Darrel of the Blessed Isles by Irving Bacheller

I >> Irving Bacheller >> Darrel of the Blessed Isles

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Darrel went to Trove, who now sat weeping, his face upon his hands.

"Oh the great river o' tears!" said Darrel, touching the boy's
head. "Beyond it are the green shores of happiness, an' I have
crossed, an' soon shalt thou. Stop, boy, it ill becomes thee.
There is a dear, dear child whose heart is breaking. Go an'
comfort her."

Trove sat as if he had not heard. The tinker went to his table and
hurriedly wrote a line or two, folding and directing it.

"Go quickly, boy, an' tell her, an' then take this to Riley Brooke
for me."

The young man struggled a moment for self-mastery, rose with a sigh
and a stern look, and put on his hat.

"It is about bail?" said he, in a whisper.

"Yes," Darrel answered.

Trove hurried away. A woman met him at the door, within which
Polly boarded.

"Is she better?" Trove asked.

"Yes; but has asked me to say that she does not wish to see you."

Trove stood a moment, his tongue halting between anger and
surprise. He turned without a word, walking away, a bitter
feeling in his heart.

Brooke greeted him with unexpected heartiness. He was going to bed
when the young man rapped upon his door.

Brooke opened the letter and read the words aloud: "Thanks, I shall
not need thy help."

"What!" Trove exclaimed.

"He says he shall not need the help I offered him," Brooke answered.

"Good night!" said Trove, who, turning, left the house and hurried
away. Lights were out everywhere in the village now. The windows
were dark at the Sign of the Dial. He hurried up the old stairs
and rapped loudly, but none came to admit him. He called and
listened; within there were only silence and that old, familiar
sound of the seconds trooping by, some with short and some with
long steps. He knew that soon they were to grow faint and weary
and pass no more that way. He ran to the foot of the stairs and
stood a moment hesitating. Then he walked slowly to the county
jail and looked up at the dark and silent building. For a little
time he leaned upon a fence, there in the still night, shaken with
sobs. Then he began walking up and down by the jail yard. He had
not slept an hour in weeks and was weary, but he could not bear to
come away and walked slower as the night wore on, hearing only the
tread of his own feet. He knew not where to go and was drifting up
and down, like a derelict in the sea. By and by people began to
pass him,--weary crowds,--and they were pointing at the patches on
his coat, and beneath them he could feel a kind of burning, but the
crowd was dumb. He tried to say, "I am not to blame," but his
heart smote him when it was half said. Then, suddenly, many people
were beside him, and far ahead on a steep hill, in dim, gray light,
he could see Darrel toiling upward. And sometimes the tinker
turned, beckoning him to follow. And Trove ran, but the way was
long between them. And the tinker called to him; "Who drains the
cup of another's bitterness shall find it sweet." Quickly he was
alone, groping for his path in black darkness and presently coming
down a stairway into the moonlit chamber of his inheritance. Then
the men of the dark and a feeling of faintness and great surprise
and a broad, blue field all about him and woods in the distance,
and above the growing light of dawn. His bones were aching with
illness and overwork, his feet sore. "I have been asleep," he
said, rubbing his eyes, "and all night I have been walking."

He was in the middle of a broad field. He went on slowly and soon
fell of weakness and lay for a time with his eyes closed. He could
hear the dull thunder of approaching hoofs; then he felt a silky
muzzle touching his cheek and the tickle of a horse's mane. He
looked up at the animal, feeling her face and neck. "You feel like
Phyllis, but you are not Phyllis--you are all white," said the
young man, as he patted her muzzle. He could hear other horses
coming, and quickly she, that was bending over him, reared with an
open mouth and drove them away. She returned again, her long mane
falling on his face. "Don't step on me," he entreated. "'Remember
in the day o' judgment God'll mind the look o' yer master.'" He
took hold of those long, soft threads, and the horse lifted him
gently to his feet, and they walked, his arm about her neck, his
face in the ravelled silk of her mane. "I don't know whose horse
you are, even, or where you are taking me," he said. They went
down a long lane and came at length to a bar-way, and Trove crawled
through.

He saw near him a great white house--one he had never seen
before--and a beautiful lady in the doorway. He turned toward her,
and it seemed a long journey to the door, although he knew it was
only a few paces. He fell heavily on the steps, and the woman gave
a little cry of alarm. She came quickly and bent over him. His
clothes were torn, his face pale and haggard, his eyes closed.

"I am sick," he whispered faintly.

"Theron! Theron! come here! Sidney is sick," he heard her calling.

"Is it you, mother?" the boy whispered, feeling her face. "I
thought it was a great, white mansion here, and that you--that you
were an angel."

XXXI

A Man Greater than his Trouble

For a month the young man lay burning with fever, his brain boiled
in hot blood until things hideous and terrible were swarming out of
it, as if it were being baned of dragons. Two months had passed
before he was able to leave his bed. He remembered only the glow
of an Indian summer morning on wood and field, but when he rose
they were all white with snow. For weeks he had listened to the
howl of the fir trees and had seen the frost gathering on his
window, but knew not how swiftly the days had gone, so that when he
looked out of doors and saw the midwinter he was filled with
astonishment.

"I must go," said he.

"Not yet, my boy," said Mary Allen. "You, are not strong enough."

"Darrel has taken my trouble on him, and I must go."

"I have heard you say it often since you fell on the doorstep,"
said she, stroking his hand. "There is a letter from him;" and she
brought the letter and put it in his hands. Trove opened it
eagerly and read as follows:--

"DEAR SIDNEY: It is Sunday night and all day I have been walking in
the Blessed Isles. And one was the Blessed Isle of remembrance
where I met thee and we talked of all good things. If I knew it
were well with thee I should be quite happy, boy, quite happy. I
was a bit weary of travel and all the roads had grown long. I miss
the tick of the clocks, but my work is easy and I have excellent
good friends. I send thee my key. Please deliver the red, tall
clock to Betsy Hale, who lives on the road to Waterbury Hill, and
kindly take that cheerful youngster from Connecticut--the one with
the walnut case and a brass pendulum--to Mrs. Henry Watson. You
remember that ill-tempered Dutch thing, with a loud gong and a
white dial, please take that to Harry Warner, I put some work on
them all but there's no charge. The other clocks belong to me. Do
with them as thou wilt and with all that is mine. The rent is paid
to April. Then kindly surrender the key. Now can ye do all this
for a man suffering the just punishment of many sins? I ask it for
old friendship and to increase the charity I saw growing in thy
heart long ago. At last I have word of thy father. He died a
peaceful, happy death, having restored the wealth that cursed him
to its owner. For his sake an' thine I am glad to know it. Now
between thee and the dear Polly there is no shadow. Tell her
everything. May the good God bless and keep thee; but the long
road of Happiness, that ye must seek and find.

"Yours truly,
"R. DARREL of the Blessed Isles."

Trove read the letter many times, and, as he grew strong, he began
to think with clearness and deliberation of his last night in
Hillsborough. Darrel was the greatest problem of all. Pondering
he saw, or thought he saw, the bottom of it. Events were coming,
however, that robbed him utterly of his conceit and all the hope it
gave him. The sad lines about his father kept him ever in some
doubt. A week more, and he was in the cutter one morning, behind
Phyllis, on his way to Robin's Inn. As he drew up at the old,
familiar gate the boys ran out to meet him. Somehow they were not
the same boys--they were a bit more sober and timid. Tunk came
with a "Glad to see ye, mister," and took the mare. The widow
stood in the doorway, smiling sadly.

"How is Polly?" said Trove.

For a moment there was no answer. He walked slowly to the steps,
knowing well that some new blow was about to fall upon him.

"She is better, but has been very sick," said the widow.

Trove sat down without speaking and threw his coat open.

"You, too, have been very sick," said Mrs. Vaughn.

"Yes, very," said he.

"I heard of it and went to your home one day, but you didn't know
me."

"Tell me, where is Polly?"

"In school, and I am much worried."

"Why?"

"Well, she's pretty, and the young men will not let her alone.
There's one determined she shall marry him."

"Is she engaged?"'

"No, but--but, sir, I think she is nearly heartbroken."

"I'm sorry," said Trove. "Not that she may choose another, but
that she lost faith in me."

"Poor child! Long ago she thought you had ceased to love her,"
said the widow, her voice trembling,

"I loved her as I can never love again," said he, his elbow resting
on a table, his head leaning on his hand. He spoke calmly.

"Don't let it kill you, boy," said she.

"No," he answered. "A man must be greater than his trouble; I have
work to do, and I shall not give up. May I go and see Polly?"

"Not now," said the widow, "give her time to find her own way. If
you deserve her love it will return to you."

"I fear that you, too, have lost faith in me," said Trove.

"No," she answered, "but surely Darrel is not the guilty one. It's
all such a mystery."

"Mrs. Vaughn, do not suffer yourself to think evil of me or of
Darrel. If I do lose your daughter, I hope I may not lose your
good opinion." The young man spoke earnestly and his eyes were wet.

"I shall not think evil of you," said the woman.

Trove stood a moment, his hand upon the latch.

"If there's anything I can do for you or for Polly," said he, "I
should like to know it. Let's hope for the best. Some day you
must let me come and--" he hesitated, his voice failing him for a
moment, "and play a game of checkers," he added.

Paul stood looking up at him sadly, his face troubled.

"It's an evil day when the heart of a child is heavy," said Trove,
bending over the boy. "What is the first law, Paul?"

"Thou shalt learn to obey," said the boy, quickly.

"And who is the great master?"

"Yourself."

"Right, boy! Let's command our hearts to be happy."

The great, bare maple was harping dolefully in the wind. Trove
went for the mare, and Tunk rode down the hill with him in the
cutter.

"Things here ain't what they used t' be," said Tunk.

"No?"

"Widder, she takes on awful. Great changes!"

There was a moment of silence.

"I ain't the same dum fool I used t' be," Tunk added presently.

"What's happened to you?"

"Well, they tol' me what you said about lyin'. Ye know a man in
the hoss business is apt t' git a leetle careless, but I ain't no
such dum fool as I used t' be. Have you heard that Teesey Tower
was married?"

"The old maid?"

"Yes, sir; the ol' maid, to Deacon Haskins, an' he lives with 'em,
an' now they're jes like other folks. Never was so surprised since
I was first kicked by a hoss."

Tunk's conscience revived suddenly and seemed to put its hand over
his mouth.

"Joe Beach is goin' to be a doctor," Tunk went on presently.

"I advised him to study medicine," Trove answered.

"He's gone off t' school at Milldam an' is workin' like a beaver.
He was purty rambunctious 'til you broke him to lead."

They rode then to the foot of the hill in silence.

"Seems so everything was changed," Tunk added as he left the
cutter. "Ez Tower has crossed the Fadden bridge. Team run away
an' snaked him over. They say he don't speak to his hosses now."

Trove went on thoughtfully. Some of Tunk Hosely's talk had been as
bread for his hunger, as a harvest, indeed, giving both seed and
sustenance. More clearly than ever he saw before him the great
field of life where was work and the joy of doing it. For a time
he would be a teacher, but first there were other things to do.

XXXII

The Return of Thurst Tilly

Trove sat in council with Mary and Theron Allen. He was now in
debt to the doctor; he needed money, also, for clothing and boots
and an enterprise all had been discussing.

"I'll give you three hundred dollars for the mare," said Allen.

Trove sat in thoughtful silence, and, presently, Allen went out of
doors. The woman got her savings and brought them to her son.

"There is twenty-three dollars, an' it may help you," she whispered.

"No, mother; I can't take it," said the young man. "I owe you more
now than I can ever pay. I shall have to sell the mare. It's a
great trial to me, but--but I suppose honour is better than horses."

"Well, I've a surprise for you," said she, bringing a roll of cloth
from the bedroom. "Those two old maids spun the wool, and I wove
it, and, see, it's all been fulled."

"You're as good as gold, mother, and so are they. It's grand to
wear in the country, but I'm going away and ought to have an extra
good suit. I'd like to look as fine as any of the village boys,
and they don't wear homespun. But I'll have plenty of use for it."

Next day he walked to Jericho Mills and paid the doctor. He went
on to Milldam, buying there a handsome new outfit of clothing.
Then he called to see the President of the bank--that one which had
set the dogs of the law on him.

"You know I put three thousand dollars in the bank of
Hillsborough," said Trove, when he sat facing the official. "I
took the money there, believing it to be mine. If, however, it is
yours, I wish to turn it over to you."

"It is not our money," said the President. "That bundle was sent
here, and we investigated every bill--a great task, for there were
some three hundred of them. Many are old bills and two the issue
of banks gone out of business. It's all a very curious problem.
They would not have received this money, but they knew of the
robbery and suspected you at once. Now we believe absolutely in
your honour."

"I shall put that beyond all question," said Trove, rising.

He took the cars to Hillsborough. There he went to the Sign of the
Dial and built a fire in its old stove. The clocks were now
hushed. He found those Darrel had written of and delivered them.
Returning, he began to wind the cherished clocks of the tinker--old
ones he had gathered here and there in his wandering--and to start
their pendulums. One of them--a tall clock in the corner with a
calendar-dial--had this legend on the inner side of its door:--

"Halted in memory of a good man,
Its hands pointing to the moment of his death,
Its voice hushed in his honour."

Trove shut the door of the old clock and hurried to the public
attorney's office, where he got the address of Leblanc. He met
many who shook his hand warmly and gave him a pleasant word. He
was in great fear of meeting Polly, and thought of what he should
do and say if he came face to face with her. Among others he met
the school principal.

"Coming back to work?" the latter inquired.

"No, sir; I've got to earn money."

"We need another teacher, and I'll recommend you."

"I'm much obliged, but I couldn't come before the fall term," said
Trove.

"I'll try to keep the place for you," said his friend, as they
parted.

Trove came slowly down the street, thinking how happy he could be
now, if Darrel were free and Polly had only trusted him. Near the
Sign of the Dial he met Thurston Tilly.

"Back again?" Trove inquired.

"Back again. Boss gi'n up farmin'."

"Did he make his fortune?"

"No, he had one give to him."

"Come and tell me about it."

Tilly followed Trove up the old stairway into the little shop.

"Beg yer pardon," said Thurst, turning, as they sat down, "are you
armed?"

"No," said Trove, smiling.

"A man shot me once when I wan't doin' nothin' but tryin' t' tell a
story, an' I don't take no chances. Do you remember my boss
tellin' that night in the woods how he lost his money in the fire
o' '35?"

"Yes."

"Wal, I guess it had suthin' t' do with that. One day the boss an'
me was out in the door-yard, an' a stranger come along. 'You're
John Thompson,' says he to the boss; 'An' you're so an' so,' says
the boss. I don't eggzac'ly remember the name he give." Tilly
stopped to think.

"Can you describe him?" Trove inquired.

"He was a big man with white whiskers an' hair, an' he wore light
breeches an' a short, blue coat."

"Again the friend of Darrel," Trove thought.

"Did you tell the tinker about your boss the night we were all at
Robin's Inn last summer?"

"I told him the whole story, an' he pumped me dry. I'd answer him,
an' he'd holler 'Very well,' an' shoot another question at me."

"Well, Thurst, go on with your story."

"Couldn't tell ye jest what happened. They went off int' the
house. Nex' day the boss tol' me he wa'n't no longer a poor man
an' was goin' t' sell his farm an' leave for Californy. In a
tavern near where we lived the stranger died sudden that night, an'
the funeral was at our house, an' he was buried there in Iowy."

Trove walked to the bench and stood a moment looking out of a
window.

"Strange!" said he, returning presently with tearful eyes. "Do you
remember the date?"

"'Twas a Friday, 'bout the middle o' September."

Trove turned, looking up at the brazen dial of the tall clock. It
indicated four-thirty in the morning of September 19th.

"Were there any with him when he died?"

"Yes, the tavern keeper--it was some kind of a stroke they told me."

"And your boss--did he go to California?" Trove asked.

"He sold the farm an' went to Californy. I worked there a while,
but the boss an' me couldn't agree, an' so I pulled up an' trotted
fer home."

"To what part of California did Thompson go?"

"Hadn't no idee where he would stick his stakes. He was goin' in
t' the gold business."

Trove sat busy with his own thoughts while Thurston Tilly, warming
to new confidence, boiled over with enthusiasm for the far west. A
school friend of the boy came, by and by, whereupon Tilly whistled
on his thumb and hurried away.

"Did you know," said the newcomer, when Trove and he were alone,
"that Roberts--the man who tried to send you up--is a young lawyer
and is going to settle here? He and Polly are engaged."

"Engaged!"

"So he gave me to understand."

"Well, if she loves him and he's a good fellow, I 've no right to
complain," Trove answered.

"I don't believe that he's a good fellow," said the other.

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, a detective is--is--"

"A necessary evil?" Trove suggested.

"Just that," said the other. "He must pretend to be what he isn't
and--well, a gentleman is not apt to sell himself for that purpose,
Now he's trying to convince people that you knew as much about the
crime as Darrel. In my opinion he isn't honest. Good looks and
fine raiment are all there is to that fellow--take my word for it."

"You're inclined to judge him harshly," said Trove. "But I'm
worried, for I fear he's unworthy of her and---and I must leave
town to-morrow."

"Shall you go to see her?"

"No; not until I know more about him. I have friends here and they
will give her good counsel. Soon they'll know what kind of a man
he is, and, if necessary, they'll warn her. I'm beset with
trouble, but, thank God, I know which way to turn."

XXXIII

The White Guard

Next morning Trove was on his way to Quebec--a long, hard journey
in the wintertime, those days. Leblanc had moved again,--so they
told him in Quebec,--this time to Plattsburg of Clinton County, New
York. There, however, Trove was unable to find the Frenchman. A
week of patient inquiry, then, leaving promises of reward for
information, he came away. He had yet another object of his
travels--the prison at Dannemora--and came there of a Sunday
morning late in February. Its towers were bathed in sunlight; its
shadows lay dark and far upon the snow. Peace and light and
silence had fallen out of the sky upon that little city of regret,
as if to hush and illumine its tumult of dark passions. He
shivered in the gloom of its shadow as he went up a driveway and
rang a bell. The warden received him kindly.

"I wish to see Roderick Darrel,---he is my friend,' said Trove, as
he gave the warden a letter.

"Come with me," said the official, presently. "He is talking to
the men."

They passed through gloomy corridors to the chapel door. Trove
halted to compose himself, for now he could hear the voice of
Darrel.

"Let me stand here a while--I cannot go in now," he whispered.

The words of the old man were vibrant with colour and dramatic
force.

"Night!" he was saying, "the guard passes; the lights are out; ye
lie thinking. Hark! a bell! 'Tis in the golden city o'
remembrance. Ye hear it calling. Haste away, men, haste away.
Ah, look!--flowers by the roadside! an' sunlight, an', just ahead,
spires o' the city, an' beneath them--oh! what is there beneath
them ye go so many times to see?

"Who is this?

"Here is a man beside ye.

"'Halt!' he says, an cuts ye with a sword.

"Now the bell is tolling--the sky overcast. The spires fall, the
flowers wither. Ye turn to look at the man. He is a giant. See
the face of him now. It makes ye tremble. He is the White Guard
an' he brings ye back. Ah, then, mayhap ye rise in the dark, as I
have heard ye, an' shake the iron doors. But ye cannot escape him
though ye could fly on the wind. Know ye the White Guard? Dear
man! his name is thy name; he is thyself; day an' night he sits in
the watch tower o' thy soul; he has all charge o' thee. Make a
friend o' him, men, make a friend o' him. Any evening send for me,
an' mayhap they'll let me come an' tell thee how."

He paused. Trove could hear the tread of guards in the chapel.
They seemed to enter the magnetic field of the speaker and quickly
halted.

"Mind the White Guard! Save him ye have none to fear.

"Once, at night, I saw a man smiling in his sleep. 'Twas over
there in the hospital. The day long he had been sick with remorse,
an' I had given him, betimes, a word o' comfort as well as the
medicine. Now when I looked the frown had left his brow. Oh,
'twas a goodly sight to see! He smiled an' murmured o' the days
gone. The man o' guilt lay dead--the child of innocence was
living. An' he woke, an' again the shadow fell upon him, an' he
wept.

"'I have been wandering in the land o' love,' he said.

"'Get thee back, man, get thee back,' said I to him.

"'Alas! how can I?' said he; 'for 'tis only Sleep that opens the
door.'

"'Nay, Sleep doth lift the garment o' thy bitterness, but only for
an hour,' said I. 'Love, Love shall lift it from thee forever.'
An' now, I thank the good God, the smile o' that brief hour is ever
on his face. Ye know him well, men. Were I to bid him stand
before ye, there's many here would wish to kiss his hand. Even
here in the frowning shadow o' these walls he has come into a land
o' love, an' when he returns to his people ye shall weep, men, ye
shall weep, an' they shall rejoice. O the land o' love! it hath a
strong gate. An' the White Guard, he hath the key.

"Remember, men, ye cannot reap unless ye sow. If any would reap
the corn, he must plant the corn.

"Have ye stood of a bright summer day to watch the little people o'
the field?--those millions that throng the grass an' fly in the
sunlight--bird an' bee an' ant an' bug an' butterfly? 'Tis a land
flowing with milk an' honey--but hear me, good men, not one o' them
may take as much as would fill the mouth of a cricket unless he
pays the price.

"One day I saw an ant trying to rob a thistle-blow. Now the law o'
the field is that none shall have honey who cannot sow for the
flower. While a bee probes he gathers the seed-dust in his hairy
jacket, an' away he flies, sowing it far an' wide. Now, an ant is
in no-wise able to serve a thistle-blow, but he is ever trying to
rob her house. Knowing her danger, she has put around it a
wonderful barricade. Down at the root her stem has a thicket o'
fuzz an' hair. I watched the little thief, an' he was a long time
passing through it. Then he came on a barrier o' horny-edged
leaves. Underneath they were covered with thick, webby hairs an'
he sank over his head in them an' toiled long; an' lo! when he had
passed them there was yet another row o' leaves curving so as to
weary an' bewilder him, an' thick set with thorns. Slowly he
climbed, coming ever to some dread obstruction. By an' by he stood
looking up at the green, round wall o' the palace. Above him were
its treasure an' its purple dome. He started upward an' fell
suddenly into a moat, full o' sticky gum, an' there perished. Men,
'tis the law o' God: unless ye sow the seed that bears it, ye shall
not have the honey o' forgiveness. An' remember the seed o'
forgiveness is forgiveness. If any have been hard upon thee,
bearing false witness an' robbing thee o' thy freedom an' thy good
name, go not hence until ye forgive.

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