It was the same thing over at the new schoolhouse. Mr. Todd and the men
worked miracles with their stone and mortar and wood and iron when he
was standing by or lending a hand. The school was built partly of stone
like the chapel and partly of old purple-pink brick like Mother
Spurlock's Little House, and it was beamed with heavy timbers. It was
roofed with heavy colonial clapboards which made it look as if it had
already stood a century before the floors were laid or the very modern
desks installed. It was built to house increasing generations, though
only about fifty children would open its portals of education.
"It speaks of education de luxe, doesn't it?" Billy asked as Nell and
Harriet and I stood with him and Nickols and the parson watching Mr.
Todd directing the men in screwing down the desks just a few days before
the opening.
"There is scarcely a village in England to compare with old Goodloets
now, and nothing at all like it," said Nickols, as he looked first up
the hill to the Town and down the hill to the Settlement. "I know that
it is the first spot in America to express what the full grown nation is
going to be. When we add beauty to the materially perfected mode of
existence we are enjoying, life will be too short in the living. That
schoolhouse ought to produce some results in art cultures in the infant
mind of Goodloets."
"Yes, America is learning that the foundation of its national existence,
trait upon trait, must be laid in the lives of the children," said Mr.
Goodloe, slowly, and he smiled as across from the Little House came wee
Susan's exquisite treble in a waltz song which was backed up by Mother
Spurlock's bumble and Charlotte's none too accurate accompaniment. And
we all smiled with him.
Always it seemed to me I was with him and a part of a number of people
who felt the radiance of his loveliness, and not once had I for a second
come into personal touch with him. I had, like the rest, got my smiles
and friendliness from the dark eyes under dull gold, but the door to the
land in which I had been with Tristan when he sang his death song had
vanished and there were no traces of its portals. The only sign that was
between him and me was his continued evasion of setting a date for the
dedication of the chapel. He always answered inquiries by saying that
the opening of the school must come first and when the dedication was
mentioned he never looked in my direction. My soul seemed to be standing
still and listening for something that never came.
And then Mr. Jeffries arrived on the scene of action.