Eben Holden: A Tale of the North Country

by Irving Bacheller

  Chapter 13

  The love of labour was counted a great virtue there in Faraway. As formyself I could never put my heart in a hoe handle or in any like toolof toil. They made a blister upon my spirit as well as upon my hands. Itried to find in the sweat of my brow that exalted pleasure of which MrGreeley had visions in his comfortable retreat on Printing House Square.But unfortunately I had not his point of view.

  Hanging in my library, where I may see it as I write, is the old sickleof Uncle Eb. The hard hickory of its handle is worn thin by the grip ofhis hand. It becomes a melancholy symbol when I remember how also thehickory had worn him thin and bent him low, and how infinitely betterthan all the harvesting of the sickle was the strength of that man,diminishing as it wore the wood. I cannot help smiling when I lookat the sickle and thank of the soft hands and tender amplitude of MrGreeley.

  The great editor had been a playmate of David Brower when they wereboys, and his paper was read with much reverence in our home.

  'How quick ye can plough a ten-acre lot with a pen,' Uncle Eb used tosay when we had gone up to bed after father had been reading aloud fromhis Tribune.

  Such was the power of the press in that country one had but to say ofany doubtful thing, 'Seen it in print,' to stop all argument. If therewere any further doubt he had only to say that he had read it eitherin the Tribune or the Bible, and couldn't remember which. Then it was amere question of veracity in the speaker. Books and other reading werecarefully put away for an improbable time of leisure.

  'I might break my leg sometime,' said David Brower, 'then they'll comehandy.' But the Tribune was read carefully every week.

  I have seen David Brower stop and look at me while I have been diggingpotatoes, with a sober grin such as came to him always after he hadswapped 'hosses' and got the worst of it. Then he would show me again,with a little impatience in his manner, how to hold the handle andstraddle the row. He would watch me for a moment, turn to Uncle Eb,laugh hopelessly and say: 'Thet boy'll hev to be a minister. He can'twork.'

  But for Elizabeth Brower it might have gone hard with me those days.My mind was always on my books or my last talk with Jed Feary, andshe shared my confidence and fed my hopes and shielded me as much aspossible from the heavy work. Hope had a better head for mathematicsthan I, and had always helped me with my sums, but I had a better memoryand an aptitude in other things that kept me at the head of most of myclasses. Best of all at school I enjoyed the 'compositions'--I had manythoughts, such as they were, and some facility of expression, I doubtnot, for a child. Many chronicles of the countryside came off mypen--sketches of odd events and characters there in Faraway. These wereread to the assembled household. Elizabeth Brower would sit lookinggravely down at me, as I stood by her knees reading, in those days of myearly boyhood. Uncle Eb listened with his head turned curiously, as ifhis ear were cocked for coons. Sometimes he and David Brower would slaptheir knees and laugh heartily, whereat my foster mother would give thema quick glance and shake her head. For she was always fearful of the daywhen she should see in her children the birth of vanity, and sought toput it off as far as might be. Sometimes she would cover her mouth tohide a smile, and, when I had finished, look warningly at the rest, andsay it was good, for a little boy. Her praise never went further, andindeed all those people hated flattery as they did the devil and frownedupon conceit She said that when the love of flattery got hold of one hewould lie to gain it.

  I can see this slender, blue-eyed woman as I write. She is walking upand down beside her spinning-wheel. I can hear the dreary buz-z-z-z ofthe spindle as she feeds it with the fleecy ropes. That loud crescendoechoes in the still house of memory. I can hear her singing as she stepsforward and slows the wheel and swings the cradle with her foot:

  'On the other side of Jordan, In the sweet fields of Eden, Where the tree of Life is blooming, There is rest for you.

  She lays her hand to the spokes again and the roar of the spindle drownsher voice.

  All day, from the breakfast hour to supper time, I have heard the dismalsound of the spinning as she walked the floor, content to sing of restbut never taking it.

  Her home was almost a miracle of neatness. She could work with no peaceof mind until the house had been swept and dusted. A fly speck on thewindow was enough to cloud her day. She went to town with David now andthen--not oftener than once a quarter--and came back ill and exhausted.If she sat in a store waiting for David, while he went to mill orsmithy, her imagination gave her no rest. That dirt abhorring mind ofhers would begin to clean the windows, and when that was finished itwould sweep the floor and dust the counters. In due course it wouldlower the big chandelier and take out all the lamps and wash thechimneys with soap and water and rub them till they shone. Then,if David had not come, it would put in the rest of its time on thewoodwork. With all her cleaning I am sure the good woman kept her soulspotless. Elizabeth Brower believed in goodness and the love of God, andknew no fear. Uncle Eb used to say that wherever Elizabeth Brower wenthereafter it would have to be clean and comfortable.

  Elder Whitmarsh came often to dinner of a Sunday, when he and Mrs Browertalked volubly about the Scriptures, he taking a sterner view of Godthan she would allow. He was an Englishman by birth, who had settled inFaraway because there he had found relief for a serious affliction ofasthma.

  He came over one noon in the early summer, that followed the event ofour last chapter, to tell us of a strawberry party that evening at theWhite Church.

  'I've had a wonderful experience,' said he as he took a seat on thepiazza, while Mrs Brower came and sat near him. 'I've discovered a greatgenius--a wandering fiddler, and I shall try to bring him to play forus.'

  'A fiddler! why, Elder!' said she, 'you astonish me!'

  'Nothing but sacred music,' he said, lifting his hand. 'I heard him playall the grand things today--"Rock of Ages", "Nearer My God, to Thee","The Marseillaise" and "Home, Sweet Home". Lifted me off my feet! I'veheard the great masters in New York and London, but no greater playerthan this man.'

  'Where is he and where did he come from?'

  'He's at my house now,' said the good man. 'I found him this morning. Hestood under a tree by the road side, above Northrup's. As I came nearI heard the strains of "The Marseillaise". For more than an hour Isat there listening. It was wonderful, Mrs Brower, wonderful! The poorfellow is eccentric. He never spoke to me. His clothes were dusty andworn. But his music went to my heart like a voice from Heaven. When hehad finished I took him home with me, gave him food and a new coat, andleft him sleeping. I want you to come over, and be sure to bring Hope.She must sing for us.'

  'Mr Brower will be tired out, but perhaps the young people may go,' shesaid, looking at Hope and me.

  My heart gave a leap as I saw in Hope's eyes a reflection of my own joy.In a moment she came and gave her mother a sounding kiss and asked herwhat she should wear.

  'I must look my best, mother,' she said.

  'My child,' said the elder, 'it's what you do and not what you wearthat's important.'

  'They're both important, Elder,' said my foster mother. You should teachyour people the duty of comeliness. They honour their Maker when theylook their best.'

  The spirit of liberalism was abroad in the sons of the Puritans. InElizabeth Brower the ardent austerity of her race had been freelydiluted with humour and cheerfulness and human sympathy. It used to besaid of Deacon Hospur, a good but lazy man, that he was given both toprayer and profanity. Uncle Eb, who had once heard the deacon swear,when the latter had been bruised by a kicking cow, said that, so faras he knew, the deacon never swore except when 'twas necessary. Indeed,most of those men had, I doubt not, too little of that fear of God inthem that characterised their fathers. And yet, as shall appear, therewere in Faraway some relics of a stern faith.

  Hope came out in fine feather, and although I have seen many grandladles, gowned for the eyes of kings, I have never seen a lovelierfigure than when, that evening, she came tripping down to the buggy. Itwas three miles to
the white Church, and riding over in the twilight Ilaid the plan of my life before her. She sat a moment in silence after Ihad finished.

  'I am going away, too,' she remarked, with a sigh.

  'Going away!' I said with some surprise, for in all my plans I hadsecretly counted on returning in grand style to take her back with me.

  'Going away,' said she decisively.

  'It isn't nice for girls to go away from home,' I said.

  'It isn't nice for boys, either,' said she.

  We had come to the church, its open doors and windows all aglow withlight. I helped her out at the steps, and hitched my horse under thelong shed. We entered together and made our way through the chatteringcrowd to the little cloakroom in one corner. Elder Whitmarsh arrived ina moment and the fiddler, a short, stout, stupid-looking man, his fiddlein a black box under his arm, followed him to the platform that had beencleared of its pulpit The stranger stood staring vacantly at thecrowd until the elder motioned him to a chair, when he obeyed withthe hesitating, blind obedience of a dog. Then the elder made abrief prayer, and after a few remarks flavoured with puns, sacredand immemorial as the pulpit itself, started a brief programme ofentertainment. A broad smile marked the beginning of his lighter mood.His manner seemed to say: 'Now, ladies and gentlemen, if you will givegood heed, you shall see I can be witty on occasion.'

  Then a young man came to the platform and recited, after which Hope wentforward and sang 'The Land o' the Leal' with such spirit that I can feelmy blood go faster even now as I thank of it, and of that girlish figurecrowned with a glory of fair curls that fell low upon her waist andmingled with the wild pink roses at her bosom. The fiddler sat quietlyas if he heard nothing until she began to sing, when he turned to lookat her. The elder announced, after the ballad, that he had brought withhim a wonderful musician who would favour them with some sacred music.He used the word 'sacred' because he had observed, I suppose, thatcertain of the 'hardshells' were looking askance at the fiddle. Therewas an awkward moment in which the fiddler made no move or sign ofintelligence. The elder stepped near him and whispered. Getting noresponse, he returned to the front of the platform and said: 'We shallfirst resign ourselves to social intercourse and the good things theladies have provided.'

  Mountains of frosted cake reared their snowy summits on a long table,and the strawberries, heaped in saucers around them, were like redfoothills. I remember that while they were serving us Hope and I wereintroduced to one Robert Livingstone--a young New Yorker, stopping atthe inn near by, on his way to the big woods. He was a handsome fellow,with such a fine air of gallantry and so prig in fashionable clothesthat he made me feel awkward and uncomfortable.

  'I have never heard anything more delightful than that ballad,' he saidto Hope. 'You must have your voice trained--you really must. It willmake a great name for you.'

  I wondered then why his words hurt me to the soul. The castle of mydreams had fallen as he spoke. A new light came into her face--I did notknow then what it meant.

  'Will you let me call upon you before I leave--may I?' He turned to mewhile she stood silent. 'I wish to see your father,' he added.

  'Certainly,' she answered, blushing, 'you may come--if you care to come.

  The musician had begun to thrum the strings of his violin. We turnedto look at him. He still sat in his chair, his ear bent to the echoingchamber of the violin. Soon he laid his bow to the strings and a greatchord hushed every whisper and died into a sweet, low melody, in whichhis thought seemed to be feeling its way through sombre paths of sound.The music brightened, the bow went faster, and suddenly 'The Girl I LeftBehind Me' came rushing off the strings. A look of amazement gathered onthe elder's face and deepened into horror. It went from one to anotheras if it had been a dish of ipecac. Ann Jane Foster went directly forher things, and with a most unchristian look hurried out into the night.Half a dozen others followed her, while the unholy music went on, itsmerry echoes rioting in that sacred room, hallowed with memories of thehour of conviction, of the day of mourning, of the coming of the bridein her beauty.

  Deacon Hospur rose and began to drawl a sort of apology, when the playerstopped suddenly and shot an oath at him. The deacon staggered under theshock of it. His whiskers seemed to lift a bit like the hair of a catunder provocation. Then he tried to speak, but only stuttered helplesslya moment as if his tongue were oscillating between silence andprofanity, and was finally pulled down by his wife, who had laid hold ofhis coat tails. If it had been any other man than Deacon Hospur it wouldhave gone badly with the musician then and there, but we boys saw hisdiscomfiture with positive gratitude. In a moment all rose, the disheswere gathered up, and many hurried away with indignant glances at thepoor elder, who was busy taking counsel with some of the brethren.

  I have never seen a more pathetic figure than that of poor Nick Goodallas he sat there thrumming the strings of which he was a Heaven-bornmaster. I saw him often after that night--a poor, halfwitted creature,who wandered from inn to inn there in the north country, trading musicfor hospitality. A thoroughly intelligible sentence never passed hislips, but he had a great gift of eloquence in music. Nobody knew whencehe had come or any particular of his birth or training or family. Butfor his sullen temper, that broke into wild, unmeaning profanity attimes, Nick Goodall would have made fame and fortune.

  He stared at the thinning crowd as if he had begun dimly to comprehendthe havoc he had wrought. Then he put on his hat, came down off theplatform, and shuffled out of the open door, his violin in one hand, itsbox in the other. There were not more than a dozen of us who followedhim into the little churchyard. The moon was rising, and the shadowsof lilac and rose bush, of slab and monument lay long across the greenmounds. Standing there between the graves of the dead he began to play.I shall never forget that solemn calling of the silver string:

  'Come ye disconsolate where'er ye languish.'

  It was a new voice, a revelation, a light where darkness had been, toHope and to me. We stood listening far into the night, forgetful ofeverything, even the swift flight of the hours.

  Loud, impassioned chords rose into the moonlit sky and sank to a faintwhisper of melody, when we could hear the gossip of the birds in thebelfry and under the eaves; trembling tones of supplication, wailingnotes of longing and regret swept through the silent avenues of thechurchyard, thrilling us with their eloquence. For the first time weheard the music of Handel, of Mendelssohn, of Paganini, and felt itspower, then knowing neither name nor theme. Hour by hour he played onfor the mere joy of it. When we shook hands with the elder and tiptoedto the buggy he was still playing. We drove slowly and listened a longway down the road. I could hear the strains of that ballad, then new tome, but now familiar, growing fainter in the distance:

  O ye'll tak' the high road an' I'll tak' the low road An' I'll be inScotland afore ye; But me an' me true love will never meet again On thebonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomond.

  what connection it may have had with the history of poor Nick Goodall[*1] I have often wondered.

  [*1] Poor Nick Coodall died in the almshouse of Jefferson County some thirty years ago. A better account of this incident was widely printed at that time.

  As the last note died into silence I turned to Hope, and she was crying.

  'Why are you crying?' I asked, in as miserable a moment as I have everknown.

  'It's the music,' she said.

  We both sat in silence, then, hearing only the creak of the buggy asit sped over the sandy road. Well ahead of us I saw a man who suddenlyturned aside, vaulting over the fence and running into the near woods.

  'The night man!' I exclaimed, pulling up a moment to observe him.

  Then a buggy came in sight, and presently we heard a loud 'hello' fromDavid Brower, who, worried by our long stay, had come out in quest ofus.