Darrel of the Blessed Isles by Irving Bacheller

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"Ah, then the White Guard shall no longer sit in the tower."

The voice had stopped. There was a moment of deep silence. Some
power, greater, far greater, than his words, had gone out of the
man. Those many who sat before him and they standing there by the
door had felt it and were deeply moved. There was a quick stir in
the audience--a stir of hands and handkerchiefs. Trove entered;
the chaplain was now reading a hymn. Darrel sat behind him on a
raised platform, the silken spray upon his brows, long and white as
snow, his face thoughtful and serious. The reading over, he came
and sat among the men, singing as they sang. The benediction, a
stir of feet, and the prisoners began to press about him, some
kissing his hands. He gave each a kindly greeting. It was like
the night of the party on Cedar Hill. A moment more, and the crowd
was filing away, some looking back curiously at Trove, who stood,
his arms about the old man.

"Courage, boy!" the latter was saying; "I know it cuts thee like a
sword, an' would to God I could have spared thee even this. Look!
in yon high window I can see the sunlight, an', believe me, there
is not a creature it shines upon so happy as I. God love thee,
boy, God love thee!"

He put his cheek upon that of the boy and stroked his hair gently.
Then a little time of silence, and the storm had passed.

"A fine, fine lad ye are," said Darrel, looking proudly at the
young man, who stood now quite composed. "Let me take thy hand.
Ay, 'tis a mighty arm ye have, an' some day, some day it will shake
the towers."

"You will both dine with me in my quarters at one," said the
warden, presently.

Trove turned with a look of surprise.

"Thank ye, sor; an' mind ye make room for Wit an' Happiness," said
the tinker.

"Bring them along--they're always welcome at my table," the warden
answered with a laugh.

"Know ye not they're in prison, now, for keeping bad company?" said
Darrel, as he turned. "At one, boy," he, added, shaking the boy's
hand. "Ah, then, good cheer an' many a merry jest."

Darrel left the room, waving his hand. Trove and the warden made
their way to the prison office.

"A wonderful man!" said the latter, as they went. "We love and
respect him and give him all the liberty we can. For a long time
he has been nursing in the hospital, and when I see that he is
overworking I bring him to my office and set him at easy jobs."

Darrel came presently, and they went to dinner. The tinker bowed
politely to the warden's wife and led her to the table.

"Good friends," said he, as they were sitting down, "there is an
hour that is short o' minutes an' yet holds a week o' pleasure--who
pan tell me which hour it is?"

"I never guessed a riddle," said the woman.

"Marry, dear madam, 'tis the hour o' thy hospitality," said the old
man.

"When you are in it," she answered with good humour.

"Fellow-travellers on the road to heaven," said Darrel, raising his
glass, "St. Peter is fond of a smiling face."

"And when you see him you'll make a jest," were the words of the
warden.

"For I believe he is a lover o' good company," said Darrel.

The warden's wife remarked, then, that she had enjoyed his talk in
the chapel.

"I'm a new form o' punishment," said Darrel, soberly.

"But they all enjoy it," she answered.

"I'm not so rough as the ministers. They use fire an' the fume o'
sulphur."

"And the men go to sleep."

"Ay, the cruel master makes a thick hide," said Darrel, quickly.
"So Nature puts her hand between the whip an' the horse, an' sleep
between cruelty an' the congregation."

"Nature is kind," was the remark of the warden.

"An' shows the intent o' the Almighty," said Darrel. "There are
two words. In them are all the sermons."

"And what are they?" the woman asked.

"Fear," Darrel answered thoughtfully; "that is one o' them." He
paused to sip his tea.

"And the other is?"

"Love."

There was half a moment of silence.

"Here's Life to Love an' Death to Fear," the tinker added, draining
his cup. "Ay, madam, fill again--'tis memorable tea."

The woman refilled his cup.

"Many a time I've sat at meat an' thought, O that mine enemy could
taste thy tea! But this, dear lady, this beverage is for a friend."

So the dinner went on, others talking only to encourage the tongue
of Darrel. Trove, well as he knew the old man, had been surprised
by his fortitude. Far from being broken, the spirit in him was
happy, masterful, triumphant. He had work to do and was earning
that high reward of happiness--to him the best thing under heaven.
The dinner over, all rose, and Darrel bowed politely to the
warden's wife. Then he quoted:--

"'Like as the waves make toward the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end.'

"Dear madam, they do hasten but to come as well as to go. Thanks
an' au revoir."

Darrel and Trove went away with the warden, who bade them sit a
while in his office. Tinker and young man were there talking until
the day was gone. The warden sat apart, reading. Now and again
they whispered earnestly, as if they were not agreed, Darrel
shaking his forefinger and his head, Trove came away as the dark
fell, a sad and thoughtful look upon him.

XXXIV

More Evidence

Trove went to the inn at Dannemora that evening he left Darrel and
there found a letter. It said that Leblanc was living near St.
Albans. Posted in Plattsburg and signed "Henry Hope," the letter
gave no hint of bad faith, and with all haste he went to the place
it named. He was there a fortnight, seeking the Frenchman, but
getting no word of him, and then came a new letter from the man
Hope. It said now that Leblanc had moved on to Middlebury. Trove
went there, spent the last of his money, and sat one day in the
tavern office, considering what to do; for now, after weeks of
wandering, he was, it seemed, no nearer the man he sought. He had
soon reached a thought of some value: this information of the
unknown correspondent was, at least, unreliable, and he would give
it no further heed. What should he do? On that point he was not
long undecided, for while he was thinking of it a boy came and said:

"There's a lady waiting to see you in the parlour, sir."

He went immediately to the parlour above stairs, and there sat
Polly in her best gown--"the sweetest-looking creature," he was
wont to say, "this side of Paradise." Polly rose, and his
amazement checked his feet a moment. Then he advanced quickly and
would have kissed her, but she turned her face away and Stood
looking down. They were in a silence full of history. Twice she
tried to speak, but an odd stillness followed the first word,
giving possibly the more adequate expression to her thoughts.

"How came you here?" he whispered presently.

"I--I have been trying to find you." said she, at length.

He turned, looking from end to end of the large room; they were
quite alone.

"Polly," he whispered, "I believe you do love me."

For a little time she made no answer.

"No," she whispered, shaking her head; "that is, I--I do not think
I love you."

"Then why have you come to find me?"

"Because--because you did not come to find me," she answered,
glancing down at the toe of her pretty shoe.

She turned impatiently and stood by an open window. She was
looking out upon a white orchard. Odours of spring flower and
apple blossom were in the soft wings of the wind. Somehow they
mingled with her feeling and were always in her memory of that
hour. Her arm moved slowly and a 'kerchief went to her eyes.
Then, a little tremor in the plume upon her hat Trove went to her
side.

"Dear Polly!" he said, as he took her hand in his. Gently she
pulled it away.

"I--I cannot speak to you now," she whispered.

Then a long silence. The low music of a million tiny wings came
floating in at the window. It seemed, somehow, like a voice of the
past, with minutes, like the bees, hymning indistinguishably.
Polly and Trove were thinking of the same things. "I can doubt him
no more," she thought, "and I know--I know that he loves me." They
could hear the flutter of bird wings beyond the window and in the
stillness they got some understanding of each other. She turned
suddenly, and went to where he stood.

"Sidney," she said, "I am sorry--I am sorry if I have hurt you."

She lifted one of his hands and pressed her red cheek upon it
fondly. In a moment he spoke.

"Long ago I knew that you were doubting me, but I couldn't help
it," he said.

"It was that--that horrible secret," she whispered.

"I had no, right to your love," said he, "until--" he hesitated for
a little, "until I could tell you the truth."

"You loved somebody else?" she whispered, turning to him. "Didn't
you, now? Tell me."

"No," said he, calmly. "The fact is--the fact is I had learned
that my father was a thief."

"Your father!" she answered. "Do you think I care what your father
did? Your honour and your love were enough for me."

"I did not know," he whispered, "and I should have made my way to
you, but--" he paused again.

"But what?" she demanded, impatiently.

"Well, it was only fair you should have a chance to meet others,
and I thought you were in love with Roberts."

"Roberts! He would have been glad of my love, I can tell you
that." She looked up at him. "I have endured much for you, Sidney
Trove, and I cannot keep my secret any longer. He says that Darrel
is now in prison for your crime."

"And you believe him?" Trove whispered.

"Not that," she answered quickly, "but you know I loved the dear
old man; I cannot think him guilty any more than I could think it
of you. But there's a deep mystery in it all. It has made me
wretched. Every one thinks you know more than you have told about
it."

"A beautiful mystery!" the young man whispered. "He thought I
should be convicted--who wouldn't? I think he loved me, so that he
took the shame and the suffering and the prison to save me."

"He would have died for you," she answered; "but, Sidney, it was
dreadful to let them take him away. Couldn't you have done
something?"

"Something, dear Polly! and I with a foot in the grave?"

"Where did you go that night?"

"I do not know; but in the morning I found myself in our great
pasture and was ill. Some instinct led me home, and, as usual, I
had gone across lots." Then he told the story of that day and
night and the illness that followed.

"I, too, was ill," said Polly, "and I thought you were cruel not to
come to me. When I began to go out of doors they told me you were
low with fever. Then I got ready to go to you, and that very day I
saw you pass the door. I thought surely you would come to see me,
but--but you went away."

Polly's lips were trembling, and she covered her eyes a moment with
her handkerchief.

"I feared to be unwelcome," said he.

"You and every one, except my mother, was determined that I should
marry Roberts," Polly went on. "He has been urgent, but you,
Sidney, you wouldn't have me. You have done everything you could
to help him. Now I've found you, and I'm going to tell you all,
and you've got to listen to me. He has proof, he says, that you
are guilty of another crime, and--and he says you are now a
fugitive trying to escape arrest."

A little silence followed, in which Trove was thinking of the Hope
letters and of Roberts' claim that he was engaged to Polly.

"You have been wrapped in mysteries long enough. I shall not let
you go until you explain," she continued.

"There's no mystery about this," said Trove, calmly. "Roberts is a
rascal, and that's the reason I'm here."

She turned quickly with a look of surprise.

"I mean it. He knows I am guilty of no crime, but he does know
that I am looking for Louis Leblanc, and he has fooled me with
lying letters to keep me out of the way and win you with his guile."

A serious look came into the eyes of Polly.

"You are looking for Louis Leblanc," she whispered.

"Yes; it is the first move in a plan to free Darrel, for I am sure
that Leblanc committed the crime. I shall know soon after I meet
him."

"How?"

"If he should have a certain mark on the back of his left hand and
were to satisfy me in two other details, I'd give my life to one
purpose,--that of making him confess. God help me! I cannot find
the man. But I shall not give up; I shall go and see the Governor."

Turning her face away and looking out of the window, she felt for
his hand. Then she pressed it fondly. That was the giving of all
sacred things forever, and he knew it. He was the same Sidney
Trove, but never until that day had she seen the full height of his
noble manhood, ever holding above its own the happiness of them it
loved. Suddenly her heart was full with thinking of the power and
beauty of it.

"I do love you, Polly," said Trove, at length. "I've answered your
queries,--all of them,--and now it's my turn. If we were at
Robin's Inn, I should put my arms about you, and I should not let
you go until--until you had promised to be my wife."

"And I should not promise for at least an hour," said she, smiling,
as she turned, her dark eyes full of their new discovery. "Let us
go home."

"I'm going to be imperative," said he, "and you must answer before
I will let you go--"

"Dear Sidney," said she, "let's wait until we reach home. It's too
bad to spoil it here. But--" she whispered, looking about the
room, "you may kiss me once now."

"It's like a tale in _Harper's_," said he, presently. "It's 'to be
continued,' always, at the most exciting passage."

"I shall take the cars at one o'clock," said she, smiling. "But I
shall not allow you to go with me. You know the weird sisters."

"It would be impossible," said Trove. "I must get work somewhere;
my money is gone."

"Money!" said she, opening her purse. "I'm a Lady Bountiful.
Think of it--I've two hundred dollars here. Didn't you know Riley
Brooke cancelled the mortgage? Mother had saved this money for a
payment."

"Cancelled the mortgage!" said Trove.

"Yes, the dear old tinker repaired him, and now he's a new man.
I'll give you a job, Sidney."

"What to do?"

"Go and see the Governor, and then--and then you are to report to
me at Robin's Inn. Mind you, there's to be no delay, and I'll pay
you--let's see, I'll pay you a hundred dollars."

Trove began to laugh, and thought of this odd fulfilling of the
ancient promises.

"I shall stay to-night with a cousin at Burlington. Oh, there's
one more thing--you're to get a new suit of clothes at Albany, and,
remember, it must be very grand."

It was near train time, and they left the inn.

"I'm going to tell you everything," said she, as they were on their
way to the depot. "The day after to-morrow I am to see that
dreadful Roberts. I'm longing to give him his answer."

Not an hour before then Roberts had passed them on his way to
Boston.

XXXV

At the Sign of the Golden Spool[1]

[1 The author desires to say that this chapter relates to no shop
now in existence.]

It was early May and a bright morning in Hillsborough. There were
lines of stores and houses on either side of the main thoroughfare
from the river to Moosehead Inn, a long, low, white building that
faced the public square. Hunters coming off its veranda and gazing
down the street, as if sighting over gun-barrels at the bridge,
were wont to reckon the distance "nigh on to forty rod." There
were "Boston Stores" and "Great Emporiums" and shops, modest as
they were small, in that forty rods of Hillsborough. Midway was a
little white building, its eaves within reach of one's hand, its
gable on the line of the sidewalk overhanging which, from a crane
above the door, was a big, golden spool. In its two windows were
lace and ribbons and ladies' hats and spools of thread, and blue
shades drawn high from seven o'clock in the morning until dark. It
was the little shop of Ruth Tole--a house of Fate on the way from
happening to history. There secrets, travel-worn, were nourished a
while and sent on their way; reputations were made over and often
trimmed with excellent taste and discrimination. The wicked might
prosper for a time, but by and by the fates were at work on them,
there in the little shop, and then every one smiled as the sinner
passed, with the decoration of his rank upon him. And the sinner
smiled also, seeing not the badge on his own back but only that on
the back of his brother, and was highly pleased, for, if he had sin
deeper than his brother's he had some discretion. Relentless and
not over-just were they of this weird sisterhood. Since the time
of the gods they have been without honour but never without work,
and often they have had a better purpose than they knew. Those of
Hillsborough did their work as if with a sense of its great
solemnity. There was a flavour of awe in their nods and whispers,
and they seemed to know they were touching immortal souls. But now
and then they put on the masque of comedy.

Ruth Tole was behind the counter, sorting threads. She was a
maiden of middle life and severe countenance, of few and decisive
words. The door of the little shop was ajar, and near it a woman
sat knitting. She had a position favourable for eye and ear. She
could see all who passed, on either side of the way, and not a word
or move in the shop escaped her. In the sisterhood she bore the
familiar name of Lize. She had been talking about that old case of
Riley Brooke and the Widow Glover.

"Looks to me," said she, thoughtfully, as she tickled her scalp
with a knitting-needle, "that she took the kinks out o' him. He's
a good deal more respectable."

"Like a panther with his teeth pulled," said a woman who stood by
the counter, buying a spool of thread. "Ain't you heard how they
made up?"

"Land sakes, no!" said the sister Lize, hurriedly finishing a
stitch and then halting her fingers to pull the yarn.

The shopkeeper began rolling ribbons with a look of indifference.
She never took part in the gossip and, although she loved to hear
it, had, mostly, the air of one without ears.

"Well, that old tinker gave 'em both a good talking to," said the
customer. "He brings 'em face to face, and he says to him, says
he, 'In the day o' the Judgment God'll mind the look o' your wife,'
and then he says the same to her."

"Singular man!" said the comely sister Lize, who now resumed her
knitting.

"He never robbed that bank, either, any more 'n I did."

"Men ain't apt to claim a sin that don't belong to 'em--that's my
opinion."

"He did it to shield another."

"Sidney Trove?" was the half-whispered query of the sister Lize.

"Trove, no!" said the other, quickly. "It was that old man with a
gray beard who never spoke to anybody an' used to visit the tinker."

She was interrupted by a newcomer--a stout woman of middle age who
fluttered in, breathing heavily, under a look of pallor and
agitation.

"Sh-h-h!" said she, lifting a large hand. She sank upon a chair,
fanning herself. She said nothing for a little, as if to give the
Recording Angel a chance to dip her pen. The customer, who was now
counting a box of beads, turned quickly, and she that was called
Lize dropped her knitting.

"What is it, Bet, for mercy's sake?" said the latter.

"Have you heard the news?" said she that was called Bet.

"Land sakes, no!" said both the others.

Then followed a moment of suspense, during which the newcomer sat
biting her under lip, a merry smile in her face. She was like a
child dallying with a red plum.

"You're too provoking!" said the sister Lize, impatiently. "Why
do you keep us hanging by the eyebrows?" She pulled her yarn with
some violence, and the ball dropped to the floor, rolling half
across it.

"Sh-h-h!" said the dear sister Bet again. Another woman had
stopped by the door. Then a scornful whisper from the sister Lize.

"It's that horrible Kate Tredder. Mercy! is she coming in?"

She came in. Long since she had ceased to enjoy credit or
confidence at the little shop.

"Nice day," said she.

The sister Lize moved impatiently and picked up her work. This
untimely entrance had left her "hanging by the eyebrows" and red
with anxiety. She gave the newcomer a sweeping glance, sighed and
said, "Yes." The sister Bet grew serious and began tapping the
floor with her toe.

"I've been clear 'round the square," said Mrs. Tredder, "an' I
guess I'll sit a while. I ain't done a thing to-day, an' I don't
b'lieve I'll try 'til after dinner. Miss Tole, you may give me
another yard o' that red silk ribbon."

She sat by the counter, and Miss Tole sniffed a little and began to
measure the ribbon. She was deeply if secretly offended by this
intrusion.

"What's the news?" said the newcomer, turning to the sister Bet.

"Oh, nothing!" said the other, wearily.

"Ain't you heard about that woman up at the Moosehead?"

"Heard all I care to," said the sister Bet, with jealous feeling.
Here was another red plum off the same tree.

"What about her?" said the sister Lize, now reaching on tiptoe, as
it were. The sister Bet rose impatiently and made for the door.

"Going?" said she that was called Lize, a note of alarm in her
voice.

"Yes; do you think I've nothing else to do but sit here and
gossip," said sister Bet, disappearing suddenly, her face red.

The newcomer sat in a thoughtful attitude, her elbow on the counter.

"Well?" said the sister Lize.

"You all treat me so funny here I guess I'll go," said Mrs.
Tredder, who now got up, her face darkening, and hurried away.
They of the plums had both vanished.

"Wretch!" said the sister Lize, hotly; "I could have choked her."
She squirmed a little, moving her chair roughly.

"She's forever sticking her nose into other people's business,"
were the words of the customer who was counting beads. She seemed
to be near the point of tears.

"Maybe that's why it's so red," the other answered with unspeakable
contempt. "I'm so mad I can hardly sit still."

She wound her yarn close and stuck her needle into the ball.

"Thank goodness!" said she, suddenly; "here comes Serene."

The sister Serene Davis, a frail, fair lady, entered.

"Well," said the latter, "I suppose you've heard--" she paused to
get her breath.

"What?" said the sister Lize, in a whisper, approaching the new
arrival.

"My heart is all in a flutter--don't hurry me."

The sister Lize went to the door and closed it. Then she turned
quickly, facing the other woman.

"Serene Davis," she began solemnly, "you'll never leave this room
alive until you tell us."

"Can't you let a body enjoy herself a minute?"

"Tell me," she insisted, threatening with a needle.

Ruth Tole regarded them with a look of firmness which seemed to
say, "Stab her if she doesn't tell."

"Well," said the sister Serene, "you know that stylish young widow
that came a while ago to the Moosehead--the one that wore the
splendid black silk the night o' the ball?"

"Yes."

"She was a detective,"--this in a whisper.

"What!" said the other two, awesomely.

"A detective."

Then a quick movement of chairs and a pulling of yarn. Ruth
dropped a spool of thread which rattled, as it fell, and rolled a
space and lay neglected.

The sister Serene was now laughing.

"It's ridiculous!" she remarked.

"Go on," said the others, and one of them added, "Land sakes! don't
stop now."

"Well, she got sick the other day and sent for a lawyer, an' who do
you suppose it was?"

"I dunno," said Ruth Tole. The words had broken away from her, and
she covered her mouth, quickly, and began to look out of the
window. The speaker had begun to laugh again.

"'Twas Dick Roberts," she went on. "He went over to the tavern;
she lay there in bed and had a nurse in the room with her--a woman
she got in Ogdensburg. She tells the young lawyer she wants him to
make her will. Then she describes her property and he puts it
down. There was a palace in Wales and a castle on the Rhine and
pearls and diamonds and fifty thousand pounds in a foreign bank,
and I don't know what all. Well, ye know, she was pert and
handsome, and he began to take notice."

The sisters looked from one to another and gave up to gleeful
smiles, but Ruth was, if anything, a bit firmer than before.

"Next day he brought her some flowers, and she began to get better.
Then he took her out to ride. One night about ten o'clock the
nurse comes into the room sudden like, and finds him on his knees
before the widow, kissing her dress an' talking all kinds o'
nonsense."

"Here! stop a minute," said the sister Lize, who had now dropped
her knitting and begun to fan herself. "You take my breath away."
The details were too important for hasty consideration.

"Makin' love?" said she with the beads, thoughtfully.

"I should think likely," said the other, whereupon the three began
to laugh again. Their merriment over, through smiles they gave
each other looks of dreamy reflection.

"Now go on," said the sister Lize, leaning forward, her chin upon
her hands.

"There he knelt, kissing her dress," the narrator continued.

"Why didn't he kiss her face?"

"Because she wouldn't let him, I suppose."

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