IVANHOE CRITICISED BY A MASTER.
To the delight of the farmers there were indications of rain. Across
the sky was drawn a curtain of cloud, which was uniform in
appearance, except where it was slightly varied in shade by different
degrees of density. From it fell a fine mist, which was welcomed as
the harbinger of plentiful showers. Ratke's hands were gathered in
the club-house, for the major would allow neither man nor beast to
work in the storm on his premises.
Wingscheut, who that day was out of employment, joined his former
fellow laborers for a visit.
"Helloa!" exclaimed Thompson, approaching John, who was seated in the
chamber. "What book you got?"
"Ivanhoe," replied John. "Did you ever read it?"
"Yes," returned Thompson, "that is, part of it, but I didn't go much
on it. I couldn't make no sense out o'the thing."
"Tell me about it," said John.
"Oh, there ain't much to tell," said Thompson. "It don't amount to
nothin'. There was this Iverhoe, he was a slow ole genius, took him
all day to do a little bit, then there was a templar. He was black, a
Nigger or an Injun, I don't know which. Then there was a maiden, an'
the'd rip an' tear around after her to beat all. They had the
funniest way o' fightin' you ever heerd of. They had spears, just
like fish spears, only they didn't have but one tine. They couldn't
do nothin' till they took them spears and got their horses to goin'
lickety-larrup. But I've got the dandy book.
"What is the name of it?" asked John.
"'One-eyed Zeke,'" replied Thompson. "This Zeke, he was death on the
Injuns. He'd make game of all of 'em he got in sight of. He'd shoot
off his rifle, an' then he'd take a revolver in each hand. There
wa'n't nothin' he couldn't do. One time they got 'im, but he let 'em.
They'd been a-wantin' to git a steamboat on the river; so Zeke he run
her to shore and pertended to be a-snoozin'. The Injuns, They come
an' catched 'im and tied 'im, but they couldn't run the boat; so they
had to let Zeke loose. Zeke, he told 'em to keep stuffin' in the wood
an' a-stuffin' it in. Byme by he thought 'twas time to skip, an' so
he dropped in the water. Then the biler busted an'blowed 'em all up,
all but Zeke. Oh, that Zeke, he was a tearer! He'd killed more'n
forty while this 'ere Iverhoe was a-gittin' his spear ready."
Unable to pursue his reading in quiet, John descended to the ground
floor. The outside door opened and in walked Panicky.
"Here you are again," said Daggett, "You're just the man I want to
see."
"I like to come where I'm wanted," replied Panicky, taking from his
shoulder the strap to which his satchels were slung. "There's once in
a while a place where they don't appreciate me. But that's what a
benefactor of his race must expect. They're persecuted and cursed by
the ones they help the most. I'm nothing but a martyr. I'm out in all
kinds of weather to give people the benefit of my medicine. It's my
mission. You see the hump on my shoulders. I made that carrying my
satchels, trying to benefit humanity. When I'm dead and gone, folks
will know what they've lost."
"We're partial to the martyrs," said Daggett. "It ain't often we see
a real one. Sometimes they come snides on us, fix 'em up bogus, Like
Barnum's mermaid. You come just when you're needed, Panicky. We're
all sick, and we want some martyr to tone us up. Wingscheut here
wants a bottle of your panicky on his leg."
"No," objected Wingscheut, "it's a crowin'-out."
"What are you using on it?" inquired Panicky.
"Vell," answered Wingscheut, "tat's for you to fint out if you can,
I'll tell for fife tollars, unt you can sell it to chust as many
folks as you vant to."
"Got a touch of summer complaint, have you?" asked Panicky,
addressing Sheppard.
"Got nothin'," returned Jake. "I'm tough as a biled owl."
"Bad spell for general debility," said Panicky to Montcalm. "I see
it's hit you bad."
"I am quite well," replied Montcalm. "If you think you can beat me
pitching hay we will try it when the sun comes out."
"John," said Daggett, "get your fiddle and play us a tune. I want to
shake my feet."
John brought down a recently purchased violin and played a lively
air, to which Daggett beat an accompanying tattoo with his feet.
"Now, I'll tell you what we'll do, Panicky," said Daggett, "and
that's the best offer we'll make, that is, I'll go in for it if the
rest of the boys will. If you'll step in there and dance a jig, we'll
buy a partnership bottle of your panicky. What do you say, boys?"
Panicky objected, but Daggett assured him that he could sell his
medicine to them in no other way. Accordingly the two stepped into
the middle of the room and began to dance a quickstep while John
played. The music was quickened. Daggett was the first who failed to
keep pace with the rapid notes. Panicky's superiority over his rival
was now unquestioned. His body was nearly stationary, but his feet
and legs twisted and turned like those of a jumping-jack; and from
underneath them came a clatter which was almost like the rattle of a
snare drum. He would not have lagged behind the music had its rate
not been still further increased by John. As it was, he missed a few
steps, recommenced further on, and at last, becoming hopelessly
entangled, passed to the outside of the circle.
"He's the best player I ever heard but one, and he was a foreigner,"
said Panicky, after John had gone. "Do you know where he come from?"
"He won't tell any one that," replied Daggett. "It's queer, too. I
never heard him speak of his folks or where he's been before he come
here."
That night John did his chores early. He was in the parlor before
dark, for there was a matter which he wished to talk over with Manie.
How strong were his hopes, what an unwonted confidence he had in the
future as he entered the room and she greeted him with a smile.
Despite her kind welcome he dreaded to broach the subject for which
he had come. That which he had deemed assured now appeared very
doubtful, and his voice grew so unsteady that he dared not ask his
intended question. Just as his timidity was getting under subjection,
Ratke opened the door and taking a seat beside him, began to discuss
moral theories, for which, in the absence of Montcalm, he was anxious
to find a listener. To the major and his niece John threw his
glances, hesitating between a desire to please and to get rid of the
troublesome philosopher. Ratke, exhausting the first subject,
commenced another.
To one of the philosopher's questions which he had imperfectly
understood, John ventured an affirmative answer.
"The same, then, you say," replied Ratke. "It is called the identical
wave, but I cannot understand its right to claim identity, when it
bears to it hardly a resemblance. It has undergone each of the two
changes to which matter is subject. It is increased in size, and
altered in composition. A political movement begins. Its authors die
and are succeeded by leaders whose creeds and practices are
antagonistic to theirs. The founders advocated thrift, economy,
simplicity and progress; the followers advocate useless offices, vast
expenditures, pomp and an adherence to methods the only
recommendation of which is that they were necessary in an emergency.
Patriotism and virtue have turned to self-interest and corruption.
Why should we call this miserable relic the old party, when it has
preserved its being neither in men nor in principles, only in name?
Answer me that, John."
"I see," said Ratke, "my words, sent to your
brain without making an impression, form a case of total reflection.
In the physical world this is possible only from a highly burnished
surface but it is not so in the mental. The liability to total
reflection increases as the square root of the intellectual vigor
decreases. No offense is intended, John. Your age and the
circumstances in which you are placed make the rule not applicable to
you. No doubt you have heard enough about the wave and you want now
to see its posterior as it recedes."
With this good-natured conclusion the major rose and, taking a book
from the library, went to the dining-room, where he was obliged to
hear a harangue by Mrs. Grippin on the scarcity of wood.
John had fancied that when his employer left, he would have no
difficulty in stating the nature of his errand; but when he was alone
with Miss Ratke, his old timidity returned. He would have been able
to perform his mission at once had it not been for another request in
reserve, which he wished her not to suspect.
On this account he broached topics which were foreign to the theme
uppermost in his thoughts. Finally he delivered this unscientific
preliminary, "I am going to the concert at Oakville to morrow night."
"I hope you will have a good time," said his companion. "It is a
local affair, I believe. Still, it will be quite interesting. They,
have some good singers there."
"I would like to have you go," said John, trying to assume a careless
manner. "Will you be at home to-morrow night?"
"Certainly not all the time if I go with you," responded Miss Ratke,
"and I believe I shall accept your invitation."
"Thank you," answered John, "I will call at about six."
"Very well," said Manie, "I promised Jennie Holmes to come to her
house to-night and I must be going."
John had performed his errand, yet he lingered at the door feeling
that he had something still to tell. At last he said, "Good-bye."
"Good-bye," said Manie in surprise, "for how long? Not quite a day."
"I hope not more than that," replied John. "But I have found that my
expectations are not to be depended upon. That prospect on which I
calculate most is apt to be most completely dissipated."
He tried to keep warmth from his words and tones that they might not
betray his longing to indulge in passionate utterance, utterance
which, he thought, would warn Manie of the depth of his feeling and
banish him from her beyond the possibility of a return. His whole
being fought against the restraint. He threw back at her another look
and saw a glance which appeared to contain encouragement, but which
he could not analyze with certainty. An apprehension seized him that
a golden opportunity was passing away, but its place was taken by
another that speech would destroy a growing prospect. Their
separation promised to be short; and yet, as if he were about to
start on a long journey, he felt a desire to bid her a second and
different farewell.
Checking himself with the fear that he had already said too much, he
left her presence. The next night he would stake his hopes on a
revelation to Manie, which, if all circumstances were considered, did
not promise a satisfactory result. He was not confident. He shut his
eyes to the consequences, while a dread of failure was using its
influence to dissuade him from his design.
In the backyard he met Montcalm, who thus addressed him:
"There is a little matter I meant to have spoken to you about before.
Suppose we take a walk."
"I cannot now," responded John, "I have an engagement."
"Accommodate me as soon as you can, then," said Montcalm.
"Any time to-morrow," replied John, hastening to the club-house.
He stayed a few minutes in the chamber and, bringing down his violin,
was about to leave the building when Daggett stopped him.
"What, John, you ain't going away?"
"I must," Wrengell replied.
"Oh, pshaw!" ejaculated Daggett, "that's just the way when we need
you. Well, go it. I don't blame you."
After Wrengell's departure, Montcalm entered the clubhouse and asked
concerning his whereabouts.
"He's gone," answered Archer, "took his fiddle and gone."