Darrel of the Blessed Isles by Irving Bacheller

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The arrest of Sidney Trove, also, had filled the town with exciting
rumours, and gossip of him seemed to travel on the four winds--much
of it as unkind as it was unfounded.

Then came surveyors, and promoters of the railroad, and a plan of
aiding it by bonding the towns it traversed. In the beginning
horror and distrust were in many bosoms. If the devil and some of
his angels had come, he might, indeed, for a time, have made more
converts and less excitement.

"It's a delusion an' a snare," said old Colonel Barclay in a
speech. "Who wants t' whiz through the air like a bullet? God
never intended men to go slidin' over the earth that way. It ain't
nat'ral ner it ain't common sense. Some say it would bring more
folks into this country. I say we can supply all the folks that's
nec'sary. I've got fourteen in my own family. S'pose ye lived on
a tremendous sidehill that reached clear to New York City, so ye
could git on a sled an' scoot off like a streak o' lightnin'. Do
ye think ye'd be any happier? Do ye think ye'd chop any more wood
er raise a bigger crop o' potatoes? S'pose ye could scoot yer
crops right down t' Albany in a day. That would be all right if
'ye was the only man that was scootin', but if there was anything
t' be made by it, there'd be more than a million sleds on the way,
an' ye couldn't sell yer stuff for so much as ye git here. Some
day ye'd come home and ask where's Ma an' Mary, and then Sam would
say, 'Why, Mary's slid down t' New York, and the last I see o' Ma
she was scootin' for Rochester.'"

Here, the record says, Colonel Barclay was interrupted by laughter
and a voice.

"Wal, if there was a railroad, they could scoot back ag'in," said
the voice.

"Yes," the Colonel rejoined, "but mebbe after they'd been there a
while ye'd wish they couldn't. Wal, you git your own supper, an'
then Sam says, says he, 'I guess I'll scoot over t' Watertown and
see my gal fer a few minutes.' An' ye sit by the fire a while,
rockin' the twins, an' by and by yer wife comes back. An' ye say,
'Ma, why don't ye stay t' home?' 'Wal,' says she, 'it is so
splendid, and there's so much goin' on.' An' Mary, she begins t'
talk as if she'd bit her tongue, an' step stylish, an' hold up her
dress like that, jest as though she was steppin' over a hot
griddle. Purty soon it's dizzle-dazzle an' flippity-floppity an'
splendiferous and sewperb, an' the first thing ye know ye ain't
knee-high to a grasshopper. Sam he comes back an' tells Ed all
about the latest devilment. You hear of it; then, mebbe, ye begin
to limber up an' think ye'll try it yerself. An' some morning
ye'll wake up an' find yer moral character has scooted. You
fellers that go t' meetin' here an' talk about resistin'
temptation--if you ever git t' goin' it down there in New York
City, temptation 'll have to resist you. My friends, ye don't want
to make it too easy fer everybody to go somewhere else. If ye do,
by an' by there won't be nobody left here but them that's too old
t' scoot er a few sickly young folks who don't care fer the sinful
attractions o' this world."

Who shall say that old Colonel Barclay had not the tongue of a
prophet?

"An' how about the cost?" he added in conclusion, "Fellow-citizens,
ye'll have to pay five cents a mile fer yer scootin', an' a tax,--a
tax, fellow-citizens, to help pay the cost o' the railroad. If
there's anybody here that don't feel as if he'd been taxed enough,
he ought t' be taxed fer his folly."

The dread of "scooting" grew for a time, but wise men were able to
overcome it.

In 1850, the iron way had come through the wilderness and begun to
rend the northern hills. Some were filled with awe, learning for
the first time that in the moving of mountains giant-powder was
more efficient than faith. Soon it had passed Hillsborough and was
finished. Everybody came to see the cars that day of the first
train. The track was lined with people at every village; many with
children upon arms and shoulders. They waited long, and when the
iron horse came roaring out of the distance, women fell back and
men rolled their quids and looked eagerly up the track. It came on
with screaming whistle and noisy brakes and roaring wheels.
Children began to cry with fear and men to yell with excitement.
Dogs were barking wildly, and two horses ran away, dragging with
them part of a picket-fence. A brown shoat came bounding over the
ties and broke through the wall of people, carrying many off their
feet and creating panic and profanity. The train stopped, its
engine hissing. A brakeman of flashy attire, with fine leather
showing to the knees, strolled off and up the platform on high
heels, haughty as a prince. Confusion began to abate.

"Hear it pant," said one, looking at the engine.

"Seems so it had the heaves," another remarked thoughtfully.

"Goes like the wind," said a passenger, who had just alighted.
"Jerked us ten mile in less 'n twenty minutes."

"Folks 'll have to be made o' cast iron to ride on them air cars,"
said another. "I'd ruther set on the tail of a threshin'-machine.
It gave a slew on the turn up yender, an' I thought 'twas goin'
right over Bowman's barn. It flung me up ag'in the side o' the
car, an' I see stars fer a minute. 'What's happened,' says I to
another chap. 'Oh, we're all right,' says he. 'Be we?' says I,
an' then I see I'd lost a tooth an' broke my glasses. 'That ain't
nuthin',' says he, 'I had my foot braced over ag'in that other
seat, an' somebody fell back on my leg, an' I guess the knee is out
o' j'int. But I'm alive, an' I ain't got no fault to find. If I
ever git off this shebang, I'm goin' out in the woods somewhere an'
set down an' see what kind o' shape I'm in. I guess I'm purty nigh
sp'ilt, an' it cost me fifty cents t' do it.'

"'An' all yer common sense, tew,' says I."

A number got aboard, and the train started. Rip Enslow was on the
rear platform, his faithful hound galloping gayly behind the train.
Some one had tied him to the brake rod. Nearly a score of dogs
followed, barking merrily. Rip's hound came back soon, his tongue
low, his tail between his legs. A number called to him, but he
seemed to know his own mind perfectly, and made for the stream and
lay down in the middle of it, lapping the shallow water, and stayed
there for the rest of the afternoon.

A crowd of hunters watched him.

"Looks so he'd been ketched by a bear," said one.

In half an hour Rip returned also, a shoulder out of joint, a lump
on his forehead, a big rent in his trousers. He was one, of those
men of whom others gather wisdom, for, after that, everybody in the
land of the hills knew better than to jump off the cars or tie his
hound to the rear platform.

And dogs came to know, after a little while, that the roaring
dragon was really afraid of them and would run like a very coward
if it saw a dog coming across the fields. Every small cur that
lived in sight of it lay in the tall grass, and when he saw the
dragon coming, chased him off the farm of his master.

Among those who got off the train at Hillsborough that day was a
big, handsome youth of some twenty years. In all the crowd there
were none had ever seen him before. Dressed in the height of
fashion, he was a figure so extraordinary that all eyes observed
him as he made his way to the tavern. Trove and Polly and Mrs.
Vaughn were in that curious throng on the platform, where a depot
was being built.

"My! What a splendid-looking fellow," said Polly, as the stranger
passed,

Trove had a swift pang of jealousy that moment. Turning, he saw
Riley Brooke--now known as the "Old Rag Doll"--standing near them
in a group of villagers.

"I tell you, he's a thief," the boy heard him saying, and the words
seemed to blister as they fell; and ever after, when he thought of
them, a great sternness lay like a shadow on his brow.

"I must go," said he, calmly turning to Polly. "Let me help you
into the wagon."

When they were gone, he stood a moment thinking. He felt as if he
were friendless and alone.

"You're a giant to day," said a friend, passing him; but Trove made
no answer. Roused incomprehensibly, his heavy muscles had become
tense, and he had an odd consciousness of their power. The people
were scattering, and he walked slowly down the street. The sun was
low, but he thought not of home or where he should spend the night.
It was now the third day after his arrest. Since noon he had been
looking for Darrel, but the tinker's door had been locked for days,
according to the carpenter who was at work below. For an hour
Trove walked, passing up and down before that familiar stairway, in
the hope of seeing his friend. Daylight was dim when the tinker
stopped by the stairs and began to feel for his key. The young man
was quickly at the side of Darrel.

"God be praised!" said the latter; "here is the old Dial an' the
strong an' noble Trove. I heard o' thy trouble, boy, far off on
the postroad, an' I have made haste to come to thee."

XXVII

The Rare and Costly Cup

Trove had been reciting the history of his trouble and had finished
with bitter words.

"Shame on thee, boy," said the tinker, as Trove sat before him with
tears of anger in his eyes. "Watch yonder pendulum and say not a
word until it has ticked forty times. For what are thy learning
an' thy mighty thews if they do not bear thee up in time o'
trouble? Now is thy trial come before the Judge of all. Up with
thy head, boy, an' be acquitted o' weakness an' fear an' evil
passion."

"We deserve better of him," said Trove, speaking of Riley Brooke.
"When all others hated him, we were kind to the old sinner, and it
has done him no good."

"Ah, but has it done thee good? There's the question," said
Darrel, his hand upon the boy's arm.

"I believe it has," said Trove, with a look of surprise.

"It was thee I thought of, boy; I had never much thought o' him."

That moment Trove saw farther into the depth of Darrel's heart than
ever before. It startled him. Surely, here was a man that passed
all understanding.

Darrel crossed to his bench and began to wind the clocks.

"Ho, Clocks!" said he, thoughtfully. "Know ye the cars have come?
Now must we look well to the long hand o' the clock. The old,
slow-footed hour is dead, an' now, boy, the minute is our king."

He came shortly and sat beside the young man.

"Put away thy unhappiness," said he, gently, patting the boy's
hand. "No harm shall come to thee--'tis only a passing cloud."

"You're right, and I'm not going to be a fool," said Trove. "It
has all brought me one item of good fortune."

"An' that is?"

"I have discovered who is my father."

"An' know ye where he is now?" the tinker inquired.

"No; but I know it is he to whom you gave the boots at Christmas
time."

"Hush, boy," said Darrel, in a whisper, his hand raised.

He crossed to the bench, returning quickly and drawing his chair in
front of the young man.

"Once upon a time," he whispered, sitting down and touching the
palm of his open hand with the index finger of the other, "a youth
held in his hand a cup, rare an' costly, an' it was full o'
happiness, an' he was tempted to drink. 'Ho, there, me youth,'
said one who saw him, 'that is the happiness of another.' But he
tasted the cup, an' it was bitter, an' he let it fall, an' the
other lost his great possession. Now that bitter taste was ever on
the tongue o' the youth, so that his own cup had always the flavour
o' woe."

The tinker paused a moment, looking sternly into the face of the
young man.

"I adjure thee, boy, touch not the cup of another's happiness, or
it may imbitter thy tongue. But if thou be foolish an' take it up,
mind ye do not drop it."

"I shall be careful--I shall neither taste nor drop it," said Trove.

"God bless thee, boy! thou'rt come to a great law--who drains the
cup of another's happiness shall find it bitter, but who drains the
cup of another's bitterness shall find it sweet."

A silence followed, in which Trove sat looking at the old man whose
words were like those of a prophet. "I have no longer any right to
seek my father," he thought. "And, though I meet him face to face,
I must let him go his way."

Suddenly there came a rap at the door, and when Darrel opened it,
they saw only a letter hanging to the latch. It contained these
words, but no signature:--

"There'll be a bonfire and some fun to-night at twelve, in the
middle of Cook's field. Messrs. Trove and Darrel are invited."

"Curious," said Darrel. "It has the look o' mischief."

"Oh, it's only the boys and a bit of skylarking," said Trove.
"Let's go and see what's up--it's near the time."

The streets were dark and silent as they left the shop. They went
up a street beyond the village limits and looked off in Cook's
field but saw no light there. While they stood looking a flame
rose and spread. Soon they could see figures in the light, and,
climbing the fence, they hastened across an open pasture. Coming
near they saw a score of men with masks upon their faces.

"Give him the tar and feathers," said a strange voice.

"Not if he will confess an' seek forgiveness," another answered.

"Down to your knees, man, an' make no outcry, an' see you repeat
the words carefully, as I speak them, or you go home in tar and
feathers."

They could hear the sound of a scuffle, and, shortly, the phrases
of a prayer spoken by one voice and repeated by another.

They were far back in the gloom, but could hear each word of that
which follows: "O God, forgive me--I am a liar and a hypocrite--I
have the tongue of scandal and deceit--I have robbed the poor--I
have defamed the good--and, Lord, I am sick--with the rottenness of
my own heart. And hereafter--I will cheat no more--and speak no
evil of any one--Amen."

"Now, go to your home, Riley Brooke," said the voice, "an'
hereafter mind your tongue, or you shall ride a rail in tar and
feathers."

They could see the crowd scatter, and some passed near them,
running away in the darkness.

"Stoop there an' say not a word," the tinker whispered, crouching
in the grass.

When all were out of hearing, they started for the little shop.

"Hereafter," said Darrel, as they walked along, "God send he be
more careful with the happiness of other men. I do assure thee,
boy, it is bitter, bitter, bitter."

XXVIII

Darrel at Robin's Inn

Trove had much to help him,--youth, a cheerful temperament, a
counsellor of unfailing wisdom. Long after they were gone he
recalled the sadness and worry of those days with satisfaction,
for, thereafter, the shock of trouble was never able to surprise
and overthrow him.

After due examination he had been kept in bail to wait the action
of the grand jury, soon to meet. Now there were none thought him
guilty--save one or two afflicted with the evil tongue. It seemed
to him a dead issue and gave him no worry. One thing, however,
preyed upon his peace,--the knowledge that his father was a thief.
A conviction was ever boring in upon him that he had no right to
love Polly. A base injustice it would be, he thought, to marry her
without telling what he had no right to tell. But he was ever
hoping for some word of his father--news that might set him free.
He had planned to visit Polly, and on a certain day Darrel was to
meet him at Robin's Inn. The young man waited, in some doubt of
his duty, and that day came--one of the late summer--when he and
Darrel went afoot to the Inn, crossing hill and valley, as the crow
flies, stopping here and there at isles of shadow in a hot amber
sea of light. They sat long to hear the droning in the stubble and
let their thought drift slowly as the ship becalmed.

"Some days," said Darrel, "the soul in me is like a toy skiff,
tossing in the ripples of a duck pond an' mayhap stranding on a
reed or lily. An' then," he added, with kindling eye and voice,
"she is a great ship, her sails league long an' high, her masthead
raking the stars, her hull in the infinite sea."

"Well," said Trove, sighing, "I'm still in the ripples of the duck
pond."

"An' see they do not swamp thee," said Darrel, with a smile that
seemed to say, "Poor weakling, your trouble is only as the ripples
of a tiny pool." They went on slowly, over green pastures, halting
at a brook in the woods. There, again, they rested in a cool shade
of pines, Darrel lighting his pipe.

"I envy thee, boy," said the tinker, "entering on thy life-work in
this great land--a country blest o' God. To thee all high things
are possible. Where I was born, let a poor lad have great hope in
him, an' all--ay, all--even those he loved, rose up to cry him
down. Here in this land all cheer an' bid him God-speed. An' here
is to be the great theatre o' the world's action. Many of high
hope in the broad earth shall come, an' here they shall do their
work. An' its spirit shall spread like the rising waters, ay, it
shall flood the world, boy, it shall flood the world."

Trove made no reply, but he thought much and deeply of what the
tinker said. They lay back a while on the needle carpet, thinking.
They could hear the murmur of the brook and a woodpecker drumming
on a dead tree.

"Me head is busy as yon woodpecker's," Darrel went on. "It's the
soul fire in this great, free garden o' God--it's America. Have ye
felt it, boy?"

"Yes; it is in your eyes and on your tongue," said Trove.

"Ah boy! 'tis only God's oxygen. Think o' the poor fools withering
on cracker barrels in Hillsborough an' wearing away 'the lag end o'
their lewdness.' I have no patience with the like o' them, I'd
rather be a butcher's clerk an' carry with me the redolence o' ham."

In Hillsborough, where all spoke of him as an odd man of great
learning, there were none, saving Trove and two or three others,
that knew the tinker well, for he took no part in the roaring
gossip of shop and store.

"Hath it ever occurred to thee," said Darrel, as they walked along,
"that a fool is blind to his folly, a wise man to his wisdom?"

When they were through the edge of the wilderness and came out on
Cedar Hill, and saw, below them, the great, round shadow of Robin's
Inn, they began to hasten their steps. They could see Polly
reading a book under the big tree.

"What ho! the little queen," said Darrel, as they came near, "Now,
put upon her brow 'an odorous chaplet o' sweet summer buds.'"

She came to meet them in a pretty pink dress and slippers and white
stockings.

"Fair lady, I bring thee flowers," said Darrel, handing her a
bouquet. "They are from the great garden o' the fields."

"And I bring a crown," said Trove, as he kissed her and put a
wreath of clover and wild roses on her brow.

"I thought something dreadful had happened," said Polly, with tears
in her eyes. "For three days I've been dressed up waiting."

"An' a grand dress it is," said Barrel, surveying her pretty figure.

"I've nearly worn it out waiting," said she, looking down, her
voice trembling.

"Tut, tut, girl--'tis a lovely dress," the tinker insisted.

"It is one my mother wore when she was a girl," said Polly,
proudly. "It was made over."

"O--oh! God love thee, child!" said the tinker, in a tone of great
admiration. "'Tis beautiful."

"And, you came through the woods?" said Polly.

"Through wood and field," was Trove's answer.

"I wonder you knew the way."

"The little god o' love--he shot his arrows, an' we followed them
as the hunter follows the bee," said Darrel.

"It was nice of you to bring the flowers," said Polly. "They are
beautiful."

"But not like those in thy cheeks, dear child. Where is the good
mother?" said Darrel.

"She and the boys are gone a-berrying, and I have been making
jelly. We're going to have a party to-night for your birthday."

"'An' rise up before the hoary head an' honour the face o' the old
man,'" said Darrel, thoughtfully. "But, child, honour is not for
them that tinker clocks."

"'Honour and fame from no condition rise,'" said Polly, who sat in
a chair, knitting.

"True, dear girl! Thy lips are sweeter than the poet's thought."

"You'll turn my head;" the girl was laughing as she spoke.

"An it turn to me, I shall be happy," said the tinker, smiling, and
then he began to feel the buttons on his waistcoat. "Loves me,
loves me not, loves me, loves me not--"

"She loves you," said Polly, with a smile.

"She loves me, hear that, boy," said the tinker. "Ah, were she not
bespoke! Well, God be praised, I'm happy," he added, filling his
pipe.

"And seventy," said Polly.

"Ay, three score an' ten--small an' close together, now, as I look
off at them, like a flock o' pigeons in the sky."

"What do you think?" said Polly, as she dropped her knitting. "The
two old maids are coming to-night."

"The two old maids!" said Darrel; "'tis a sign an' a wonder."

"Oh, a great change has come over them," Polly went on. "It's all
the work o' the teacher. You know he really coaxed them into
sliding with him last winter."

"I heard of it--the gay Philander!" said Darrel, laughing merrily.
"Ah! he's a wonder with the maidens!"

"I know it," said Polly, with a sigh.

Trove was idly brushing the mat of grass with a walking-stick. He
loved fun, but he had no conceit for this kind of banter.

"It was one of my best accomplishments," said he, blushing. "I
taught them that there was really a world outside their house and
that men were not all as lions, seeking whom they might devour."

Soon the widow and her boys came, their pails full of berries.

"We cannot shake hands with you," said Mrs. Vaughn, her fingers red
with the berry stain.

"Blood o' the old earth!" said Darrel. "How fares the clock?"

"It's too slow, Polly says."

"Ah, time lags when love is on the way," Darrel answered.

"Foolish child! A little while ago she was a baby, an' now she is
in love."

"Ah, let the girl love," said Darrel, patting the red cheek of
Polly, "an' bless God she loves a worthy lad,"

"You'd better fix the clock." said Polly, smiling. "It is too
fast, now."

"So is the beat o' thy heart," Darrel answered, a merry look in his
eyes, "an' the clock is keeping pace."

Trove got up, with a laugh, and went away, the boys following.

"I'm worried about him," the widow whispered. "For a long time he
hasn't been himself."

"It's the trouble--poor lad! 'Twill soon be over," said Darrel,
hopefully.

There were now tears in the eyes of Polly.

"I do not think he loves me any more," said she, her lips trembling.

"Speak not so, dear child; indeed he loves thee."

"I have done everything to please him," said Polly, in broken
words, her face covered with her handkerchief.

"I wondered what was the matter with you, Polly," said her mother,
tenderly.

"Dear, dear child!" said the tinker, rising and patting her head.
"The chaplet on thy brow an' thee weeping!--fairest flower of all!"

"I have wished that I was dead;" the words came in a little moan
between sobs.

"Because: Love hath led thee to the great river o' tears? Nay,
child, 'tis a winding river an' crosses all the roads."

He had taken her handkerchief, and with a tender touch was drying
her eyes.

"Now I can see thee smiling, an' thy lashes, child--they are like
the spray o' the fern tip when the dew is on it."

Polly rose and went away into the house. Darrel wiped his eyes,
and the widow sat, her chin upon her hand, looking down sadly and
thoughtfully. Darrel was first to speak.

"Did it ever occur to ye, Martha Vaughn, this child o' thine is
near a woman but has seen nothing o' the world ?"

"I think of that often," said she, the mother's feeling in her
voice.

"Well, if I understand him, it's a point of honour with the boy not
to pledge her to marriage until she has seen more o' life an' made
sure of her own heart. Now, consider this: let her go to the
school at Hillsborough, an' I'll pay the cost."

The widow looked up at him without speaking.

"I'm an old man near the end o' this journey, an' ye've known me
many years," Darrel went on. "There's nothing can be said against
it. Nay; I'll have no thanks. Would ye thank the money itself,
the bits o' paper? No; nor Roderick Darrel, who, in this business,
is no more worthy o' gratitude. Hush! who comes?"

It was Polly herself in a short, red skirt, her arms bare to the
elbows. She began to busy herself about the house.

"Too bad you took off that pretty dress, Polly," said Trove, when
he returned.

She came near and whispered to him.

"This," said she, looking down sadly, "is like the one I wore when
you first came."

"Well, first I thought of your arms," said he, "they were so
lovely! Then of your eyes and face and gown, but now I think only
of the one thing,--Polly."

The girl was happy, now, and went on with the work, singing, while
Trove lent a hand.

A score of people came up the hill from Pleasant Valley that night.
Tunk went after the old maids and came with them in the chaise at
supper time. There were two wagon-loads of young people, and,
before dusk, men and their wives came sauntering up the roadway and
in at the little gate.

Two or three of the older men wore suits of black broadcloth, the
stock and rolling collar--relics of "old decency" back in Vermont
or Massachusetts or Connecticut. Most were in rough homespun over
white shirts with no cuffs or collar. All gathered about Darrel,
who sat smoking outside the door. He rose and greeted each one of
the women with a bow and a compliment. The tinker was a man of
unfailing courtesy, and one thing in him was extremely odd,--even
there in that land of pure democracy,--he treated a scrub-woman
with the same politeness he would have accorded the finest lady.
But he was in no sense a flatterer; none that saw him often were
long in ignorance of that. His rebuke was even quicker than his
compliment, as many had reason to know. And there was another
curious thing about Darrel,--these people and many more loved him,
gathering about his chair as he tinkered, hearing with delight the
lore and wisdom of his tongue, but, after all, there were none that
knew him now any better than the first day he came. A certain wall
of dignity was ever between him and them.

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