Next day Trove went home. He took with him many a souvenir of his
first term, including a scarf that Polly had knit for him, and the
curious things he took from the Frenchman Leblanc, and which he
retained partly because they were curious and partly because Mrs.
Leblanc had been anxious to get rid of them. He soon rejoined his
class at Hillsborough, having kept abreast of it in history and
mathematics by work after school and over the week's end. He was
content to fall behind in the classics, for they were easy, and in
them his arrears gave him no terror. Walking for exercise, he laid
the plan of his tale and had written some bits of verse. Of an
evening he went often to the Sign of the Dial, and there read his
lines and got friendly but severe criticism. He came into the shop
one evening, his "Horace" under his arm.
"'_Maecenas, atavis, edite regibus_'" Trove chanted, pausing to
recall the lines.
The tinker turned quickly. "'_O et presidium et duice decus
meum_,'" 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. A
man that displays knowledge hath need o' more."
Indeed, Trove rarely came for a talk with Darrel when he failed to
discover something new in him--a further reach of thought and
sympathy or some unsuspected treasure of knowledge. The tinker
loved a laugh and would often search his memory for some phrase of
bard or philosopher apt enough to provoke it. Of his great store
of knowledge he made no vainer use.
Trove had been overworking; and about the middle of June they went
for a week in the woods together. They walked to Allen's the first
day, and, after a brief visit there, went off in the deep woods,
camping on a pond in thick-timbered hills. Coming to the lilied
shore, they sat down a while to rest. A hawk was sailing high
above the still water. Crows began to call in the tree-tops. An
eagle sat on a dead pine at the water's edge and seemed to be
peering down at his own shadow. Two deer stood in a marsh on the
farther shore, looking over at them. Near by were the bones of
some animal, and the fresh footprints of a painter. Sounds echoed
far 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 see
how new it is--how fresh its colour, how strong its timbers! See
the many seats, each with a good view, an' the multitude o' the
people, yet most o' them are hidden. Ten thousand eyes are looking
down upon us. Tragedies and comedies o' the forest are enacted
here. Many a thrilling scene has held the stage--the spent deer
swimming for his life, the painter stalking his prey or leaping on
it."
"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 a
great moral--thou shalt learn to use thy brain or die. Now, there
be many perils in this land o' the woods--so many that all its
people must learn to think or perish by them. A pretty bit o'
wisdom it is, sor. It keeps the great van moving--ever moving, in
the long way to perfection. Now, among animals, a growing brain
works the legs of its owner, sending them far on diverse errands
until they are strong. Mind thee, boy, perfection o' brain and
body is the aim o' Nature. The cat's paw an' the serpent's coil
are but the penalties o' weakness an' folly. The world is for the
strong. Therefore, God keep thee so, or there be serpents will
enter 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," said
Darrel. "Every year there is a tournament o' the sparrows. Which
deserves the fair--that is the question to be settled. Full tilt
they come together, striking with lance and wing. Knight strives
with knight, lady with lady, and the weak die. Lest thou forget,
I'll tell thee a tale, boy, wherein is the great plan. The queen
bee--strongest of all her people--is about to marry.[1] A clear
morning she comes out o' the palace gate--her attendants following.
The multitude of her suitors throng the vestibule; the air, now
still an' sweet, rings with the sound o' fairy timbrels. Of a
sudden she rises into the blue sky, an' her suitors follow. Her
swift wings cleave the air straight as a plummet falls. Only the
strong may keep in sight o' her; bear that in mind, boy. Her
suitors begin to fall wearied. Higher an' still higher the good
queen 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 the
seed o' life is chosen, me fine lad."
[1 In behalf of Darrel, the author makes acknowledgment of his
indebtedness to M. Maurice Maeterlinck for an account of the
queen's flight in his interesting "Life of the Bee."]
They sat a little time in silence, looking at the shores of the
pond.
"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 his
knee, merrily, and sang a sentimental couplet from an old Irish
ballad.
"Have ye won her affection, boy?" he added, his hand on the boy's
arm.
"I think I have."
"God love thee! I'm glad to hear it," said the old man. "She is a
living wonder, boy, a living wonder, an' had I thy youth I'd give
thee worry."
"Since her mother cannot afford to do it, I wish to send her away
to 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 do
not need it. The job in the mill--that will feed me and pay my
room rent, and my clothes will do me for another year."
"On me word, boy; I like it in thee," said Darrel; "but surely she
would not take thy money."
"I could not offer it to her, but you might go there, and perhaps
she 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 credit
for thy benevolence. Teacher, philanthropist, lover--I believe
thou'rt ready to write."
"The plan of my first novel is complete," said Trove. "That poor
thief,--he shall be my chief character,--the man of whom you told
me."
"Poor man! God make thee kind to him," said the tinker. "An'
thou'rt willing, I'll hear o' him to-night. When the firelight
flickers,--that is the time, boy, for tales."
They built a rude lean-to, covered with bark, and bedded with
fragrant boughs. Both lay in the firelight, Darrel smoking his
pipe, as the night fell.
"Now for thy tale," said the tinker.
The tale was Trove's own solution of his life mystery, shrewdly
come to, after a long and careful survey of the known facts. And
now, shortly, time was to put the seal of truth upon it, and daze
him with astonishment, and fill him with regret of his cunning. It
should be known that he had never told Darrel or any one of his
coming in the little red sleigh.