VOICES (continued 2)

Just here Sandy looked up: “Listen! I worked this out yesterday and call it ‘Voices Jeannette Hears.’” He played something not much louder than a whisper, a chorus of all the still small voices she had heard about her home—the wind, the birds, the brooks, the crickets, the spirits of the hills and dells; little prayers of praise, little prattlings of joy and happiness—yes, and of love. She felt so happy; and yet so very, very lonely, for someone or something to love. A tear found its way down each cheek and two others nestled on her lashes, loath to leave the fountains of their birth. When he finished neither spoke. He did not look towards her, but out into the darkness of the peaceful, starry night.

While thus they sat it seemed to Jeannette that something with a touch light as a feather and lips soft as the petals of a rose brushed her ear and a joyous little spirit with a dulcet young voice, such as she had never heard before, whispered: “Is he not handsome? Do you not see how quick he is to learn? Teacher, teach him! you can in a few months. How delightful to educate him; mould his fresh, open, plastic mind; make of him not alone a husband but a soul companion; which you could not do were his soul awake to its full strength and vision. Jeannette, it is springtime for you; be not a virgin of steel; let your soul bud and flower, the blossom of life is love, let it bear fruit. Would you die a spinster with a drying heart, knowing only a spirit love, little better than a dream? Cast off this sombre veil that you have wound about your heart; open your eyes; do you not love him? I have brought Sandy to you.”

She rose from her seat and in a voice not much louder than the one she had been listening to, managed to say: “Good night, Sandy,” and left the room.

He did not move, though he answered: “Good night,” and as her door closed added: “O Life! O Life! I have found the place of thy dwelling.”

He laid his violin upon the table and went out into the night. The night was not dark, though there was no moon. The stars were bright, they seemed to be holding a carnival. The night was not cold; a midsummer breeze stirred the trees; the leaves whispered of love and threw kisses to the stars.

Jeannette slept with a red rose on her pillow; and before she slept looked out the window at the stars and thought of many things.

“Jeannette, have you any letters to mail, I am going to the Big Creek postoffice?”

She gave him one addressed to the editors of ——, which contained the manuscript of some verses—“The Heart of Things”—the first of her published poems. She offered the loan of the old mule, saying: “It’s more than twelve miles; will you be back tonight?”

“Yes, I’m traveling light; twenty-four miles is a mere stroll; and I shall return, much as I imagine the old mule would, at a brisker gait, because I’m coming home.”

She said nothing more; being surprised by Sandy’s speech, which had suddenly dropped the mountain idiom.

When night came she sat on the porch until after nine o’clock, then she went to her room, fearful that if Sandy should come and find her there he might misunderstand; might think she had been waiting—but the idea, that’s impossible. She tried to read, she had not read much lately, she was not in the mood; blew out the lamp—and just afterward the gate opened; and she heard him enter the house and go to his room.

She spent most of the following day until late afternoon in her bower under the great vine; then went for a walk along the path which skirted the left bank of the creek, the way of the foot-traveler, to avoid repeated fordings, necessary if one followed the road.

Along the path were scattered scraps of letter paper and a little further on she saw an empty envelope from the War Department, addressed to Captain William L. Blair. When she returned, she asked Simeon: “Who is Captain William L. Blair?”

“I don’t know no Captain Blair. Sandy’s name is William Lees Blair, but everybody calls him Sandy. O! I saw that name the other day on a letter he brought back from Big Creek—‘Captain William L. Blair, U. S. A.’—the letter had been sent him from Coblenz, Germany. Do you reckon Sandy was a captain?”

Jeannette began to suspect that Sandy might be amusing himself at their expense. At supper she was formally courteous; she first thought of calling him Captain Blair, but changed her mind and addressed him as Mr. Blair.

When the supper dishes had been put away and the chores done, all of them sat upon the porch until Simeon announced it was his bedtime; when he and his family retired.

“Jeannette, will you give me a lesson on the fiddle?”

“All right, Sandy. Would you like to know how to read music? In music there are signs standing for sounds, as the letters of the alphabet in combination form words, by which we express our thoughts. Do you catch what I mean?”

“Yes, I guess. But that’s funny. I thought you just learned the tune.”

“Put your chair near mine; I will show you some of the signs and symbols. What’s a symbol, Sandy?”

“Down in Mexico they tell me the gals play on them; banging them on their elbows and knees; that is the big ones and the little ones they click in their fingers.”

“Well, Sandy, this is another kind. Now this is a symbol in music, telling—” and so she went on for some time, Sandy listening attentively, with his head very near hers and their chairs as close together as he thought the occasion would justify.

When she finished he said: “Miss Jeannette, please play that fine piece of yourn?”

She played it through, then arranging his fingers on his bow, showed him just how he should stand; and playing a few notes at a time, instructed him to replay them.

That part of the music which was difficult and she felt satisfied she had not played correctly, it struck her Sandy played with greater ease and expression than she could do; but he made horribly ludicrous mistakes in the easy portions. Intentionally, she had misplayed a portion and when he reached this part he played it correctly. Then she knew that for some reason he was fooling them.

“Now Sandy, play it alone. Do your best, I shall go out on the porch and listen.”

He started off in a halting amateurish way, making many blunders; as he played his mistakes became fewer, his touch fuller; gradually he forgot his purpose to deceive, the music was a favorite; towards the end he played as she had never dreamed the piece could be played.

He came out on the porch and sat down beside her. Neither spoke. He knew she was no longer fooled.

“Jeannette, I can read and write.”

“Write something so I can see; you may be fooling me.”

He felt in his pockets for a scrap of paper but found nothing. Then he opened a card case and taking out his card, wrote on the back a few words.

She went into the light and read: “Chi si marita alla svelta si pente adagio. William L. Blair.”

She turned the card over and read “William Lees Blair.” She called out the door, “Good night, Captain William Lees Blair;” and went to her room.

He did not see her again until the next afternoon. He heard her singing on Big Rock, and walking down to the creek, followed up the bank until he came to the foot of the rock. It was very steep on that side, almost unscalable. She heard him climbing up. His hat fell off; a moment later his bare red head peeped above the surface, then his smiling, ruddy face rose slowly over the edge, much as she had seen the full red moon rise over the edge of the cliff that capped her mountain.

“Jeannette, really, I can read.”

“Let me see.”

And he wrote on another card:

“Ah vie! Ah vie! Jai trouve la place ou tu demeures.”

She took it saying: “Now since you have had your second lesson in penmanship, you may go home. I am busy embroidering a Christmas present for a friend and as this is the twenty-third of July, am too busy upon it to be disturbed.”

That evening Simeon and his wife sat out upon the porch; Jeannette and Sandy upon the door-step. He had his fiddle and was playing “Turkey in the Straw,” keeping time with his foot, his face lit by a happy smile. Jeannette’s slipper tapped the floor in minor accompaniment. She looked into his face; saw the brightness of it in the darkness, and whispered: “Your music is most suggestive: I never felt so much like dancing as I do tonight.”

Sandy thought his cousins had forgotten their rule of retiring with the chickens. The old rooster crowed. “Listen at Old Speck, he thinks it’s almost day.” Simeon gave an enormous yawn; they thought he would never close his mouth. It went shut with a snap, followed by the remark: “It’s time all honest folks were in bed.” It was nearly nine o’clock; and he and his wife went in.

How glorious the night; how peaceful and starry; a time for visions, not words, therefore no one spoke. The bold, bad captain, taking advantage of the darkness, made Jeannette’s hand a prisoner. It fluttered as a frightened bird; then it lay still, either having lost hope of escape or resigned to a captive fate. Suddenly it escaped.

“Captain, I’m surprised! Get pencil and paper; you must have your third lesson in penmanship. Look on the mantel and bring me a couple of matches.”

He took a card from his case and wrote: “Jeannette, Mein Liebchen: Willst Du mich Heiraten?”

He handed her the card; she read it; the match went out. There was a little scuffle, a smothered exclamation. A great owl, whose downy wings made no noise, lit in the elm by the gate and observing them through his night optics, exclaimed: “Who! Who!” Surprised, the captain released his prisoner; she darted into the doorway, calling: “Goodnight, Captain, hope to see you tomorrow.”

Her dream love ended that night; the talisman that drove it from this material to the spirit world, where it was doubtless happier, was a very human kiss. Most of you girls know the kind—they were smuggled in from Europe when our boys came home.

The following afternoon, Jeannette, book in hand, sought the shelter of her vine-clad bower. On the bench was a note which she read. She had just finished it, when the Captain stood at the entrance.

“Come in, Captain, it is time for a reading lesson.”

He sat down beside her, took the book and read—almost a page.

“If you do not care for the book read this.” She handed him a card, marked in the upper left-hand corner, “Lesson No. 1,” and he read:

“Chi si marita alla svelta si pente Adagio.”

“Translate; I do not read Italian, or is it Spanish?”

“Teacher, I do not want to.”

“If you do not I will send you home.”

“Well, here goes: ‘Marry in haste and repent at leisure’.”

“Just such sentiment as I expected. May I ask if you are speaking from European experience?”

“No, merely quoting an absurd axiom.”

She handed him another card, marked “Lesson No. 2.”

“Read.”

“Ah vie! Ah vie! Jai trouve la place on tu demeures.”

“Translate.”

“O Life! O Life! I have found the place where thou dwellest.”

“You may give a more specific interpretation of your meaning at the close of your lesson. Read this,” giving him a card marked: “Lesson No. 3.”

“Jeannette, Mein Liebchen: Willst Du mich Heiraten?”

“Translate.”

“Sure, sure. ‘Jeannette, My Love: Will you marry me?’”

“Now you may read the poem I found in here. It seems to be in your handwriting.”

A Voice Jeannette Should Hear.

I.

Jeannette, by man though rarely seen;

Is a friend of Running Water,

To the Mountain, fairest daughter,

To the forest, stateliest queen.

She hears mystic voices whisper

As a spirit to his sister.

Songs you and I have never known.

The trees speak of coming showers,

Earth creatures of twilight hours;

The owl tells secrets of the night,

The robin sings of dawn’s delight,

The lark of harvest and ripe moon;

But when love whispers I’ll call soon,

She’s thinking of the distant moon.

II.

Jeannette, think you your paradise

Will always remain quite this nice,

Unless real love shall come as guest?

Fair one, think you the summer sun

Will last until your life is done

And spirit love not flit away;

Nor sun sink low in golden west,

Nor night come round at end of day?

Do you not fear those long, black nights,

Which come with winter’s storm and rain,

And put an end to life’s delights,

Giving voice to trouble and pain?

Then whisper to love the password,

And he will enter, having heard.

III.

Sentiment may own yesterday,

But love today has right of way;

Hope builds castles for tomorrow,

Of warm sunbeams, not of sorrow;

Memories drape life with sadness;

Love walks hand in hand with gladness.

To the past we dedicate tears,

Love owns today and coming years;

Take his warm hand and walk with me;

Let life be what the future be,

I wish it spent, Jeannette, with thee;

And when old age delves in the past,

May love say, “I have held full sway,

For memories fair crown each day.”

Then, for more than an hour, an angel without the bower, kept strangers away and enjoined silence. He did not stand with flaming sword, but with finger on his lips.

They walked down to the old field below the Rock House. Near its center was an old dead tree; and on the tip of the topmost snag a lark sang.

“Listen, do you hear what he says.”

“No, he’s whistling like any other meadow lark.”

“Translate.”

“I do not know the language.”

“I do; ‘Love, thou art safe! art safe! I watch for thee! for thee!’”

They led the old mule to the barn, and gave him ten ears of corn and two bundles of oats. Sandy got up at daylight the next morning and repeated the dose; the old mule knew something was up. Then Sandy came to the house and put on some clothes that had been sent up from Red Bird. Jeannette came to breakfast a little late; she had on a short-skirted riding habit. Simeon and his wife tried not to show their surprise. She kept still; he exercised less restraint or exhibited more curiosity than his wife—they say men have more. “What’s up, Sandy? Why have you put on your Sunday clothes, this is Saturday?”

And Sandy answered: “Jeannette and I are going to Hyden to be married.”

“Well, I’ll be d——d! How’re you going?”

“She’ll ride the old mule; I’ll walk and lead the beast.”

“Why it’s fifteen miles; it’ll take all day.”

“That’s all right.”

“You better take my horse.”

“No, Jeannette wants to ride the old mule and wants me to lead him. She’s boss until tomorrow.”

“Well, I’ll be d——d!”

It was nearly midnight when they came home again. After feeding the old mule, they sat down on the door-step.

“My Captain, will you get your violin and play some real music?”

“Jeannette, how did that old mule ever manage to travel to Hyden and back with such a load of sweetness?”

“By dint of placing one foot before the other, Sandy. We were only sixteen hours on the road; we made nearly two miles an hour. I do not think I would care to hear ‘The Arkansaw Traveler’ after that journey; but suppose you end the day, it must be merging into the morrow, by playing ‘Turkey in the Straw.’”

The old familiar tune awoke Simeon and he awoke his wife. “Listen, Mandy! those crazy things are back. Hear Sandy, he’s playing ‘Turkey in the Straw;’ that boy will never settle down.” He called out: “Go to bed and give other people a chance to sleep; or else keep still and start breakfast.”

In a little while the house was very still. There was no sound except the chirping of the cricket of the hearth. You who dwell in cities and know nothing of firesides, may not appreciate his simple song.

The Cricket’s Song.

I.

Chorister of the hearth,

When stillness reigns, I sing

To God, Eternal King,

Praises for the fireside.

II.

Thy simple souls dwell here,

Content throughout the year.

Love garlands every day;

Peace keeps harsh words away.

III.

Grant the door open wide

For young and happy bride,

With husband by her side;

May their sweet dream come true.

IV.

When morning star doth rise

Joy comes; the baby cries;

New mother with glad eyes,

Beholds hers and Thine own.

V.

Make this a place of rest;

The place that God loves best;

The place where love abides;

God bless our happy home.