Chapter 3

“Yes! Yes!” cried the crowd. “'Dixie.' We'll give you the chorus.”

After a little protest the girl struck a few chords and dashed off into that old plantation song full of mingling pathos and humour. Barney picked up his father's violin, touched the strings softly till he found her key and then followed in a subdued accompaniment of weird chords. The girl turned herself toward him, her beautiful face lighting up as if she had caught a glimpse of a kindred spirit, and with a new richness and tenderness she poured forth the full flood of her song. The crowd were entranced with delight. Even those who had been somewhat impatient for the renewal of the dance joined in calls for another song. She turned to Dick, who had resumed his place beside her. “Who is the man you wanted so badly to kiss?” she asked quietly.

“Who?” he cried, so that everyone heard. “What! don't you know? That's Barney, the one and only Barney, my brother. Here, Barney, drop your fiddle and be introduced to Miss Iola Lane, late from Virginia, or is it Maryland? Some of those heathen places beyond the Dixie line.”

Barney dropped the violin from his chin, came over the floor, and awkwardly offered his hand. With easy, lazy grace she rose from the block where she had been sitting.

“You accompany beautifully,” she said in her soft Southern drawl; “it's in you, I can see. No one can ever be taught to accompany like that.”

“Oh, pshaw! That's nothing,” said Barney, eager to get back again to his shadow, “but if you don't mind I'll try to follow you if you sing again.”

“Certainly,” cried Dick, “she'll sing again. What will you give us now, white or black?”

“Plantation, of course,” said Barney brusquely.

“All right. 'Kentucky home,' eh?” cried Dick.

The girl looked up at him with a saucy, defiant look. “Do they all obey you here?”

“Ask them.”

“That's what,” cried Alec Murray, “especially the girls.”

She hesitated a few moments, evidently meditating rebellion, then turning to Barney, who was playing softly the air that had been asked for, “You, too, obey, I see,” she said.

“Generally--, always when I like,” he replied, continuing to play.

“Oh, well,” shrugging her shoulders, “I suppose I must then.” And she began:

“The sun shines bright on de old Kentucky home.”

Again that hush fell upon the crowd. The face of the singer, with its dark, romantic beauty touched with the magic of the moonlight, the voice soft, mellow, vibrant with passion, like the deeper notes of a 'cello, supported by the weird chords of Barney's violin, held them breathless. No voice joined in the chorus. As she sang, the subtle telepathic waves came back from her audience to the girl, and with ever-deepening passion and abandon she poured forth into the moonlit silence the full throbbing tide of song. The old air, simple and time-worn, took on a new richness of tone colour and a fulness of volume suggestive of springs of unutterable depths. Even Dick's gay air of command surrendered to the spell. As before, silence followed the song.

“But you did not do your part,” she said, smiling up at him with a very pretty air of embarrassment.

“No,” said Dick solemnly, “we didn't dare.”

“Sing again,” said Barney abruptly. His voice sounded deep and hoarse, and Dick, looking curiously at him, said apologetically, “Music, when it's good, makes him quite batty.”

But Iola ignored him. “Did you ever hear this?” she said to Barney. She strummed a few chords on her guitar. “It's only a little baby song, one my old mammy used to sing.”

“Sleep, ma baby, close youah lil winkahs fas', Loo-la, Loo-la, don' you gib me any sass. Youah mammy's ol', an' want you to de berry las', So, baby, honey, let dose mean ol' angels pass.

CHORUS:

“Sleep, ma baby, mammy can't let you go. Sleep, ma baby, de angels want you sho! De angels want you, guess I know, But mammy hol' you, hol' you tight jes' so.

“Sleep, ma baby, close youah lil fingahs, Meah, Loo-la, Loo-la, tight about ma fingahs heah, De dawk come close, but baby don' you nebbeh feah, Youah mammy'll hol' you, hol' you till de mawn appeah.

“Sleep, ma baby, why you lie so col', so col'? Loo-la, Loo-la, do Massa want you for His fol'? But, baby, honey, don' you know youah mammy's ol' An' want you, want you, oh, she want you jes' to hol'.”

A long silence followed the song. The girl laid her guitar down and sat quietly looking straight before her, while Barney played the refrain over and over. The simple pathos of the little song, its tender appeal to the mother-chords that somehow vibrate in all human hearts, reached the deep places in the honest hearts of her listeners and for some moments they stood silent about her. It was with an obvious effort that Dick released the tension by crying out, “Partners for four-hand reel.” Instantly the company resolved itself into groups of four and stood waiting for the music.

“Strike up, Barney,” cried Dick impatiently, shuffling before Iola, whom he had chosen for his partner. But Barney, handing the violin to his father, slipped back into the shadow where his mother and Margaret were standing. The boy's face was pale through its swarthy tan.

“Come away,” he said to his mother in a strained, unnatural voice.

“Isn't she beautiful?” cried Margaret impulsively.

“Is she? I didn't notice. But great goodness! What a voice!”

“Um, some will be thinking so, I doubt,” said Mrs. Boyle grimly, with a sharp glance at her son.

But Barney had become oblivious to her words and glances. He moved away as in a dream to make ready for the home going of his party, for soon the dancers would be at Sir Roger's. Nor did he waken from his dream mood during the drive home. He could hear Dick chattering gaily to Margaret and his mother of his College experiences, but except for an occasional word with his father he sat in silence, gazing not upon the fields and woods that lay in all their moonlit glory about them, but upon that new world, vast, unreal, yet vividly present, whose horizon lay beyond the line of vision, the world of his imagination, where he must henceforth live and where his work must lie. For the events of the afternoon had summoned a new self into being, a self unfamiliar, but real and terribly insistent, demanding recognition. He could not analyse the change that had come to him, nor could he account for it. He did not try to. He lived again those great moments when, having been thrust by chance into the command of these fifty mighty men, he had swung them to victory. He remembered the ease, the perfect harmony with which his faculties had wrought through those few minutes of fierce struggle. Again he passed through the awful ordeal of the operation, now holding the light, now assisting with forceps or cord or needle, now sponging away that ghastly red flow that could not be stemmed. He wondered now at his self-mastery. He could see again his fingers, bloody, but unshaking, handing the old doctor a needle and silk cord. He remembered his surprise and pity, almost contempt, for big Tom Magee lying on the floor unable to lift his head; remembered, too, the strange absence of anything like elation at the doctor's words, “My boy, you have the nerve and the fingers of a surgeon, and that's what your Maker intended you to be.”

But he let his mind linger long and with thrilling joy through the interlude in the dance. Every detail of that scene stood clearly limned before his mind. The bare skeleton of the new harp, the crowding, eager, tense faces of the listeners, his mother's and Margaret's in the hindmost row, his brother standing in the centre foreground, the upturned face of the singer with its pale romantic loveliness, all in the mystery of the moonlight, and, soaring over all, that clear, vibrant, yet softly passionate, glorious voice. That was the final magic touch that rolled back the screen and set before him the new world which must henceforth be his. He could not explain that touch. The songs were the old simple airs worn threadbare by long use in the countryside. It was certainly not the songs. Nor was it the singer. Curiously enough, the girl, her personality, her character, worthy or unworthy, had only a subordinate place in his thought. He was conscious of her presence there as a subtle yet powerful influence, but as something detached from the upturned face illumined in the soft moonlight and the stream of heart-shaking song. She was to him thus far simply a vision and a voice, to which all the psychic element in him made eager response. As he drove into the quiet Mill yard it came upon him with a shock of pain that with the old life he had done forever. He felt himself already detached from it. The new self looking out upon its new world had shaken off his boyhood as the bursting leaf shakes off the husks of spring.

As Dick's gay exclamation of delight at sight of the old home fell upon his ear a deeper pain struck him, for he vaguely felt that while his brother still held his place in the centre of the stage, that stage had immeasurably extended and was now peopled with other figures, shadowy, it is true, but there, and influential. His brother, who with his mother, or, indeed, perhaps more than his mother, had absorbed his boyish devotion, must henceforth share that devotion with others. Upon this thought his brother's voice broke in.

“What's the matter, old chap? Is there anything wrong?”

The kindly tone stabbed like a knife.

“No, no. Nothing, Dick.”

“Yes, but there is. You're not the same.” At the anxious appeal in the voice Barney stood for a moment steadily regarding his brother, for whom he could easily give his life, with a troubled sense of change that he could not analyse to himself, much less explain to his brother.

“I don't know, Dick--I can't tell you--I don't think I am the same.” A look of startled dismay fell swiftly down upon the frank, handsome face turned toward him.

“Have I done anything, Barney?” said the younger boy, his dismay showing in his tone.

“No, no, Dick, boy, it has nothing to do with you.” He put his hands on his brother's shoulders, the nearest thing to an embrace he ever allowed himself. “It is in myself; but to you, my boy, I am the same.” His speech came now hurriedly and with difficulty: “And whatever comes to me or to you, Dick, remember I shall never change to you--remember that, Dick, to you I shall never change.” His breath was coming in quick gasps. The younger boy gazed at his usually so undemonstrative brother. Suddenly he threw his arms about his neck, crying in a broken voice, “You won't, Barney, I know you won't. If you ever do I don't want to live.”

For a single moment Barney held the boy in his arms, patting his shoulder gently, then, pushing him back, said impatiently, “Well, I am a blamed old fool, anyway. What in the diggins is the matter with me, I don't know. I guess I want supper, nothing to eat since noon. But all the same, Dick,” he added in a steady, matter-of-fact tone, “we must expect many changes from this out, but we'll stand by each other till the world cracks.”

After Dick had gone upstairs with his father, Barney and his mother sat together talking over the doings of the day after their invariable custom.

“He is looking thin, I am thinking,” said the mother.

“Oh, he's right enough. A few days after the reaper and a few meals out of your kitchen, mother, and he will be as fit as ever.”

“That was a fine work of yours with the doctor.” The indifferent tone did not deceive her son for a moment.

“Oh, pshaw, that was nothing. At least it seemed nothing then. There were things to be done, blood to be stopped, skin to be sewed up, and I just did what I could.” The mother nodded slightly.

“You did no more than you ought, and that great Tom Magee might be doing something better than lying on his back on the floor like a baby.”

“He couldn't help himself, mother. That's the way it struck him. But, man, it was fine to see the doctor, so quick and so clever, and never a slip or a stop.” He paused abruptly and stood upright looking far away for some moments. “Yes, fine! Splendid!” he continued as in a dream. “And he said I had the fingers and the nerve for a surgeon. That's it. I see now--mother, I'm going to be a doctor.”

His mother stood and faced him. “A doctor? You?”

The sharp tone recalled her son.

“Yes, me. Why not?”

“And Richard?”

Her son understood her perfectly. His mind went back to a morning long ago when his mother, putting his younger brother's hand in his as they set forth to school for the first time, said, “Take care of your brother, Bernard. I give him into your charge.” That very day and many a day after he had stood by his brother, had fought for him, had pulled him out of scraps into which the younger lad's fiery temper and reckless spirit were frequently plunging him, but never once had he consciously failed in the trust imposed on him. And as Dick developed exceptional brilliance in his school work, together they planned for him, the mother and the older brother, the mother painfully making and saving, the brother accepting as his part the life of plodding obscurity in order that the younger boy might have his full chance of what school and college could do for him. True to the best traditions of her race, the mother had fondly dreamed of a day when she should hear from her son's lips the word of life. With never a thought of the sacrifice she was demanding, she had drawn into this partnership her elder son. And thus to the mother it seemed nothing less than an act of treachery, amounting to sacrilege, that Barney for a single moment should cherish for himself an ambition whose realisation might imperil his brother's future. Barney needed, therefore, no explanation of his mother's cry of dismay, almost of horror. He was quick with his answer.

“Dick? Oh, mother, do you think I was forgetting Dick? Of course nothing must stop Dick. I can wait--but I am going to be a doctor.”

The mother looked into her son's rugged face, so like her own in its firm lines, and replied almost grudgingly, “Ay, I doubt you will.” Then she added hastily, as if conscious of her ungracious tone, “And what for should you not?”

“Thank you, mother,” said her son humbly, “and never fear we'll stand by Dick.”

Her eyes followed him out of the room and for some moments she stood watching the door through which he had passed. Then, with a great sigh, she said aloud: “Ay, it is the grand doctor he will make. He has the nerve and the fingers whatever.” Then after a pause she added: “And he will not fail the laddie, I warrant.”

V

THE NEW TEACHER

The new teacher was distinctly phenomenal from every point of view. Her beauty was a type quite unusual where rosy-cheeked, deep-chested, sturdy womanhood was the rule. Even the smallest child was sensible of the fascination of her smile, which seemed to emanate from every feature of her face, so much so that little Ruby Ross was heard to say: “And do you know, mother, she smiles with her nose!” The almost timid appeal in her gentle manner stirred the chivalry latent in every boy's heart. Back of her appealing gentleness, however, there was a reserve of proud command due to the strain in her blood of a regnant, haughty, slave-ruling race. But in her discipline of the school she had rarely to fall back upon sheer authority. She had a method unique, but undoubtedly effective, based upon two fundamental principles: regard for public opinion, and hope of reward. The daily tasks were prepared and rendered as if in the presence of the great if somewhat vague public which at times she individualized, as she became familiar with her pupils, in the person of father or mother or trustee, as the case might be. And with marvellous skill she played this string, albeit occasionally she struck a false note.

“What would your father think, Lincoln?” she inquired reproachfully of little Link Young. Link's father was a typical Down Easterner, by name Jabez Young or, as he was more commonly known, “Maine Jabe,” for his fondness of his reminiscence of his native State. “What would your father think if he saw you act so rudely?”

“Dad wouldn't care a dang.”

Instantly conscious of her mistake, she hastened to recover.

“Well, Lincoln, what do you think I think?”

Link's Yankee assurance sank abashed before this direct personal appeal. He hung his head in blushing silence.

“Do you know, Lincoln, you might come to be a right clever gentleman if you tried hard.” A new idea lodged itself under Link's red thatch of hair and a new motive stirred in his shrewd little soul. Here was one visibly present whose good opinion he valued. At all costs that good opinion he must win.

The whole school was being consciously trained for exhibition purposes. The day would surely come when before the eyes of the public they would parade for inspection. Therefore, it behooved them to be ready.

But more important in enforcing discipline was the hope of reward. This principle was robbed of its more sordid elements by the nature of the reward held forth. A day of good conduct and of faithful work invariably closed with an hour devoted to histrionic and musical exercise. To recite before the teacher and to hear the teacher recite was worth considerable effort. To sing with the teacher was a joy, but to hear the teacher sing to the accompaniment of her guitar was the supreme of bliss. It was not only an hour of pleasure to the pupils, but an hour of training as well. She initiated them into the mysteries of deep breathing, chest tones, phrasing, and expression, and such was their absorbing interest in and devotion to this study, that in a few weeks truly remarkable results were obtained. The singing lesson invariably concluded with a plantation song from the teacher; and with her memory-gates wide open to the sunny South of her childhood, and with all her soul in her voice, she gave them her best, holding them breathless, laughterful, or tear-choked, according to her mood and song.

It was by such a song that Mr. Jabez Young, driving along the road on his way to the store, was suddenly arrested and rendered incapable of movement till the song was done. In amazed excitement he burst forth to old Hector Ross, the Chairman of the Trustee Board, who happened to be in the store:

“Gol dang my cats! What hev yeh got in the school up yonder? Say! I couldn't git my team to move past that there door!”

“What's matter, Mr. Young?”

“Why, dang it all! I'll report to the Reeve. Fust thing yeh know there'll be a string-a-teams from here to the next concession blockin' that there road in front of the school!”

“Why, what's the matter with the school, Mr. Young?” inquired old Hector, in anxious surprise.

“Why, ain't ye heard her? Say! down in Maine I paid a dollar one 'time to hear a big singer, forgit her name, but she was 'lowed to be the dangdest singer in all them parts. But, Gol dang my cats to cinders! she ain't any more like that there teacher of yours than my old Tom cat's like the angel that leads the choir in Abram's bosom!”

“That is very interesting, Mr. Young. And I suppose you won't mind paying a little extra school rate now,” said Hector, with a shrewd twinkle in his eye.

“Extra school rate! I tell yeh what, I'll charge up my lost time to the trustees! But danged if I wouldn't give a day's pay to hear that song again!”

In application of this principle of reward for merit, the teacher introduced a subordinate principle which proved effective when all else failed. The school was made corporately and jointly responsible for the individual. The offence of one was the offence of all, the merit of one the merit of all. Thus every pupil was associated with her in the business of securing good lessons and exemplary conduct. As the day went on each misdemeanour was gravely, and in full view of the school, marked down upon the blackboard. The merits obtained by any pupil were in like manner recorded. The day closing with an adverse balance knew no hour of song. Woe to the boy who, dead to all other motives of good conduct, persisted in robbing the school of its hour of delight. In the case of Ab Maddock, big, impudent, and pachydermous, it took Dugald Robertson, the minister's son, just half an hour's hard fighting to extract a promise of good behaviour. Dugald was in the main a thoughtful, peaceable boy, the most advanced pupil in the entrance class, and a great mathematician. At first he was inclined to despise the teacher, setting little store by her beautiful face and fascinating smile, for on the very first day he discovered her woful mathematical inadequacy. Arithmetic was her despair. With algebraic formulae and Euclid's propositions her fine memory saved her. But with quick intuition she threw herself frankly upon the boy's generosity, and in the evenings together they, with Margaret's assistance, wrestled with the bewildering intricacies of arithmetical problems. Her open confession of helplessness, and her heroic attempts to overcome her defects, made irresistible appeal to the chivalrous heart of the little Highland gentleman. Thenceforth he was her champion for all that was in him.

But the teacher's weakness in mathematics was atoned for, if atonement there be for such a weakness, by the ample strength of her endowments in those branches of learning in which imagination and artistic sensibility play any large part. And a far larger part, and far more important, do these Divine gifts play than many wise educationists conceive. The lessons in history, in geography, and in reading ceased to be mere memory tasks and became instinct with life. The whole school would stay its ordinary work to listen while the teacher told tales of the brave days of old to the history class, or transformed the geography lessons into excursions among people of strange tongues dwelling in far lands. But it was in the reading lessons that her artistic talents had full play. The mere pronouncing and spelling of words were but incidents in the way of expression of thought and emotion. After a whole week of drilling which she would give to a single lesson, she would arrest the class with the question, “What is the author seeing?” and with the further question, “How does he try to show it to us?” Reading, to her, consisted in the ability to see what the author saw and the art of telling it, and to set forth with grace that thing in the author's words.

In the writing class her chief anxiety was to avoid blots. Every blot might become an occasion of humiliation to teacher and pupils alike. “Oh, this will never do! They must not see this!” she would cry, rubbing out with infinite care and pains the blot, and rubbing in the horror of such a defilement being paraded before the eyes of the vague but terrible “they.”

Thus the pathway trodden in the school routine was, perchance, neither wide nor far extended, but it was thoroughly well trodden. As a consequence, when the day for the closing exercises came around both teacher and pupils had become so thoroughly familiar with the path and so accustomed to the vision of the onlooking public that they faced the ordeal without dread, prepared to give forth whatever of knowledge or accomplishment they might possess.