Darrel of the Blessed Isles by Irving Bacheller

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Half an hour before dark, the yard was thronged with people. They
listened with smiles or a faint ripple of merry feeling as he
greeted each.

"Good evening, Mrs. Beach," he would say. "Ah! the snow is falling
on thy head. An' the sunlight upon thine, dear girl," he added,
taking the hand of the woman's daughter.

"An' here's Mr. Tilly back from the far west," he continued. "How
fare ye, sor?"

"I'm well, but a little too fat," said Thurston Tilly.

"Well, sor, unless it make thy heart heavy, be content.

"Good evening, Mrs. Hooper,--that is a cunning hand with the pies.

"Ah, Mrs. Rood, may the mouse never leave thy meal bag with a tear
in his eye.

"Not a gray hair in thy head, Miss Tower, nor even a gray thought.

"An' here's Mrs. Barbour--'twill make me sweat to carry me pride
now. How goes the battle?"

"The Lord has given me sore affliction," said she.

"Nay, dear woman," said the tinker in that tone so kindly and
resistless, "do not think the Lord is hitting thee over the ears.
It is the law o' life.

"Good evening, Elder, what is the difference between thy work an'
mine?"

"I hadn't thought of that."

"Ah, thine is the dial of eternity--mine that o' time." And so he
greeted all and sat down, filling his pipe.

"Now, Weston, out with the merry fiddle," said he, "an' see it give
us happy thoughts."

A few small boys were gathered about him, and the tinker began to
hum an Irish reel, fingers and forearm flying as he played an
imaginary fiddle. But, even now, his dignity had not left him.
The dance began. All were in the little house or at the two doors,
peering in, save Darrel, who sat with his pipe, and Thurston Tilly,
who was telling him tales of the far west. In the lull of sound
that followed the first figure, Trove came to look out upon them.
A big, golden moon had risen above the woods, and the light and
music and merry voices had started a sleepy twitter up in the dome
of Robin's Inn.

"Do you see that scar?" he heard Tilly saying.

"I do, sor."

"Well, a man shot me there."

"An' what for?" the tinker inquired.

"I was telling him a story. It cured me. Do you carry a gun?"

"I do not, sor."

"Wal, then, I'll tell you about the man I work for."

Tunk, who had been outside the door in his best clothes, but who,
since he put them on, had looked as if he doubted the integrity of
his suspenders and would not come in the house, began to laugh
loudly.

"That man Tunk can see the comedy in all but himself," was Trove's
thought, as he returned with a smile of amusement.

Soon Trove and Polly came out and stood a while by the lilac bush,
at the gate.

"You worry me, Sidney Trove," said she, looking off at the moonlit
fields.

Then came a silence full of secret things, like the silences of
their first meeting, there by the same gate, long ago. This one,
however, had a vibration that seemed to sting them.

"I am sorry," said he, with a sigh.

Another silence in which the heart of the girl was feeling for the
secret in his.

"You are so sad, so different," she whispered.

Polly waited full half a minute for his answer. Then she touched
her eyes with her handkerchief, turned impatiently, and went
halfway to the door. Darrel caught her hand, drawing her near him.

"Give me thy hand, boy," said he to Trove, now on his way to the
door.

He stood with his arms around the two.

"Every shadow hath the wings o' light," he whispered. "Listen."

The house rang with laughter and the music of Money Musk.

"'Tis the golden bell of happiness," said he, presently. "Go an'
ring it. Nay--first a kiss."

He drew them close together, and they kissed each other's lips, and
with smiling faces went in to join the dance.

XXIX

Again the Uphill Road

Again the middle of September and the beginning of the fall term.
Trove had gone to his old lodgings at Hillsborough, and Polly was
boarding in the village, for she, too, was now in the uphill road
to higher learning. None, save Darrel, knew the secret of the
young man,--that he was paying her board and tuition. The thought
of it made him most happy; but now, seeing her every day had given
him a keener sense of that which had come between them. He sat
much in his room and had little heart for study. It was a cosey
room now. His landlady had hung rude pictures on the wall and
given him a rag carpet. On the table were pieces of clear quartz
and tourmaline and, about each window-frame, odd nests of bird or
insect--souvenirs of wood-life and his travel with the drove.
There, too, on the table were mementos of that first day of his
teaching,--the mirror spectacles with which he had seen at once
every corner of the schoolroom, the sling-shot and bar of iron he
had taken from the woodsman, Leblanc.

One evening of his first week at Hillsborough that term, Darrel
came to sit with him a while.

"An' what are these?" said the tinker, at length, his hand upon the
shot and iron.

"I do not know."

"Dear boy," said Darrel, "they're from the kit of a burglar, an'
how came they here?"

"I took them from Louis Leblanc," said the young man, who then told
of his adventure that night.

"Louis Leblanc!" exclaimed Darrel. "The scamp an' his family have
cleared out."

The tinker turned quickly, his hand upon the wrist of the young man.

"These things are not for thee to have," he whispered. "Had ye no
thought o' the danger?"

Trove began to change colour.

"I can prove how I came by them," he stammered.

"What is thy proof?" Darrel whispered again.

"There are Leblanc's wife and daughter."

"Ah, where are they? There be many would like to know."

The young man thought a moment.

"Well, Tunk Hosely, there at Mrs. Vaughn's."

"Tunk Hosely!" exclaimed the tinker, with a look that seemed to
say, "God save the mark! An' would they believe him, think?"

Trove began to look troubled as Darrel left him.

"I'll go and drop them in the river," said Trove to himself.

It was eleven o'clock and the street dark and deserted as he left
his room.

"It is a cowardly thing to do," the young man thought as he walked
slowly, but he could devise no better way to get rid of them.

In the middle of the big, open bridge, he stopped to listen.
Hearing only the sound of the falls below, Trove took the odd tools
from under his coat and flung them over the rail.

He turned then, walking slowly off the bridge and up the main
street, of Hillsborough. At a corner he stopped to listen. His
ear had caught the sound of steps far behind him. He could hear it
no longer, and went his way, with a troubled feeling that robbed
him of rest that night. In a day or two it wore off, and soon he
was hold of the bit, as he was wont to say, and racing for the lead
in his work. He often walked to school with Polly and went to
church with her every Sunday night. There had been not a word of
love between them, however, since they came to the village, until
one evening she said:--

"I am very unhappy, and I wish I were home."

"Why?"

She was not able to answer for a moment.

"I know I am unworthy of you," she whispered.

His lungs shook him with a deep and tremulous inspiration. For a
little he could not answer.

"That is why you do not love me?" she whispered again.

"I do love you," he said with a strong effort to control himself,
"but I am not worthy to touch the hem of your garment."

"Tell me why, Sidney?"

"Some day--I do not know when--I will tell you all. And if you can
love me after that, we shall both be happy."

"Tell me now," she urged.

"I cannot," said he, "but if you only trust me, Polly, you shall
know. If you will not trust me--"

He paused, looking down at the snow path.

"Good night!" he added presently.

They kissed and parted, each going to the company of bitter tears.

As of old, Trove had many a friend,--school-fellows who came of an
evening, now and then, for his help in some knotty problem. All
saw a change in him. He had not the enthusiasm and good cheer of
former days, and some ceased to visit him. Moreover they were free
to say that Trove was getting a big head. For one thing, he had
become rather careless about his clothes,--a new trait in him, for
he had the gift of pride and the knack of neatness.

A new student sought his acquaintance the very first week of the
term,--that rather foppish young man who got off the cars at
Hillsborough the day of their first coming. He was from Buffalo,
and, although twenty-two years of age, was preparing to enter
college. His tales of the big city and his frank good-fellowship
made him a welcome guest. Soon he was known to all as "Dick"--his
name being Richard Roberts. It was not long before Dick knew
everybody and everybody knew Dick, including Polly, and thought him
a fine fellow. Soon Trove came to know that when he was detained a
little after school Dick went home with Polly. That gave him no
concern, however, until Dick ceased to visit him, and he saw a
change in the girl.

One day, two letters came for Trove. They were in girlish
penmanship and bore no signature, but stung him to the quick.

"For Heaven's sake get a new hat," said one.

"You are too handsome to neglect your clothes," said the other.

As he read them, his cheeks were burning with his shame. He went
for his hat and looked it over carefully. It was faded, and there
was a little rent in the crown. His boots were tapped and mended,
his trousers threadbare at the knee, and there were two patches on
his coat.

"I hadn't thought of it," said he, with a sigh. Then he went for a
talk with Darrel.

"Did you ever see a more shabby-looking creature?" he inquired, as
Darrel came to meet him. "I am so ashamed of myself I'd like to go
lie in your wood box while I talk to you."

"'What hempen homespun have we swaggering here?'" Darrel quoted in
a rallying voice.

"I'll tell you." Trove began.

"Nay, first a roundel," said the tinker, as he began to shuffle his
feet to the measure of an old fairy song.

"If one were on his way to the gallows, you would make him laugh,"
said Trove, smiling.

"An I could, so would I," said the old man. "A smile, boy, hath in
it 'some relish o' salvation.' Now, tell me, what is thy trouble?"

"I'm going to leave school," said Trove.

"An' wherefore?"

"I'm sick of this pinching poverty. Look at my clothes; I thought
I could make them do, but I can't."

He put the two notes in Darrel's hand. The tinker wiped his
spectacles and then read them both.

"Tut, tut, boy!" said he, presently, with a very grave look. "Have
ye forgotten the tatters that were as a badge of honour an'
success? Weeks ago I planned to find thee better garments, but, on
me word, I had no heart for it. Nay, these old ones had become
dear to me. I was proud o' them--ay, boy, proud o' them. When I
saw the first patch on thy coat, said I, 'It is the little ensign
o' generosity.' Then came another, an', said I, 'That is for honour
an' true love,' an' these bare threads--there is no loom can weave
the like o' them. Nay, boy," Darrel added, lifting an arm of the
young man and kissing one of the patches, "be not ashamed o'
these--they're beautiful, ay, beautiful. They stand for the
dollars ye gave Polly."

Trove turned away, wiping his eyes.

He looked down at his coat and trousers and began to wonder if he
were, indeed, worthy to wear them.

"I'm not good enough for them," said he, "but you've put new heart
in me, and I shall not give up. I'll wear them as long as I can
make them do, and girls can say what they please."

"The magpies!" said Darrel. "When they have a thought for every
word they utter, Lord! there'll be then a second Sabbath in the
week."

Next evening Trove went to see Polly.

As he was leaving, she held his hand in both of hers and looked
down, blushing deeply, as if there were something she would say,
had she only the courage.

"What is it, Polly?" said he.

"Will you--will you let me buy you a new hat?" said she, soberly,
and hesitating much between words.

He thought a moment, biting his lip.

"I'd rather you wouldn't, Polly," said he, looking down at the
faded hat. "I know it's shabby, but, after all, I'm fond o' the
old thing. I love good clothes, but I can't afford them now."

Then he bade her good night and came away.

XXX

Evidence

It was court week, and the grand jury was in session. There were
many people in the streets of the shire town. They moved with a
slow foot, some giving their animation to squints of curiosity and
shouts of recognition, some to profanity and plug tobacco. Squire
Day and Colonel Judson were to argue the famous maple-sugar case,
and many causes of local celebrity were on the calendar.

There were men with the watchful eye of the hunter, ever looking
for surprises. They moved with caution, for here, indeed, were
sights and perils greater than those of the timber land. Here
were houses, merchants, lawyers, horse-jockeys, whiskey, women.
They knew the thickets and all the wild creatures that lived in
them, but these things of the village were new and strange. They
came out of the stores and, after expectorating, stood a moment
with their hands in their pockets, took a long look to the right
and a long look to the left and threw a glance into the sky, and
then examined the immediate foreground. If satisfied, they began
to move slowly one way or the other and, meeting hunters presently,
would ask:--

"Here fer yer bounties?"

"Here fer my bounties," another would say. Then they both took a
long look around them.

"Wish't I was back t' the shanty."

"So do I."

"Scares me."

"Too many houses an' too many women folks."

"An' if ye wan' t' git a meal o' vittles, it costs ye three
mushrats."

Night and morning the tavern offices were full of smart-looking
men,--lawyers from every village in the county, who, having dropped
the bitter scorn of the court room, now sat gossiping in a cloud of
tobacco smoke, rent with thunder-peals of laughter and lightning
flashes of wit. Teams of farmer folk filled the sheds and were
tied to hitching-posts, up and down the main thoroughfare of the
village. Every day rough-clad, brawny men led their little sons to
the courthouse.

"Do ye see that man with the spectacles and the bald head?" they
had been wont to whisper, when seated in the court room, "that air
man twistin' his hair,--that's Silas Wright; an' that tall man that
jes' sot down?--that's John L. Russell. Now I want ye t' listen,
careful. Mebbe ye'll be a lawyer, sometime, yerself, as big as any
of 'em."

The third day of that week--it was about the middle of the
afternoon--a score of men, gossiping in the lower hall of the court
building, were hushed suddenly. A young man came hurrying down the
back stairs with a look of excitement.

"What's up?" said one.

"Sidney Trove is indicted," was the answer of the young man.

He ran out of doors and down the street. People began crowding out
of the court room. Information, surprise, and conjecture--a kind
of flood pouring out of a broken dam--rushed up and down the forty
streets of the village. Soon, as of old, many were afloat and some
few were drowning in it. For a little, busy hands fell limp and
feet grew slow and tongues halted. A group of school-girls on
their way home were suddenly overtaken by the onrushing tide. They
came close together and whispered. Then a little cry of despair,
and one of them fell and was borne into a near house. A young man
ran up the stairway at the Sign of the Dial and rapped loudly at
Darrel's door, Trove and the tinker were inside.

"Old fellow," said the newcomer, his hand upon Trove's arm,
"they've voted to indict you, and I've seen all the witnesses."

Trove had a book in his hand. He rose calmly and flung it on the
table.

"It's an outrage," said he, with a sigh.

"Nay, an honour," said Darrel, quickly. "Hold up thy head, boy.
The laurel shall take the place o' the frown."

He turned to the bearer of these evil tidings.

"Have ye more knowledge o' the matter?"

"Yes, all day I have been getting hold of their evidence," said the
newcomer, a law student, who was now facing his friend Trove. "In
the first place, it was a man of blue eyes and about your build who
broke into the bank at Milldam. It is the sworn statement of the
clerk, who has now recovered. He does not go so far as to say you
are the man, but does say it was a man like you that assaulted him.
It appears the robber had his face covered with a red bandanna
handkerchief in which square holes were cut so he could see
through. The clerk remembers it was covered with a little white
figure--that of a log cabin. Such a handkerchief was sold years
ago in the campaign of Harrison, but has gone out of use. Not a
store in the county has had them since '45. The clerk fired upon
him with a pistol, and thinks he wounded him in the left forearm.
In their fight the robber struck him with a sling-shot, and he
fell, and remembers nothing more until he came to in the dark
alone. The skin was cut in little squares, where the shot struck
him, and that is one of the strong points against you."

"Against me?" said Trove.

"Yes--that and another. It seems the robber left behind him one
end of a bar of iron. The other end of the same bar and a
sling-shot--the very one that probably felled the clerk--have been
found."

The speaker rose and walked half across the room and back, looking
down thoughtfully.

"I tell ye what, old fellow," said he, sitting down again, "it is
mighty strange. If I didn't know you well, I'd think you guilty.
Here comes a detective who says under oath that one night he saw
you come out of your lodgings, about eleven o'clock, and walk to
the middle of the bridge and throw something into the water. Next
morning bar and shot were found. As nearly as he could make out
they lay directly under the place where you halted."

Darrel sat looking thoughtfully at the speaker.

"A detective ?" said Trove, rising erect, a stern look upon him.

"Yes--Dick Roberts."

"Roberts, a detective!" said Trove, in a whisper. Then he turned
to Darrel, adding, "I shall have to find the Frenchman."

"Louis Leblanc?" the young man asked.

"Louis Leblanc," Trove answered with surprise.

"He has been found," said the other.

"Then I shall be able to prove my point. He came to his home drunk
one night and began to bully his family. I was boarding with the
Misses Tower and went over and took the shot and iron from his
hands and got him into bed. The woman begged me to bring them
away."

"He declares that he never saw the shot or the iron."

Darrel rose and drew his chair a bit nearer.

"Very well, but there's the wife," said he, quickly.

"She will swear, too, that she never saw them."

"And how about the daughter?" Trove inquired.

"Run away and nowhere to be found," was the answer of the other
young man. "I've told you bad news enough, but there's more, and
you ought to know it all. Louis Leblanc is in Quebec, and he says
that a clock tinker lent him money with which to leave the States."

"It was I, an' God bring him to repentance--the poor beggar!" said
Darrel. "He agreed to repay me within a fortnight an' was in sore
distress, but he ran away, an' I got no word o' him."

"Well, the inference is, that you, being a friend of the accused,
were trying to help him."

"I'm caught in a web," said Trove, leaning forward, his head upon
his hands, "and Leblanc's wife is the spider. How about the money?
Have they been able to identify it?"

"In part, yes; there's one bill that puzzles them. It's that of an
old bank in New York City that failed years ago and went out of
business."

Then a moment of silence and that sound of the clocks--like
footsteps of a passing caravan, some slow and heavy, some quick, as
if impatient to be gone.

"Ye speeding seconds!" said Darrel, as he crossed to the bench.
"Still thy noisy feet."

Then he walked up and down, thinking.

The friend of Sidney Trove put on his hat and stood by the door.

"Don't forget," said he, "you have many friends, or I should not be
able to tell you these things. Keep them to yourself and go to
work. Of course you will be able to prove your innocence."

"I thank you with all my heart," said Trove.

"Ay, 'twas friendly," the old man remarked, taking the boy's hand.

"I have to put my trust in Tunk--the poor liar!" said Trove, when
they were alone.

"No," Darrel answered quickly. "Were ye drowning, ye might as well
lay hold of a straw. Trust in thy honour; it is enough."

"Let's go and see Polly," said the young man.

"Ay, she o' the sweet heart," said the tinker; "we'll go at once."

They left the shop, and on every street they travelled there were
groups of men gossiping. Some nodded, others turned away, as the
two passed. Dick Roberts met them at the door of the house where
Polly boarded.

"I wish to see Miss Vaughn," said Trove, coolly.

"She is ill," said Roberts.

"Could I not see her for a moment?" Trove inquired.

"No."

"Is she very sick?"

"Very."

Darrel came close to Roberts. He looked sternly at the young man.

"Boy," said he, with great dignity, his long forefinger raised,
"within a day ye shall be clothed with shame."

"They were strange words," Trove thought, as they walked away in
silence; and when they had come to the little shop it was growing
dusk.

"What have I done to bring this upon me and my friends?" said
Trove, sinking into a chair.

"It is what I have done," said Darrel; "an' now I take the mantle
o' thy shame. Rise, boy, an' hold up thy head."

The old man stood erect by the side of the young man.

"See, I am as tall an' broad as thou art."

He went to an old chest and got a cap and drew it down upon his
head, pushing his gray hair under it. Then he took from his pocket
a red bandanna handkerchief, figured with a cabin, tying it over
his face. He turned, looking at Trove through two square holes in
the handkerchief.

"Behold the robber!" said he.

"You know who is the robber?" Trove inquired.

Darrel raised the handkerchief and flung it back upon his head.

"'Tis Roderick Darrel," said he, his hand now on the shoulder of
the young man.

For a moment both stood looking into each other's eyes.

"What joke is this, my friend?" Trove whispered.

"I speak not lightly, boy. If where ye thought were honour an'
good faith, there be only guilt an' shame, can ye believe in
goodness?"

For his answer there were silence and the ticking of the clocks.

"Surely ye can an' will," said the old man, "for there is the
goodness o' thy own heart. Ah, boy, though I have it not, remember
that I loved honour an' have sought to fill thee with it. This
night I go where ye cannot follow."

The tinker turned, halting a pendulum.

Trove groaned as he spoke, "O man, tell me, quickly, what do you
mean?"

"That God hath laid his hand upon me," said Darrel, sternly. "I
cannot see thee suffer, boy, when I am the guilty one. O Redeemer
o' the world! haste me, haste me now to punishment."

The young man staggered, like one dazed by the shock of a blow,
stepped backward, and partly fell on a lounge against the wall.
Darrel came and bent over him. Trove sat leaning, his hand on the
lounge, staring up at the tinker, his eyes dreadful and amazed.

"You, you will confess and go to prison!" he whispered.

"Fair soul!" said the old man, stroking the boy's head, "think not
o' me. Where I go there be flowers--lovely flowers! an' music, an'
the bards an' prophets. Though I go to punishment, still am I in
the Blessed Isles."

"You are doing it to save me," Trove whispered, taking the hand of
the old man. "I'll not permit it. I'll go to prison first."

"Am I so great a fool, think ye, as to claim an evil that is not
mine? An' would ye keep in me the burning o' remorse when I seek
to quench it? I warn thee, meddle not with the business o' me
soul. That is between the great God an' me."

Darrel stood to his full height, the red handkerchief covering his
head and falling on his back. He began with a tone of contempt
that changed quickly into one of sharp command. There was a little
silence and then a quick rap.

"Come in," Darrel shouted, as he let the handkerchief fall upon his
face again.

The district attorney, a constable, and the bank clerk, who had
been injured the night of the robbery, came in.

"He is not guilty," said Trove, rising quickly.

"I command ye, boy, be silent," said Darrel, sternly.

"Have ye ever seen that hand," he added, approaching the clerk, and
pointing at a red mark as large as a dime on the back of his left
hand.

"Yes," the clerk answered with surprise, looking from hand to
handkerchief. Then, turning to the lawyer, he added, "This is the
man."

"Now," Darrel continued, rolling up his sleeve, "I'll show where
thy bullet struck me in the left arm. See, there it seared the
flesh!"

They saw a star, quite an inch long, midway from hand to elbow,

"Do you mean to say that you are guilty of this crime?" the
attorney asked.

"I am guilty and ready for punishment," Darrel answered. "Now,
discharge the boy."

"To-morrow," said the attorney. "That is for the court to do."

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