Francois was occupied with a choice entertainment in which he often
indulged. To begin with, in imagination he went over the whole matter of
Nance's escapade with Doctor Longstreet and Charles King. He explained
her temperament, defending her nobly with a delicate suggestion of his
own attitude toward her. Then, again in fancy, he talked of young Dr.
King to the jade. All to himself he became quite an old match-maker.
This was followed by witnessing them as the occupants of the old home of
the many pillars. Here his dreams took unusual liberty; he peopled the
house with other and tinier folk than the father and mother.... Here he
smiled as he thought of Nance's chagrin could she but see his mind. He
looked up and caught her gaze bent upon him.
"Did you ever hear the story of 'The King of Bohemia and the Beggar from
Bagdad'?" he asked as he knocked his pipe, to empty it, upon the heel
of his boot, and dropped it into his pocket.
"Never," she said, looking at him interestingly. "If there isn't any
moral to it, tell it."
"I'm afraid there is," said he. "It is about a sleepy monarch--"
"O," she exclaimed, light breaking on her face as she remembered an old
trick of the childhood days which he had used a hundred times to send
her and Charles to bed, "and you dream the tale?... I remember."
"That's right," said the pedler.
"But you say that I am now grown up.... The stars are very bright, the
fire is in a friendly communicative mood, I think I shall go to my bed
when it pleases me, Monsieur le debonair pedler!"
"Very well," said he, with his accustomed shrug of indifference. Then,
after a moment's study of Nance, who had resumed her gazing into the
fire:
"Of what has the fire been speaking to-night?... Yes?"
"I have been thinking all evening of babies," she replied with charming
candor.
"What ever made you think of babies?" he asked quickly.
"Did you notice that dear dimpled little red one at the house where we
bought the milk?" was her reply.
"I must confess that I did not see the little Indian," he answered.
"Just like a man," said Nance, ignoring his levity, a trifle of scorn in
her voice.
"Little babies in the utterly helpless stage," was Jean Francois'
remark, "have always been just without the limit of my appreciation."
"That's because you are a man," she explained.
"Great heavens!" he exclaimed. "'Because you are a man.'... 'Just like a
man.' Nance, your phrases show intelligence! I might reply, 'Just like a
woman.'... Bah, it positively sounds bourgeois.... Now, honest, lady,
don't you really suppose that there are men who actually like infants in
their crinkly state?"
"I've always wanted a baby," said Nance irrelevantly, "and some day I
mean to have one."
"Thank God!" was Jean Francois' very serious ejaculation.
A moment later Nance was upon her feet ready to say good night and away
to the pleasant land of sleep.
"Good night, dear Jean Francois," said she with gaiety. "May your dreams
be of your beloved roads of Picardy."
She threw him an elfish kiss from her finger-tips and hastened into her
airy improvised bedroom.
"And you, my daughter," murmured Jean Francois, as he turned upon his
back and sought the stars between the interlacing boughs of the
sheltering trees, "may you dream of Charles King, the old home of many
pillars, of romping merry children, and a great love."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
VICARIOUS VAGABONDS
Thus it was the days flew by on romantic wings, each seemingly more
filled with adventurous happiness than the last. Up with the promising
rosy dawn, a mouthful of oats for the bonnie mare, a bit of bread and a
draught of wine for the roadsters, the van packed, and heigh-ho for the
alluring highway! It was a joyous, beautiful, glorious road with never a
sigh nor a fret, for were they not homeward bound with hearts set to
rights?
All day long they idled, never hurrying, stopping to gather flowers,
fruit, or to admire a tree, a river, a valley, or a hill. Sometimes they
fished for a dinner, or accepted the friendly invitation of a countryman
to his table. Ever and anon they would sell a yard of lace, a ribbon, a
trinket, a pack of thread. Often they sang, or chattered about kings and
cabbages and things. Nance walked the greater way, but occasionally,
tiring, she climbed into the cradling arms of Columbine and from the
apron-like seat drove Rogue. In the early afternoon they would rest for
an hour or two, sometimes more, if they were tired and the shade
enticing. An early nightfall always found them securely camped waiting
only for the darkness in which to go to sleep, Nance to dream on her
couch in the cart; the pedler to lie upon the soft sweet-scented earth
beneath a sheltering tree.
Aye, but they were wonderful, never-to-be-forgotten days! Glad halcyon
days! Happy days in Arcady. Days of strange and gentle adventures....
Upon long-sought, rare days life gives us a dream come true, whose
realization is even more wonderful than was the fancy. Such days were
these.
It was the third or fourth day of such a vagabondish journey that found
them at nightfall approaching a beech wood. Here, hidden from the road,
beside a clear cool branch, in a charming little dingle about a hundred
yards from an old country meeting-house, they pitched their camp. After
things were made snug, Jean Francois left for a house which could be
seen a quarter of a mile away, proposing to buy eggs, cheese, and bread.
Left to herself, Nance discovered a quiet, limpid pool, not far from the
van, which appeared to be some two or three feet deep. Testing its
temperature with her hand and finding it pleasurable, she dropped her
petticoats and stepped gracefully into the water. Her fair body against
the dusky twilight seemed that of a naiad. As she stooped, from time to
time, and sported in the kissing ripples of her own creation, the
loveliness of her was such as to have held captive every faun the
greenwood knew. Then she climbed upon the grassy bank and stood for the
warm winds of summer to dry her. O, how wonderful it was to be free!
Was she not a part of the great life? Then she thought of the old days,
and smiled as she covered her breasts with her hands and sought her
clothing.
Upon dressing she stretched herself at full length beneath a tree and,
following her thoughts of the bygone times, began thinking of home folk,
Oldmeadow, and Dr. Charles Reubelt King. In the light of the simple,
primitive life she now led, coupled with many days of absence, his
conduct did not appear quite as disagreeable as at first. Her
grandfather was already forgiven. Of course dear conventional Aunt
Barbara did not count. She laughed aloud when she thought of how shocked
Oldmeadow would be when she came walking along the river road with Jean
Francois. Then, for the first time, it occurred to her to wonder what
her reception would be. She dwelt secure in the knowledge that she had
been born and reared in the village. To have been an actual son or
daughter of Oldmeadow was a virtue which would cover unnumbered sins.
The world was judged harshly, but special privileges belonged to
natives. Last of all she wondered if Dr. King would ever again dare to
kiss her as he had the day before she ran away.
Suddenly she sat up, listening intently. She could hear Jean Francois
talking to someone as he approached through the trees. She sprang to
her feet, alarmed. No one had ever before intruded upon their seclusion,
and she resented it now. She was in no very gracious mood for visitors
as she stepped into the open that she might see at some distance the
companion of the pedler.
There was with Jean Francois a tall, angular dusky-hued man who walked
very erect and with a certain air of command. His forehead was
noticeably high and broad; his thin hair as black as a gipsy's; his
beard, of the same color, was neatly trimmed, soft, and fell to his
waist; his brown eyes sparkled with humor and kindness.
"This gentleman," said Jean Francois, presenting him to Nance, "is the
parson of the little church yonder. He lives in the cottage down the
road and gave me this," indicating by a motion of his hand the
provisions he was now spreading upon the grass.
Nance bowed and with some distrust inspected the visitor. He bowed
graciously, smiling the while.
"I know your grandfather," he ventured in a pleasant voice, "and I have
seen you in Oldmeadow."
"O, yes, I remember you," said Nance quickly, yet without thawing.
"Grandfather likes you," she added. Then, frowning and with a touch of
sarcasm:
"I suppose you will disapprove of me?"
"Why should I?" he inquired with surprise.
"You are a parson," she said.
"O, I'd forgotten," he laughed, showing a mouthful of splendid teeth. "I
suppose I'd better lecture you?" he queried.
Nance laughed, too. His merriment was catching. Then suddenly, with a
questioning glance of reproach at Jean Francois:
"You did not know I was here?"
"Certainly not," he replied. "I love the road."
He seemed to think this sufficient explanation. But Nance was a trifle
puzzled.
"A preacher who loves the road," and she shook her head doubtfully. "If
you love it, why don't you follow it then?" She seemed to think that
this was sufficient proof that at least he loved but little.
"Why don't you follow it?" she repeated with a touch of conclusiveness,
as if no more could be said upon the subject. "St. Francis did.... I
love it and I have chosen it. The road is my religion," here she looked
up with a suggestion of defiance in her eyes as if anticipating his
disapproval, but, upon seeing nothing save interest upon his face, she
continued, "My camp-fires at night are a flaming offering upon his
altar, the earth, to Pan.... Why don't you take the road?"
Nance was unconsciously posing a trifle.
"It calls me strongly sometimes," he replied, and his eyes became tender
and sought the soft shadowy highway through the growing night. The
wander-longing was in his face.... Then, quickly recalling himself, he
exclaimed:
"Besides I have my work to do! It could not be done on the road.... At
least," he hastily corrected, "I could not do the task I have planned
for myself." There was a simple, unconscious note of courage in his
voice.
"Why?" asked Nance in wonder.
"There are many and profound reasons. It would not prove pleasant to
speak of them. But for one of the least: Do you think," said he, "that
vagabondia would mix with the average conventional church community?"
"Become the pastor of vagabondia," she suggested, smiling.
"It would be a hopeless task," he returned.
"How do you stand it?" she inquired, somewhat irrelevantly.
"Why, I've my home and my work," said he, now on the defensive. "It's
only occasionally that I hunger for the traffic lands. Then, like
to-night, I take my gipsying vicariously."
Jean Francois straightened up from his work over the fire.
"Jesus, the good Master," said he, "loved the roads, the Judean hills,
the laughing Jordan, and to sleep out under the stars at night, did he
not?"
"True," replied the parson.
"He possessed the genuine poetic spirit of vagabondia, my son,"
continued the pedler, who was older than the visitor. "He followed the
roads and sought the hillsides for his couch. It's many a joyous,
irresponsible, nomadic journey he made over the countryside. He loved
the poor, the common people, the oppressed, the struggler--all save the
struggler at the needle's eye--and the happy sunny hills of Arcady."
"I know, my friend," was the reply.
"I also know your point of view, comrade," said Jean Francois, suddenly
melting into sympathy. "You are right. It could not be done. At least in
America. You would have to either give up your walk or your talk. The
people'd make you.... Let's see--they would call it a sort of highway
heresy.... Now, things are vastly different in my sunny France."
"And in Paradise, too, I hope," smiled the parson, with good humor.
The supper had been removed from the fire, and awaited them spread
temptingly upon the grass. The three of them sat facing the flames so
they might get the full light upon what the pedler termed Pan's table.
They dropped their more serious subject, chattering playfully like a
group of care-free children at play.... An hour later this new-found
friend arose to go. He extended his hands to them, saying,
"Here's luck, love, and a prayer.... Good night."
They watched him walk leisurely down the road until he was lost from
sight in the night. In the distance they could see the twinkling
friendly light which called him to his home, and to his task. And they
knew that he went gladly.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
"IF I WERE MONSIEUR L'ABBE PICOT"
The next morning at half an hour after sunrise they passed the country
church where the gentle parson preached and prayed, and took the rough
and picturesque road down the hill for the village which lay beside the
river a mile or more below. In those days it was known as the "Old
Road," and was as rocky and impassable as it was interesting and
adventurous. One never quite knew, as one rounded its many sharp turns,
drove close to hazardous declivities and beneath great over-hanging
boulders, whether one was to be wrecked by an approaching team, to fall
to painful yawning depths, or crushed to an unrecognizable pulp. That no
one was hurt was largely due to the fact that the danger was so
apparent. At the bottom of the highway, dug and blasted from the hill
side, there abided a small village with the erudite and classical name
of Milton.
Jean Francois was charmed with the old hill road. He lingered at each
bend seeking glimpses of the valley away below--almost beneath. Upon
every side grew great oaks, spreading beech, and tall, strong hickory.
These trees appeared to have forced themselves from the very boulders
which surrounded them, partaking of their solidity and massiveness. At
intervals were patches of shrubby, ill-smelling "heavenly bushes." At
one place, by peering through a ravine, he discovered a large
old-fashioned farmhouse perched on the highest point above, guarding,
like a sentinel, the small domain of the dead, the near-by community
cemetery.
A final turn in the road brought them once more into sight of their
beloved river, the magnificent Ohio, which they were to leave no more
even to the journey's end. A few moments later they were passing through
Milton. Once out on the smooth level turnpike which took them through
Hunter's bottom on the Carrolton way, Jean Francois turned to Nance,
who rode upon the seat, and began talking of their unusual visitor of
the night before.
"Nance," said he, "I've been thinking very much about this parson. I
have been wondering if he is right. That he does love the road, the
dingle, and the gipsy's camp is easy to see. He loves them deeply. Yet
he has deliberately foregone any opportunity to go over the hills with
his pack. Think of it, my dear-a, he's preaching! He is a seeming
paradox.... It is true his home keeps him. He has a four-gabled cottage
set in a group of firs with a garden to the right, as you enter, and an
orchard to the left. He has a wife who is comely and smiling, and three
or four daughters about.... Now, lady, let me ask you a question?"
"Go on."
Jean Francois deftly filled and lighted his pipe before continuing.
"Nance," he said earnestly as he flicked the burning match into the
dust, "I do not think I would make much of a preacher, do you?"
At first she was inclined to laugh. In one sense the question seemed
absurdly ridiculous. Her devil-may-care, whimsical, light-o'-road,
brother-o'-Pan, green-woodsy pedler of songs a parson!... But he was
serious, so, repressing a smile, she answered him as gravely as she
might.
"It is owing to what you call preaching, my dear-a," she replied. "If it
is firstly, secondly, thirdly, fourthly, fifthly, sixthly--"
"Please to be serious," he interrupted.
"--Seventhly, _ad finem_ and conclusion," she continued, "with the moral
highly evident, like Dr. Thistlewood, Aunt Barbara's pastor, why I
should say not."
She accompanied her remarks with a highly significant shrug of the
shoulders which she had early learned from the pedler.
"What would you have?" he asked.
"But if it is fighting the battles of the poor, demanding justice for
the hungry, being very gentle with folks,--and being natural--"
"Ah, that will do," he interrupted. "Now, Nance, fancy, if you can, my
being a priest, say, like Monsieur l'Abbe Picot."
Her eyes lighted with dancing mischief.
"That is very easy," she exclaimed. "You are now Monsieur Picot."
"Just fancy," he ejaculated, looking up quickly to catch her eye.
"O, certainly. Just imagine, you mean?"
"Yes, Nance, 'just imagine.'"
"Go on, Father," she said, with slight mockery.
"Now," said he, too serious himself to pay attention to her levity, "if
I were the Abbe in the old house with my duty staring me in the face
like an injured child, and a veritable hell of a conscience hacking at
you continually for having left where you were doing something for
somebody, and coming where you were helpless, your longing for just
every-day human companionship, the road, and all, and all--what would
you do?... What would you do, I ask?... What would a man do?"
For a space she walked in silence. Now she fully realized that he was
evidently very sincere in his questionings. The seriousness of the whole
thing to him was impressively apparent. Also her answer meant a great
deal to him. She must have time. There must be no levity, no mockery, no
play in her reply. It must come from her heart to his soul.... She
turned to him:
"Dear old friend, you'll give me a little time?... Until to-night?"
"Until to-night," he repeated.
* * * * *
At nightfall they made a camp down on the gravel of the river bank just
a short distance below the mouth of the Kentucky river. It was the last
night, and each of them was thinking of it. There was a feeling of great
sadness in the heart of Jean Francois, for he realized very surely that
he must now renounce the chiefest joy of his life for the sake of the
love he bore his friends. He reflected that such things had been done
before by better men than he, and he dismissed the self-pity as beneath
him.
Nance sat and watched the old Ohio. There is an extraordinary beauty
about the river with the coming of the night. The sun goes down behind
the hills slowly, as if sorrowful at leaving the silent waters. The
great river glistens in a thousand peaceful shades that play at
hide-and-seek among the ripples. When the west had ceased to wear the
crimson mantle of her lord the water becomes a lucid green. Then, as
twilight comes, the stream grows a somber gray, and more silent still,
as the stars climb into the sky. The lights begin to appear in the
windows of the homes among the trees and wink, solemn beacons by
friendly hearths. The rumble of the paddle of a distant steamboat may be
heard in melancholy cadence on the summer breezes. Finally the moon, as
if uncertain of the way, comes peeping through the willows and casts her
wake across the water.
The night had come.
Jean Francois came and sat beside her.
"Well, Nance?" said he.
"You asked me, my dear Jean Francois, what I would do were I Monsieur
l'Abbe Picot and heard the call of Pan?"
"Yes."
"A call to the beautiful, the wholesome, the healthful for body and mind
and soul, where I might meet my fellows and become their friend? Where I
could and would at times bring gentleness and love into their lives?
Where I should meet children and make them see? Women and teach them the
value of life?... A road like that, my friend?"
"Yes, I think it is that kind of a road."
"Are you sure of it?"
"Yes, I am sure of it!"
"Well, Jean Francois," she said as she arose and gave him her hand for
good night, "I would listen to Pan. I would take my pack and the long,
splendid open road. I'd become the happy pedler. A pedler, I should say,
if I were Monsieur l'Abbe Jacques Picot, of little joys for troubled
hearts, heartsease for the sad, elfish tales for romping children, merry
songs for lovers, and an exceeding great love for all of them.... That
is as I should do, my friend.... Good night," and she was gone.
Jean Francois sat with his face hidden in his hands. He prayed a little,
wept a little, and laughed between his praying and his weeping.
It was the last night.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
HEBE'S FAREWELL TO PAN
For once the morning road was disturbed. Its happiness was feigned. The
sun lay just as warm upon the field as the week before. The air was
quite as soft, as scented, as full of the freshness of spring. The river
was fully as beautiful as of old as it flowed lazily by with glorious
sunlit waters. Yet, withal, happiness seemed to have fled.
If you had been upon a journey at this time on the way west from
Oldmeadow, known as the river road, you would have met two travelers
afoot following a horse and van. As you approached them it would easily
be noticed that they were playfully chattering in an apparent abundance
of spirits. Their greeting would have been one of marked good cheer. You
would have felt singled out for their especial attention. Then, after
passing, should you have turned to look at the strange, grotesque
figure of the man whom you had already marked as an extraordinary
person, and at the genuine easy grace and beauty of the girl, whose
startled, wistful face you had seen a moment before, there would have
been awakened within you a sense of pity. A picturesque group you would
have said, whose air of frivolity seemed but a masque beneath the veneer
of which lay sorrow. You would have been right.... The road which one
stumbles and falters along in the heart is not always so smooth and
alluring as the road at one's feet. For once the great highway had lost
its charm.... So, as you passed from hearing, there was a distinct note
of sadness in the merry-tuned song which they joined their voices in
singing.
"Will you buy any tape,
Or lace for your cape,"
ran the song with the plaintive strain which seemed out of place in so
jocund an air:
"My dainty duck, my dear-a?
Any silk, any thread,
Any toys for your head,
Of the new'st and finest, finest wear-a?
As their voices dwelt upon the words, it appeared to be a bidding
good-by to an old, familiar theme, well loved.
"Come to the pedler;
Money's a meddler,
That doth utter all men's ware-a."
As you rode that day, my friend, had you indeed been passing upon the
highway, you, too, would have felt the spirit of grief. It would have
seemed as if a cloud had for the moment obscured the sun.
* * * * *
They were within a half of a mile of Oldmeadow when Jean Francois called
a halt to his happy caravan. They drew up beneath a tree by the
roadside. Whether Nance realized it or not, the pedler knew it to be the
end. A week ago he would have laughed in derision had he been told that
he would have taken anything so seriously, so painfully, as he now was,
after this joyous lark, at the parting of the ways.
"Sit down, Nance."
She obeyed, without protest or interest, as an indifferent child.
"Nance, my little sister," said he, "we'll soon be home."
"Will we?" She could not see any use in lingering, now that the joy was
all gone. She wished to hurry through the agony of the end and the
sooner reach the adjustment which she thought would restore the old-time
happiness. Why should he care to stop and tell her such painfully
self-evident facts.... The sympathy which Jean Francois expected was not
forthcoming.
"I've been thinking a great deal to-day," said he, "about the parson we
had at camp the other evening."
"I thought that was all settled last night," she exclaimed in surprise.
"No, it is not, Nance. At least not yet.... He was right, I tell you.
For him, in his work and his home lay his task and his happiness. There
was the better part. He understood the road. His love of it made you his
sister, me his brother. He will always be kinder, gentler, and purer of
soul, Nance, because he knows the wander-longing. Yet it would be wrong
for him to follow the patter an.... I see it all. He is right. And O,
the tenderness in his eyes."
"Yes," came disinterestedly from Nance, "he's right."
"It's best!" exclaimed Jean Francois, a trifle hurt at no more evidence
of understanding.
"For him," she repeated firmly.
"For anybody," insisted the pedler.
"For who?" she asked in scorn.
"For me!" cried Jean Francois. "For me."