Darrel of the Blessed Isles Part 29

"'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 pa.s.sage 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 G.o.d washes the great world. In every grain o' dust the law is written, an' I may read the destiny o' the n.o.bler 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 G.o.d'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' friends.h.i.+p 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 b.u.t.terflies, 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 amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Then," said he, "I shall have to come and see you play your part.

Till then, sir, G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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, G.o.d 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 G.o.d is wise enough to finish it," said the young man.

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