Darrel of the Blessed Isles Part 19

"Gos.h.!.+ B'lieve I'll run away," said Joe, after a pause. "Ain' no fun here for me."

"Better not," said Archer Town; "not if ye know when yer well off."

"Why not?"

"Wal, he'd see ye wherever ye was an' do suthin' to ye," said Archer. "Prob'ly he's heard all we been sayin' here."

"Wal, I ain't said nuthin' I'm 'shamed of," said Sam Beach, thoughtfully.

A bell rang, and all hurried to the schoolhouse. The afternoon was uneventful. Those rough-edged, brawny fellows had become serious.

Hope had died in their b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and now they looked as if they had come to its funeral. They began to examine their books as one looks at a bitter draught before drinking it. In every subject the teacher took a new way not likely to be hard upon tender feet. For each lesson he had a method of his own. He angled for the interest of the cla.s.s and caught it. With some a term of school had been as a long sickness, lengthened by the medicine of books and the surgery of the beech rod. They had resented it with ingenious deviltry. The confusion of the teacher and some incidental fun were its only compensations. The young man gave his best thought to the correction of this mental att.i.tude. Four o'clock came at last--the work of the day was over. Weary with its tension all sat waiting the teacher's word. For a little he stood facing them.

"Tom Linley and Joe Beach," said he, in a low voice, "will you wait a moment after the others have gone? School's dismissed."

There was a rush of feet and a rattle of dinner pails. All were eager to get home with the story of that day--save the two it had brought to shame. They sat quietly as the others went away. A deep silence fell in that little room. Of a sudden it had become a lonely place.

The teacher damped the fire and put on his overshoes.

"Boys," said he, drawing a big silver watch, "hear that watch ticking. It tells the flight of seconds. You are--eighteen, did you say? They turn boys into oxen here in this country; just a thing of bone and muscle, living to sweat and lift and groan.

Maybe I can save you, but there's not a minute to lose. With you it all depends on this term of school. When it's done you'll either be ox or driver. Play checkers?"

Tom nodded.

"I'll come over some evening, and we'll have a game. Good night!"

XV

The Tinker at Linley School

Every seat was filled at the Linley School next morning. The tinker had come to see Trove and sat behind the big desk as work began.

"There are two kinds of people," said the teacher, after all were seated--"those that command--those that obey. No man is fit to command until he has learned to obey--he will not know how. The one great thing life has to teach you is--obey. There was a young bear once that was bound to go his own way. The old bear told him it wouldn't do to jump over a precipice, but, somehow, he couldn't believe it and jumped. 'Twas the last thing he ever did. It's often so with the young. Their own way is apt to be rather steep and to end suddenly. There are laws everywhere,--we couldn't live without them,--laws of nature, G.o.d, and man. Until we learn the law and how to obey it, we must go carefully and take the advice of older heads. We couldn't run a school without laws in it--laws that I must obey as well as you. I must teach, and you must learn.

The two first laws of the school are teach and learn--you must help me to obey mine; I must help you to obey yours. And we'll have as much fun as possible, but we must obey."

Then Trove invited Darrel to address the school.

"Dear children," the tinker began with a smile, "I mind ye're all looking me in the face, an' I do greatly fear ye. I fear I may say something ye will remember, an' again I fear I may not. For when I speak to the young--ah! then it seems to me G.o.d listens. I heard the teacher speaking o' the law of obedience. Which o' ye can tell me who is the great master--the one ye must never disobey?"

"Yer father," said one of the boys.

"Nay, me bright lad, one o' these days ye may lose father an'

mother an' teacher an' friend. Let me tell a story, an' then, mayhap, ye'll know the great master. Once upon a time there was a young cub who thought his life a burden because he had to mind his mother. By an' by a bullet killed her, an' he was left alone. He wandered away, not knowing' what to do, and came near the land o'

men. Soon he met an old bear.

"'Foolish cub! Why go ye to the land o' men?' said the old bear.

'Thy legs are not as long as me tail. Go home an' obey thy mother.'

"'But I've none to obey,' said the young bear; an' before he could turn, a ball came whizzing over a dingle an' ripped into his ham.

The old bear had scented danger an' was already out o' the way.

The cub made off limping, an' none too quickly. They followed him all day, an' when night came he was the most weary an' bedraggled bear in the woods. But he stopped the blood an' went away on a dry track in the morning. He came to a patch o' huckleberries that day and began to help himself. Then quick an' hard he got a cuff on the head that tore off an ear and knocked him into the bushes.

When he rose there stood the old bear. "'Ah, me young cub,' said he, 'ye'll have a master now.'

"'An' no more need o' him,' said the young bear, shaking his b.l.o.o.d.y head.

"'Nay, ye will prosper,' said the old bear. 'There are two ways o'

learning,--by hearsay an' by knocks. Much ye may learn by knocks, but they are painful. There be two things every one has to learn,--respect for himself; respect for others. Ye'll know, hereafter, in the land o' men a bear has to keep his nose up an'

his ears open--because men hurt. Ye'll know better, also, than to feed on the ground of another bear--because he hurts. Now, were I a cub an' had none to obey, I'd obey meself. Ye know what's right, do it; ye know what's wrong, do it not.'

"'One thing is sure,' said the young bear, as he limped away; 'if I live, there'll not be a bear in the woods that'll take any better care of himself.'

"Now the old bear knew what he was talking about. He was, I maintain, a wise an' remarkable bear. We learn to obey others, so that by an' by we may know how to obey ourselves. The great master of each man is himself. By words or by knocks ye will learn what is right, and ye must do it. Dear children, ye must soon be yer own masters. There be many cruel folk in the world, but ye have only one to fear--yerself. Ah! ye shall find him a hard man, for, if he be much offended, he will make ye drink o' the cup o' fire.

Learn to obey yerselves, an' G.o.d help ye."

Thereafter, many began to look into their own hearts for that fearful master, and some discovered him.

XVI

A Rustic Museum

That first week Sidney Trove went to board at the home of "the two old maids," a stone house on Jericho Road, with a front door rusting on idle hinges and blinds ever drawn. It was a hundred feet or more from the highway, and in summer there were flowers along the path from its little gate and vines climbing to the upper windows. In winter its garden was buried deep under the snow. One family--the Vaughns--came once in awhile to see "the two old maids." Few others ever saw them save from afar. A dressmaker came once a year and made gowns for them, that were carefully hung in closets but never worn. To many of their neighbours they were as dead as if they had been long in their graves. Tales of their economy, of their odd habits, of their past, went over hill and dale to far places. They had never boarded the teacher and were put in a panic when the trustee came to speak of it.

"He's a grand young man," said he; "good company--and you'll enjoy it."

They looked soberly at each other. According to tradition, one was fifty-four the other fifty-five years of age. An exclamation broke from the lips of one. It sounded like the letter _y_ whispered quickly.

"Y!" the other answered.

"It might make a match," said Mr. Blount, the trustee, smiling.

"Y! Samuel Blount!" said the younger one, coming near and smiting him playfully on the elbow. "You stop!"

Miss Let.i.tia began laughing silently. They never laughed aloud.

"If he didn't murder us," said Miss S'mantha, doubtfully.

"Nonsense," said the trustee; "I'll answer for him."

"Can't tell what men'll do," she persisted weakly. "When I was in Albany with Alma Haskins, a man came 'long an' tried t' pa.s.s the time o' day with us. We jes' looked t'other way an' didn't preten'

t' hear him. It's awful t' think what might 'a' happened."

She wiped invisible tears with an embroidered handkerchief. The dear lady had spent a good part of her life thinking of that narrow escape.

"If he wa'n't too partic'lar," said Miss Let.i.tia, who had been laughing at this maiden fear of her sister.