weather, when it crossed the ice. They waitedfor a night when their tracks would soon disappear. Then, havingmade a cover of the sail-cloth sack in which they had brought theboy, and stretched it on withes, and made it fast to the sleighbox, they put the sleeping boy in the sleigh, with hot stoneswrapped in paper, and a robe of fur, to keep him warm, hitched thedog to it, and came over hill and trail, to the little pond, awhile after midnight. Here they buckled a ring of bells on thedog's neck and released him. He made for his home on the clearice; the bells and his bark sounding as he ran. They at the cabinheard him coming and opened their door to dog and traveller. Socame my hero in a little red sleigh, and was adopted by the settlerand his wife, and reared by them with generous affection. Well, hegoes to school and learns rapidly, and comes to manhood. It's apretty story--that of his life in the big woods. But now for thelove tale. He meets a young lady--sweet, tender, graceful,charming."
"A moment," said Darrel, raising his hand. "Prithee, boy, ringdown the curtain for a brief parley. Thou say'st they wereSyrians--they that stole the lad. Now, tell me, hast thou reasonfor that?"
"Ample," said Trove. "When they took him out of the sleigh thefirst words he spoke were "Anah jouhan." He used them many times,and while he forgot they remembered them. Now "Anah jouhan" is aphrase of the Syrian tongue, meaning 'I am hungry.'"
"Very well!" said the old man, with emphasis, "and sailors--that isa just inference. It was a big port, and far people came on thefour winds. Very well! Now, for the young lady. An' away withthy book unless I love her."
"She is from life--a simple-hearted girl, frank and beautifuland--" Trove hesitated, looking into the dying fire.
"Noble, boy, make sure o' that, an' nobler, too, than girls are aptto be. If Emulation would measure height with her, see that itstand upon tiptoes."
"So I have planned. The young man loves her. She is in everythought and purpose. She has become as the rock on which his hopeis founded. Now he loves honour, too, and all things of goodreport. He has been reared a Puritan. By chance, one day, itcomes to him that his father was a thief."
The boy paused. For a moment they heard only the voices of thenight.
"He dreaded to tell her," Trove continued; "yet he could not askher to be his wife without telling. Then the question, Had he aright to tell?--for his father had not suffered the penalty of thelaw and, mind you, men thought him honest."
"'Tis just," said Darrel; "but tell me, how came he to know hisfather was a thief?"
"That I am thinking of, and before I answer, is there more you cantell 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 ofcuttings, much worn, and apparently from old newspapers. He put onhis glasses and began to examine the cuttings.
"The other day," said he, "I found an account of his mother'sdeath. 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, savingthe servants in a remote corner o' the house. A sound woke her inthe still night. She lay a while listening. Was it her husbandreturning without his key? She rose, feeling her way in the darkand 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' thickglass, led to the garden walk. Beyond it were the dark forms ofmen. One was peering in, his face at a panel, another kneeling atthe lock. Suddenly the door opened; the lady fell fainting with aloud cry. Next day the kidnapped boy was born.'"
Darrel stopped reading, put the clipping into his pocket-book, andsmothered 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 darkupon 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 thestir of high branches. "Ye might as well ask o' the wind or thewild owl," Darrel said. "I cannot tell thee. Be calm, boy, andsay how thou hast come to know."
Again they sat down together, and presently Trove told him of thosesilent men who had ever haunted the dark and ghostly house of hisinheritance.
"'Tis thy mother's terror,--an' thy father's house,--I make nodoubt," said Darrel, presently, in a deep voice. "But, boy, Icannot tell any man where is thy father; not even thee, nor hisname, nor the least thing, tending to point him out, until--until Iam released o' me vow. Be content; if I can find the man, erelong, 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--Ipromise thee, I shall make haste. But, if the good God shouldbring thy father to thee, an' thy head to shame an' sorrow for hissin, 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 theyoung man.
A while past twelve o'clock, those two, lying there in thefirelight, thinking, rose like those startled in sleep. A mightyvoice came booming over the still water and echoed far and wide.Slowly its words fell and rang in the great, silent temple of thewoods:--
"'Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and havenot charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.
"'And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand allmysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so thatI could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing.
"'And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though Igive my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth menothing.
"'Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charityvaunteth not itself; is not puffed up,
"'Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is noteasily provoked, thinketh no evil;
"'Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things,endureth all things.
"'Charity never faileth: but whether there be prophecies, theyshall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whetherthere be knowledge, it shall vanish away.'"
As the last words died away in the far woodland, Trove and Darrelturned, wiping their eyes in silence. That flood of inspirationhad filled them. Big thoughts had come drifting down with itscurrent. They listened a while, but heard only the faint crackleof 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 leavethe woods. Darrel was to go in quest of the boy's father. Withina 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 andrest. Suddenly they heard a sound of men approaching; and when thelatter had come near, a voice, deep, vibrant, and musical as aharp-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 mostimpressive figure, tall, erect, and strong; its every moveexpressing 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 ofmelancholy 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 winapplause."
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 andwell modelled, a nose slightly aquiline, and wore a small, darkimperial--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 higherrank. 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 noimpertinence."
"I know thy rank, sor. Thou art a gentleman," said Darrel. "I'veseen thee 'every inch a king.'"
Darrel spoke to the second period in that passage of Lear, themajesty and despair of the old king in voice and gesture. Thewords were afire with feeling as they came off his tongue, and alllooked at him with surprise.
"Ah, you have seen me play it," said the stranger. "There's noother Lear that declares himself with that gesture."
"It is Edwin Forrest," said Darrel, as the stranger offered hishand.
"The same, and at your service," the great actor replied. "And mayI ask who are you?"
"Roderick Darrel, son of a wheelwright on the river Bann, once afellow of infinite jest, believe me, but now, alas! like the skullo' Yorick in the churchyard."
"The churchyard'" said Forrest, thoughtfully. "That to me is thesaddest of all scenes. When it's over and I leave the stage, it isto carry with me an awe-inspiring thought of the end which iscoming 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. Leavethe clay to its own law, sor, an' it begins to cleanse an' purgeitself. Its aim is purity, an' it never wearies. Could I livelong enough, an' it were under me eye, I'd see the clay bleachingwhite with a wonderful purity. Then, slowly, it would begin tocome clear, an' by an' by it would be clearer an' lovelier than adrop o' dew at sunrise. Lo and behold! the clay has become asapphire. So, sor, in the waters o' time God washes the greatworld. In every grain o' dust the law is written, an' I may readthe 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 greattragedian. "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 arich man, cobbler, clock tinker, all in the coat of a poor man. Mehealth 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 Ihave been tinkering here in the edges o' the woodland, where I havefound health an' friendship an' good cheer. Faith, sor, that isall 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 thatscene. After years of acquaintance with the tinker he had not yetventured a question as to his life history. The difference of ageand a certain masterly reserve in the old gentleman had seemed todiscourage it. A prying tongue in a mere youth would have metunpleasant obstacles with Darrel. Never until that day had hespoken freely of his past in the presence of the young man.
"I must see you again," said the tragedian, rising. "Of thoseparts I try to play, which do you most like?"
"St. Paul," said Darrel, quickly. "Last night, sor, in this greattheatre, we heard the voice o' the prophet. Ah, sor, it was like atrumpet 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 lovebut 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,--butI 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 poorman. 'I pray thee now, give me the happiness o' Heaven.'
"'Good man, we have none to spare,' said the keeper. 'Heaven hathno happiness but that men bring. It is a gift to God and comes notfrom 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 itto 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 corneron the high hills, where northward they could see smoke and spireof distant villages, each took his way,--one leading toHillsborough, 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, wavinghis hand. "If thy heart oppress thee, steer for the Blessed Isles."