Jane Journeys On

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And the Deacon! I didn't know it gave his like, in these lax days. He
has a beautifully chiseled old face with an eagle beak and ice-blue
eyes, and he looks as if his favorite winter sport were Turning
Erring Daughters Out into the Snow.

Dan'l is the only child at home now and they both adore him,--the
mother with timid tenderness and the old man with fierce repression.
Even the pup takes on character from the family. I call it
Sweet-Alice-Ben-Bolt, because it very nearly weeps with delight when
you give it a smile and trembles with fear at your frown. The Deacon
is of that large and austere order of persons who "like dogs, in
their place"; S.A.B.B. wears his stumpy, little tail at half mast
whenever the head of the house is near.

There is some mystery about Dan'l's watching for a letter. His mother
yearns over him and says,--"But, maybe to-morrow, Dannie!" but his
father sneers, and then the child seems to shrivel before my eyes.

I wish I could slip some silver-gray fog in this letter, to rub on
your burning brow!

J. V.

_Some Day in October._

My days slip by like pearl-gray beads on a rosary, Michael Daragh. I
honestly haven't an idea of the date. But I know Dan'l's story. We
were sitting on the toppled-over tombstone of a sturdy old patriarch
who had buried four wives, just after the postman went by one day,
and the child said, defensively, as if in answer to my thought----

"But I did get a letter, once!"

I kept mouse-still, and he told me. Last summer there came to Three
Meadows a lazy, charming, gypsy sort of fellow from nowhere, stony
broke, to whom the Deacon gave work for his board. Out of Danny's
clipped phrases I could build up the rogue's personality,--the gay,
lavish, careless, happy-go-lucky-ness which warmed the cockles of the
little lad's hungry heart.

He was here four months, and then a pal wrote him he could get him a
job as handy man with a small circus then in Vermont. But Dan'l's
beloved vagabond hadn't a sou, and before he could tramp there, the
show would be far on its southern way. Naturally, the Deacon refused
a loan--I can just see the way his mouth would snap shut like a trap,
but Dan'l, what with egg money and his tiny garden, and errand money
from summer boarders, had gathered together twenty slow dollars, and
he came lavishly forward. The rover blithely promised to pay him back
in two monthly payments. He's never sent a penny. He wrote once;
Danny showed me the letter, worn with many rapt readings,--a silly,
flowing hand which looks as if it had been done up in curl papers
over night--and explained that he'd been sick, and had to buy
clothes, but next month, _sure_! And Dan'l was a sport and true
blue and a little old pal, and he'd never forget him.

Dan'l's "bein' so puny" saved him the whole brunt of his father's
rage, but this sneering scorn has been harder to bear,--and the
amazing part of it is that the boy doesn't really care about the
money,--lean little Islander though he is. That is merely the symbol
of his friend's good faith. "Ef only he'd jest write 'n tell me
things," he sighed, "th' money c'd wait. He needs it worse'n I do."

Meanwhile, with eternal-springing hope in his little flat chest he
trots down to the graveyard corner every day, and every day Uncle
Robert says, with a cheery chirp in italics, "Wall, not
_to-day_, Dan'l!"

The child is getting thinner and paler, now the sharp weather is
coming. His father wrote a laborious letter by the lamp, one evening,
and a week later a good gruff old doctor came over from the mainland
and chaffed Danny about his pup and told him to play in the sun and
drink plenty of milk and not to fret about school this year. I
waylaid him privately and asked if there was anything I could get or
do--a tonic, a change. He patted my shoulder and said, "Land
t'goodness, no! That youngun's been a-dying ever since I borned him,
fourteen years ago. He warn't meant for old bones."

Oh, Michael Daragh, I can't stand it--poor little Daniel in a Lion's
Den of broken faith, and scorn, and creeping death! What can I
_do_?

J. V.

CHAPTER X

But it was well into October before the Irishman got the letter which he
had been waiting for--the one which sent the color mounting gladly in his
lean cheeks. It was not long, but it fairly sang with jubilance and the
feel of it in his hand was warm.

_On a Gold and Scarlet Afternoon._

Michael Daragh, I'm at work! Steadily, sanely, surely, at work again!

Long ago, before I began to run after strange gods, I got a story
back from the _New England Monthly_--that Dean of Magazines in
her sober brown frock with no jewels or adornments at all,--with a
quite wonderful personal note. If I had followed it up, I do believe
I'd have landed on that stern and rock-bound coast, but I went over
to the flesh pots instead. Now I have made a stern and rock-bound
compact with myself. I'm not coming back to New York, and you are not
to write me a line, until I've written a tale that brown-gowned
magazine will take. "Where there is no vision, the people perish,"
the Deacon thundered, at a meeting. I was very near to perishing,
when you scolded me awake, Michael Daragh, M.D., Miracle Do-er, God
save you kindly!

That vaudeville work--and I shall do more of it, some day--was like a
fast and furious game of tennis under a scorching sun; now I'm
delving in a dim, cool library.

I'm going to be as patient as a locust bridge-builder. I know that
flocks of long envelopes are coming back, bringing their tales behind
them, but one day I shall hear a jubilant note in the _klip-klup_
of Lizzie's hoofs and Uncle Robert will hand me an envelope of
bewitching smallness, with a tiny typed letter inside.... "It is
with very great pleasure...."

Until _that_ day break, and the shadows flee away----

J. V.

It was Michael Daragh's custom to read these letters three times,
carefully, and then to tear them in pieces which would be annoyingly and
impossibly small to the chambermaid, and to throw them into his
waste-paper basket, but this time, after his third perusal, instead of
destroying it he put it away in his worn leather wallet. "I'll be keeping
it, just, till the next one comes," he told himself, silently, "so I can
be comparing the way she's coming on--God love her."

But the next letter to come and several following held no mention of her
task. It was as if she had opened the heart of her mind further than she
meant to do, and was shyly standing in front of it, now, talking of
things remote and removed.

_Friday Morning._

I've found a way to make Dan'l happy, M.D. I was reading to him last
night, and suddenly he said in his shy, repressed way, "Was you ever
to a circus?" I started to say that they bored me to the bone, even
in infancy, but I happened to glance up and see his eyes. He's been
following his beloved vagabond about in his heart, you see. So I
tried to create a circus for him--the round rag rug was the sawdust
ring, the steaming kettle was the calliope, wheezing a strident song
about a wooden leg, and out of thin air came the haughty ringmaster
and the clown and the pink acrobats, and I remembered thankfully that
I'd memorized Vachel Lindsey's "Kallyope" long ago----

"Tooting joy, tooting hope,
I am the Kallyope!
Hoot, toot, hoot, toot,
Willy, willy wah hoo,
Sizz--fizz----"

Dan'l held his breath, his eyes starry, and his mother stopped her
work, and I could see that the old man was listening slyly. Do you
know it, Michael? It's pure witchcraft of words.

"See the flags; snow-white tent;
See the bear and elephant;
See the monkey jump the rope;
Listen to the lion roar,
LISTEN TO THE LION ROAR!
Listen to the Kallyope, Kallyope, Kallyope!"

(He must have been thinking of the Deacon's sort:)

"I will blow the proud folk low,
Humanize the dour and slow,
I will shake the proud folk down----"

Dan'l went to sleep pink and happy. So did I!

J. V.

_Wednesday._

I haven't told you about the "Low-down Wilkes," have I? They're the
pleasantest people in Three Meadows and we're very clubby. The nice
old maid on the wharf at Bath told me about them and advised me to
have the woman do my washing, but warned me that I should have to
come unto her delicately, like Agag. Being the poorest and most
destitute family on the Island they are correspondingly proud and
"techy."

Shiftlessness is a fine art with them, they've carried it so far.
Last winter they lived in a very good two-story house, and as it was
a very bitter season and Mr. L.D.W. was "kinder run down, someway,"
he very ingeniously burnt it for fuel while they were living in
it,--first the partitions in the second story, then the floor, then
the stairs, then the downstairs walls and doors. Wasn't that clever
of him? Now it's just a charred shell, and--grace of a more opulent
relative--they are camping in an unused barn. They fish a little, and
pick blueberries, and wonder, vaguely, "jest how they'll make out,
come wintuh."

I wish you might have seen her when, after a long social call, I
subtly introduced the subject of laundry and dilated on my helpless
predicament. She weighed and considered and consulted with her
spouse, and said at last, "Wall, I don't keer if I do--but I wunt
fetch'n kerry fer nobuddy!" Since when I have myself fetched and
carried my garments, and they are rapidly taking on the tinge of
prevailing Island grayness. The L.D.W.'s are gentle and gay, and they
love Dan'l and "Angerleek" even if she is "a furriner," and they sigh
that the Deacon is "a good man, but ha'ad." His severity has driven
all the older children away from home, two of them girls. (Wasn't I
right about the Erring Daughters and the Snow?)

I asked Mrs. L.D.W. if I might bestow upon her a tailored suit which
has almost worn me out. She hesitated, shifted the 1920 model in
Low-Down Wilkes to the other hip (babies are their only lavish
luxury!) and allowed she didn't mind, if I was a mind to fetch it
down to the graveyard corner some night after dusk. Every human being
in Three Meadows has seen me wear it and could describe it to the
last stitch and button, and every one will know where she got it.
Nevertheless, in a world of foot-lickers, isn't pride like that
delicious?

I did for myself when I started that indoor circus effect; sentenced
to be Scheherazade! Lady chariot drivers and spotted clowns and
strange beasts swarm through the prim, gray farmhouse. Dan'l has
stayed in bed for two days, and Uncle Robert's chirp is growing
husky.

Between circus performances I'm working like a riverful of beavers.
The best story I've ever written is almost ready to launch.

J. V.

_Tuesday._

DEAR MICHAEL DARAGH, I can't _bear_ it about Dan'l! I don't mean
about his going,--the old doctor is right about that, but oh, that
wretched rover! Dan'l makes loyal excuses for him--he must be sick
again or out of work or too busy; the flame of his faith never burns
dim.

This morning I went to the Deacon. "Look here," I said, "that fellow
will never pay up and Dan'l is breaking his heart." He nodded.
"Well," I went on, "I mean to make up a letter and put in twenty
dollars and send it to a friend of mine in New York to mail back to
Dan'l."

His eagle eye grew bleak. "Falsehood and forgery!" he thundered. "I'm
a plain man, sinful, Adam's seed as we all are, but I never yet
soiled my lips with a lie."

"Oh, you needn't bother about it at all," I assured him. "I'll do the
whole thing. You see, my lips aren't so immaculate, or so fussy!"

"I wunt act a lie, neither," he said.

I could feel myself generating temper, and it was a relief for it
deadened my grief over Dan'l to be fine and mad at his father. I
looked him straight in his ice-blue eye. "Just what do you mean by
that, Mr. Gillespie?"

"I wunt have the boy deceived. Ain't no peace comin' from a lie!
Land t' goodness," he regarded me mournfully, "don't we have to
strive night an' day, 'thout takin' any extry sins on our souls?"

"Why, no, Deacon Gillespie," I told him sweetly, "I don't have a bit
of trouble being good. It just seems to come naturally to me!"

I know he yearned to box my ears. Instead, he roared, "We are as
prone to evil as the sparks to fly upward!"

"_You_ may be," I said. "I shouldn't wonder at all if you are. But
as for me, I'm not a miserable sinner and I never was. I shouldn't
know an evil impulse if I met it in my mush bowl!" Then I left him,
purple with scandalized rage, and found Angelique and told her my
pretty plan. Oh, Michael, if you could have seen the poor thing! Her
knees fairly gave way under her and she sank into a chair and put
her apron over her head. I said, "I thought if you were willing,
perhaps the Deacon--" but she cried out, "No, no! One time the
oldes' boy, Lem," she still has a bit of the soft _habitant_ accent,
"he do something bad, an' I tell a lie, so hees father shall not
beat heem. By and by, he fin' out ..." she shut her eyes and
shivered. "Heem he beat twice as hard ... me, he nevair believe
again, all these years...."

Michael Daragh, I hate the Deacon. I know you consider hate the
lowest form of human activity, but I hate the Deacon with a husky,
hearty, healthy hate and it has a tonic effect which I'm sure must be
good for me. I feed my fancy on boiling him in oil.

Gibbering with perfectly proper rage,

J. V.

The next note which came to the Irishman was only a line in length and a
coolly typed line, but even so the letters seemed fairly to sing and to
dance----

The story is done. It is good, Michael Daragh.

The letter which followed it went back to the human concerns about her.

_Friday._

I'm sitting on the gravestone of the four-time widower, M.D., my
sweater turned up about my ears, my fingers navy blue, my nose
magenta. The world is bleak and bare, indoors and out. Dan'l grows
hourly weaker, but he brightens at mail time, and grins his gallant
little grin at disappointment. "But he _will_," he stoutly whispers.

Gentle old Uncle Robert grows fierce. "Ef I had that varmint here, I
vum I c'd wring his neck!"

I'm sorry to report that I am not getting on very well with hating
the Deacon. (Of course, you've kept the intervening air quivering
with your admonitory wirelesses!) He is suffering so hideously, and
so determinedly, like a fakir. He feels he must speed the parting
soul with the Scriptures and he reads terrifying things about weird
beasts,--lion-mouthed leopards with feet like bears--and when he goes
downstairs I try--very clumsily, M.D.--to tell Dan'l about the God
you know, the one who goes with you into dark alleys and dark hearts.
I wish you were here to do it.

Dan'l's faith is indeed the substance of things hoped for and the
evidence of things not seen, but I want to put a warm, tangible lie
into his thin little claws before he goes.... Uncle Robert has "been
an' went" since I began this letter, and again I must go up to Dan'l
and tell him "Not _to-day_."

I'm a coward, M.D. I've never seen death so close before, and I want
to run away. But I won't.

J. V.

P.S. I called on the Low Down Wilkes this morning. Mrs. L.D.W. was
wearing my suit over a wrapper of faded red calico, but there was
nothing in her manner to indicate that I had ever seen it before.

_Saturday._

Here is my story, Michael Daragh, and it is your story, too, for you
shamed me into doing it. I am sending it off to the brown-gowned
monthly on the stern and rock-bound coast, and this carbon to you.
Now will you write and tell me if you like it? _Honestly!_ (I know I
said I didn't want you to write me until I had landed a story there,
but all this grief and grimness brings a sense of bleak loneliness,
and _if_ you think I've won back what I've lost, if you think I've
found the vision which will keep my soul from perishing, tell me
so.)

J. V.

_Sunday Night._

I've been making circus all day, M.D.----

"Tooting joy, tooting hope,
Willy wully wah hoo ...
I am the golden dream,
Singing science, singing steam--
Listen to the lion roar--"

I've roared myself hoarse but I got him to sleep at last. I have
figured it out and I see that I can't hear from either you or the
Monthly before Wednesday at the earliest, and I won't let myself
really look for anything before Friday.

J. V.

Again there came a single line----

_Monday Night._

It's too heart-breaking to write about, M.D., even to you.

_Tuesday Morning._

I've had to stop hating the poor old Deacon altogether; this morning
he carried S.A.B.B. upstairs with his own hands and put him on the
bed beside the boy.

J. V.

_Tuesday Night._

It's very late, Michael Daragh, but there are things I must tell you
before I sleep.

I went for a walk this morning, and when I came back I saw Angelique
waving to me from the window. I _knew_, and I ran into the house
and upstairs. The Deacon was praying aloud, a terrible, cast-iron
prayer, and Angelique was sobbing and S.A.B.B. was whining and
shivering. I knelt down beside Dan'l and he opened his eyes. I could
just make out the whisper--"My ... letter?"

I jumped up and ran over to his father and took him by the elbow and
marched him into my room and shut the door and stood with my back
against it. My teeth were chattering so I could hardly speak. "He's
dying," I said. "_Now_ will you let me?"

He was shaking, too, but he quavered, "I wunt bear false witness! I
wunt take a lie on my soul!"

Then something boiled up and over in my heart, Michael Daragh. I
caught hold of him and shook him and I was so strong I scared myself.
"You pitiful, craven-hearted old coward," I said, "all you can think
of is your sour old self! If you loved him--if you knew the first
faint beginning of love--" I snatched up the letter I had addressed
to Dan'l and ran over to the dresser for my purse. "You stay in here
with the truth and keep your musty little soul safe! I'm going in
there and tell him a beautiful lie!"

But he fumbled some bills from his lean old wallet. "Wait! Here's
twenty dollars! I'm a-comin', too!"

We went in together, and he bent over the bed and held the bills
close to the boy's eyes. "Look a-here, Dan'l! Look a-here, boy!
Here's your money! Here's your _money_, Dan'l!" (Wasn't it pitiful,
Michael? Even then, he still thought the money meant most.)

Dan'l opened his eyes and I said, "You were right all along, Danny!
You were right to trust and believe in him! He _was_ grateful!"--and
I held the envelope where he could see it,--the one I had addressed
in a silly, flowing screed.

His pinched little face lighted up from within--cheerily, exquisitely,
and his chin went up the tiniest fraction in glad pride. "_I_ ...
knew ..." He just barely breathed it, Michael, and then he sort of
relaxed all over and gave a long, comfortable sigh, like a tired
puppy, and--and went to sleep.

His mother screamed and fell down beside the bed, and the Deacon
said, "Loose him an' let him go, Angerleek!"--but he lifted her up
and kept his arms around her.

I went away and left them there with Dan'l and S.A.B.B. I had
forgotten all about mail time, but I found myself presently at the
graveyard corner. It was one of those gentle, warmed-over summer
days and the air was mild and filled with little whispers. I was
so happy, Michael Daragh, that in my heart I heard the "harpers
harping with their harps," but by and by I was aware of a nearer,
more intimate sound--not "_klip-klup_" as on other days, but
_klipety-klipety-KLIPETY_--a panic of frantic speed.

Down the road they came, Old Lizzie's hoofs scattering dust and
pebbles, Uncle Robert leaning far forward, laying on the lash. When
he saw me he cried out:--"Oh, it ain't too late? Oh, my dear Lord'n
Saviour, it _ain't_ too late?"

Then he handed me a plump registered letter, addressed in a foolish,
flowing screed which looked as if it had been done up in curl papers
over night, and I began to cry for the first time.

"No," I said, "oh, no, it's not too late!" And I ran up to Dan'l's
still little room and gave it to the Deacon and he took it with a
great wonder in his ice-blue eyes and slipped it under the cold
little claw, beside our merciful lie.

Then I went into my own room, and I noticed for the first time that
Uncle Robert had given me two other letters and I stopped crying and
stared at them.

One was a very small envelope and the name printed in the corner was
that of the brown-gowned magazine on the stern and rock-bound. The
other was yours.

J. V.

P.S. Guess which one I opened first, Michael Daragh, Do-er of
Miracles?

CHAPTER XI

Jane stayed on at Three Meadows until after the bleak and austere little
funeral, and long enough to help Angelique soften the harshly new grave
with flowers and sturdily started plants, and stopped over at Bath and
ordered a quaintly simple headstone which would be the Gillespie's pride
and solace.

She was very happy on her return journey to New York,--in vastly
different mood than the one of nine weeks before. Michael Daragh had
written her a brief and beautiful letter, a letter she would always keep,
as soon as he had read her story, and the thought of it warmed her like
a summer sun, but as she went down the twisting silver river she had
a vexed feeling that her postscript had been a bit of foolishness.
"_Guess which one I opened first, Michael Daragh, Do-er of Miracles?_"
Their relationship had shifted in these long weeks; ever since the
evening on Riverside Drive when he had sternly recalled her to herself,
they had gone by leaps and bounds, by hedge and byway, into a deeper and
more intimate friendship, and yet, she told herself, that added line at
the end of her letter to him was a High School girlish thing to have
done; it presupposed something between them which wasn't there at all.
She had flung it in without weighing it; she had honestly meant at the
moment, that his approval of her new and serious story was more precious
to her even than the editor's, but ... would Michael Daragh understand
it that way?

She did not write him the exact time of her arrival, and it was the
merest chance that she found him starting up the steps as her taxicab
drew up at Mrs. Hills' door. They went up together and at his first
hearty look and word she was able to laugh at herself for having worried
an instant.

"It's rare and fine to have you back, Jane Vail," he said, glowing with
gladness. "And you were good indeed to be sending me the long story
letters all the while. 'Twas like a journey itself, the way I'd be
following you up and down on that Island with all the queer folk and sad,
and waiting at the graveyard corner for the mail!"

Jane glowed in return. "It's good to be back, Michael Daragh." (The nice,
sane, sensible, dependable creature that he was! What a solid comfort it
was to have him! This was exactly the way she wanted him to act and to
feel and to be, and she wasn't--she was at some pains to assure
herself--in the very least feeling vaguely disappointed or let down by
his attitude.) "But it was the best time I ever had,--best in the sense
of being the best for me." Generously and sweetly she gave him his due.
"I'm still thanking you, you know, M.D.!"

He nodded gravely. "You've found your way back to the highroad in that
tale you were sending me. I'm doubting you'll ever lose it again all the
long days of your life."

"I won't" said Jane, stoutly. (Good to be back with him, good to hear his
purling brogue and his lyrical construction. He talked like an old song.)
The door of the boarding-house opened at their ring and Jane hurried in.
"Here's Mrs. Hills! Hello, Mrs. Hills! Here I am!" She embraced the
ex-villager warmly and espied Emma Ellis in the shadows of the hall, over
her shoulder. "And Miss Ellis! How-do-you-do?"

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