Darrel of the Blessed Isles by Irving Bacheller

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Then follows the odd entry without which it is doubtful if the
history of Sidney Trove could ever have been written. At least
only a guess would have been possible, where now is certainty. And
here is the entry:--

"Since leaving home the men of the dark have been very troublesome.
They wake me about every other night and sometimes I wonder what
they mean."

Now an odd thing had developed in the mystery of the boy. Even
before he could distinguish between reality and its shadow that we
see in dreams, he used often to start up with a loud cry of fear in
the night. When a small boy he used to explain it briefly by
saying, "the men in the dark." Later he used to say, "the men
outdoors in the dark." At ten years of age he went off on a three
days' journey with the Allens. They put up in a tavern that had
many rooms and stairways and large windows. It was a while after
his return of an evening, before candle-light, when a gray curtain
of dusk had dimmed the windows, that he first told the story, soon
oft repeated and familiar, of "the men in the dark"--at least he
went as far as he knew.

"I dream," he was wont to say in after life, "that I am listening
in the still night alone--I am always alone. I hear a sound in the
silence, of what I cannot be sure. I discover then, or seem to,
that I stand in a dark room and tremble, with great fear, of what I
do not know. I walk along softly in bare feet--I am so fearful of
making a noise. I am feeling, feeling, my hands out in the dark.
Presently they touch a wall and I follow it and then I discover
that I am going downstairs. It is a long journey. At last I am in
a room where I can see windows, and, beyond, the dim light of the
moon. Now I seem to be wrapped in fearful silence. Stealthily I
go near the door. Its upper half is glass, and beyond it I can see
the dark forms of men. One is peering through with face upon the
pane; I know the other is trying the lock, but I hear no sound. I
am in a silence like that of the grave. I try to speak. My lips
move, but, try as I may, no sound comes out of them. A sharp
terror is pricking into me, and I flinch as if it were a
knife-blade. Well, sir, that is a thing I cannot understand. You
know me--I am not a coward. If I were really in a like scene fear
would be the least of my emotions; but in the dream I tremble and
am afraid. Slowly, silently, the door opens, the men of the dark
enter, wall and windows begin to reel. I hear a quick, loud cry,
rending the silence and falling into a roar like that of flooding
waters. Then I wake, and my dream is ended--for that night."

Now men have had more thrilling and remarkable dreams, but that of
the boy Trove was as a link in a chain, lengthening with his life,
and ever binding him to some event far beyond the reach of his
memory.

V

At the Sign o' the Dial

It was Sunday and a clear, frosty morning of midwinter. Trove had
risen early and was walking out on a long pike that divided the
village of Hillsborough and cut the waste of snow, winding over
hills and dipping into valleys, from Lake Champlain to Lake
Ontario. The air was cold but full of magic sun-fire. All things
were aglow--the frosty roadway, the white fields, the hoary forest,
and the mind of the beholder. Trove halted, looking off at the far
hills. Then he heard a step behind him and, as he turned, saw a
tall man approaching at a quick pace. The latter had no overcoat.
A knit muffler covered his throat, and a satchel hung from a strap
on his shoulder.

"What ho, boy!" said he, shivering. "'I'll follow thee a month,
devise with thee where thou shalt rest, that thou may'st hear of
us, an' we o' thee.' What o' thy people an' the filly?"

"All well," said Trove, who was delighted to see the clock tinker,
of whom he had thought often. "And what of you?"

"Like an old clock, sor--a weak spring an' a bit slow. But, praise
God! I've yet a merry gong in me. An' what think you, sor, I've
travelled sixty miles an' tinkered forty clocks in the week gone."

"I think you yourself will need tinkering."

"Ah, but I thank the good God, here is me home," the old man
remarked wearily.

"I'm going to school here," said Trove, "and hope I may see you
often."

"Indeed, boy, we'll have many a blessed hour," said the tinker.
"Come to me shop; we'll talk, meditate, explore, an' I'll see what
o'clock it is in thy country."

They were now in the village, and, halfway down its main
thoroughfare, went up a street of gloom and narrowness between
dingy workshops. At one of them, shaky, and gray with the stain of
years, they halted. The two lower windows in front were dim with
dirt and cobwebs. A board above them was the rude sign of Sam
Bassett, carpenter. On the side of the old shop was a flight of
sagging, rickety stairs. At the height of a man's head an old
brass dial was nailed to the gray boards. Roughly lettered in
lampblack beneath it were the words, "Clocks Mended." They climbed
the shaky stairs to a landing, supported by long braces, and
whereon was a broad door, with latch and keyhole in its weathered
timber.

"All bow at this door," said the old tinker, as he put his long
iron key in the lock. "It's respect for their own heads, not for
mine," he continued, his hand on the eaves that overhung below the
level of the door-top.

They entered a loft, open to the peak and shingles, with a window
in each end. Clocks, dials, pendulums, and tiny cog-wheels of wood
and brass were on a long bench by the street window. Thereon,
also, were a vice and tools. The room was cleanly, with a crude
homelikeness about it. Chromos and illustrated papers had been
pasted on the rough, board walls.

"On me life, it is cold," said the tinker, opening a small stove
and beginning to whittle shavings, "'Cold as a dead man's nose.'
Be seated, an' try--try to be happy."

There was an old rocker and two small chairs in the room.

"I do not feel the cold," said Trove, taking one of them.

"Belike, good youth, thou hast the rose of summer in thy cheeks,"
said the old man.

"And no need of an overcoat," the boy answered, removing the one he
wore and passing it to the tinker. "I wish you to keep it, sir."

"Wherefore, boy? 'Twould best serve me on thy back."

"Please take it," said Trove. "I cannot bear to think of you
shivering in the cold. Take it, and make me happy."

"Well, if it keep me warm, an' thee happy, it will be a wonderful
coat," said the old man, wiping his gray eyes.

Then he rose and filled the stove with wood and sat down, peering
at Trove between the upper rim of his spectacles and the feathery
arches of silvered hair upon his brows.

"Thy coat hath warmed me heart already--thanks to the good God!"
said he, fervently. "Why so kind?"

"If I am kind, it is because I must be," said the boy. "Who were
my father and mother, I never knew. If I meet a man who is in
need, I say to myself, 'He may be my father or my brother, I must
be good to him;' and if it is a woman, I cannot help thinking that,
maybe, she is my mother or my sister. So I should have to be kind
to all the people in the world if I were to meet them."

"Noble suspicion! by the faith o' me fathers!" said the old man,
thoughtfully, rubbing his long nose. "An' have ye thought further
in the matter? Have ye seen whither it goes?"

"I fear not."

"Well, sor, under the ancient law, ye reap as ye have sown, but
more abundantly. I gave me coat to one that needed it more, an' by
the goodness o' God I have reaped another an' two friends. Hold to
thy course, boy, thou shalt have friends an' know their value. An'
then thou shalt say, 'I'll be kind to this man because he may be a
friend;' an' love shall increase in thee, an' around thee, an'
bring happiness. Ah, boy! in the business o' the soul, men pay
thee better than they owe. Kindness shall bring friendship, an'
friendship shall bring love, an' love shall bring happiness, an'
that, sor, that is the approval o' God. What speculation hath such
profit? Hast thou learned to think?"

"I hope I have," said the boy.

"Prithee--think a thought for me. What is the first law o' life?"

There was a moment of silence.

"Thy pardon, boy," said the venerable tinker, filling a clay pipe
and stretching himself on a lounge. "Thou art not long out o' thy
clouts. It is, 'Thou shalt learn to think an' obey.' Consider how
man and beast are bound by it. Very well--think thy way up. Hast
thou any fear?"

The old man was feeling his gray hair, thoughtfully.

"Only the fear o' God," said the boy, after a moment of hesitation.

"Well, on me word, I am full sorry," said the tinker. "Though mind
ye, boy, fear is an excellent good thing, an' has done a work in
the world. But, hear me, a man had two horses the same age, size,
shape, an' colour, an' one went for fear o' the whip, an' the other
went as well without a whip in the wagon. Now, tell me, which was
the better horse?"

"The one that needed no whip."

"Very well!" said the old man, with emphasis. "A man had two sons,
an' one obeyed him for fear o' the whip, an' the other, because he
loved his father, an' could not bear to grieve him. Tell me again,
boy, which was the better son?"

"The one that loved him," said the boy.

"Very well! very well!" said the old man, loudly. "A man had two
neighbours, an' one stole not his sheep for fear o' the law, an'
the other, sor, he stole them not, because he loved his neighbour.
Now which was the better man?"

"The man that loved him."

"Very well! very well! and again very well!" said the tinker,
louder than before. "There were two kings, an' one was feared, an'
the other, he was beloved; which was the better king?"

"The one that was beloved."

"Very well! and three times again very well!" said the old man,
warmly. "An' the good God is he not greater an' more to be loved
than all kings? Fear, boy, that is the whip o' destiny driving the
dumb herd. To all that fear I say 'tis well, have fear, but pray
that love may conquer it. To all that love I say, fear only lest
ye lose the great treasure. Love is the best thing, an' with too
much fear it sickens. Always keep it with thee--a little is a
goodly property an' its revenoo is happiness. Therefore, be happy,
boy--try ever to be happy."

There was a moment of silence broken by the sound of a church bell.

"To thy prayers," said the clock tinker, rising, "an' I'll to mine.
Dine with me at five, good youth, an' all me retinoo--maids,
warders, grooms, attendants--shall be at thy service."

"I'll be glad to come," said the boy, smiling at his odd host.

"An' see thou hast hunger."

"Good morning, Mr. ---- ?" the boy hesitated.

"Darrel--Roderick Darrel--" said the old man, "that's me name, sor,
an' ye'll find me here at the Sign o' the Dial."

A wind came shrieking over the hills, and long before evening the
little town lay dusky in a scud of snow mist. The old stairs were
quivering in the storm as Trove climbed them.

"Welcome, good youth," said the clock tinker, shaking the boy's
hand as he came in. "Ho there! me servitors. Let the feast be
spread," he called in a loud voice, stepping quickly to the stove
that held an upper deck of wood, whereon were dishes. "Right Hand
bring the meat an' Left Hand the potatoes an' Quick Foot give us
thy help here."

He suited his action to the words, placing a platter of ham and
eggs in the centre of a small table and surrounding it with hot
roast potatoes, a pot of tea, new biscuit, and a plate of honey.

"Ho! Wit an' Happiness, attend upon us here," said he, making
ready to sit down.

Then, as if he had forgotten something, he hurried to the door and
opened it.

"Care, thou skeleton, go hence, and thou, Poverty, go also, and see
thou return not before cock-crow," said he, imperatively.

"You have many servants," said Trove.

"An' how may one have a castle without servants? Forsooth, boy,
horses an' hounds, an' lords an' ladies have to be attended to.
But the retinoo is that run down ye'd think me home a hospital.
Wit is a creeping dotard, and Happiness he is in poor health an'
can barely drag himself to me table, an' Hope is a tippler, an'
Right Hand is getting the palsy. Alack! me best servant left me a
long time ago."

"And who was he?"

"Youth! lovely, beautiful Youth! but let us be happy. I would not
have him back--foolish, inconstant Youth! dreaming dreams an'
seeing visions. God love ye, boy! what is thy dream?"

This rallying style of talk, in which the clock tinker indulged so
freely, afforded his young friend no little amusement. His tongue
had long obeyed the lilt of classic diction; his thought came easy
in Elizabethan phrase. The slight Celtic brogue served to enhance
the piquancy of his talk. Moreover he was really a man of wit and
imagination.

"Once," said the boy, after a little hesitation, "I thought I
should try to be a statesman, but now I am sure I would rather
write books."

"An' what kind o' books, pray?"

"Tales."

"An' thy merchandise be truth, capital!" exclaimed the tinker.
"Hast thou an ear for tales?"

"I'm very fond of them."

"Marry, I'll tell thee a true tale, not for thy ear only but for
thy soul, an' some day, boy, 'twill give thee occupation for thy
wits."

"I'd love to hear it," said the boy.

The pendulums were ever swinging like the legs of a procession
trooping through the loft, some with quick steps, some with slow.
Now came a sound as of drums beating. It was for the hour of
eight, and when it stopped the tinker began.

"Once upon a time," said he, as they rose from the table and the
old man went for his pipe, "'twas long ago, an' I had then the rose
o' youth upon me, a man was tempted o' the devil an' stole money--a
large sum--an' made off with it. These hands o' mine used to serve
him those days, an' I remember he was a man comely an' well set up,
an', I think, he had honour an' a good heart in him."

The old man paused.

"I should not think it possible," said Trove, who was at the age of
certainty in his opinions and had long been trained to the
uncompromising thought of the Puritan. "A man who steals can have
no honour in him."

"Ho! Charity," said the clock tinker, turning as if to address one
behind him. "Sweet Charity! attend upon this boy. Mayhap, sor,"
he continued meekly. "God hath blessed me with little knowledge o'
what is possible. But I speak of a time before guilt had sored
him. He was officer of a great bank--let us say--in Boston. Some
thought him rich, but he lived high an' princely, an' I take it,
sor, his income was no greater than his needs. It was a proud race
he belonged to--grand people they were, all o' them--with houses
an' lands an' many servants. His wife was dead, sor, an' he'd one
child--a little lad o' two years, an' beautiful. One day the boy
went out with his nurse, an' where further nobody knew. He never
came back. Up an' down, over an' across they looked for him, night
an' day, but were no wiser, A month went by an' not a sight or sign
o' him, an' their hope failed. One day the father he got a
note,--I remember reading it in the papers, sor,--an' it was a call
for ransom money--one hundred thousand dollars."

"Kidnapped!" Trove exclaimed with much interest.

"He was, sor," the clock tinker resumed. "The father he was up to
his neck in trouble, then, for he was unable to raise the money.
He had quarrelled with an older brother whose help would have been
sufficient. Well, God save us all! 'twas the old story o' pride
an' bitterness. He sought no help o' him. A year an' a half
passes an' a gusty night o' midwinter the bank burns. Books,
papers, everything is destroyed. Now the poor man has lost his
occupation. A week more an' his good name is gone; a month an'
he's homeless. A whisper goes down the long path o' gossip. Was
he a thief an' had he burned the record of his crime? The scene
changes, an' let me count the swift, relentless years."

The old man paused a moment, looking up thoughtfully.

"Well, say ten or mayhap a dozen passed--or more or less it matters
little. Boy an' man, where were they? O the sad world, sor! To
all that knew them they were as people buried in their graves.
Think o' this drowning in the flood o' years--the stately ships
sunk an' rotting in oblivion; some word of it, sor, may well go
into thy book."

The tinker paused a moment, lighting his pipe, and after a puff or
two went on with the tale.

"It is a winter day in a great city--there are buildings an' crowds
an' busy streets an' sleet'in the bitter wind. I am there,--an' me
path is one o' many crossing each other like--well, sor, like lines
on a slate, if thou were to make ten thousand o' them an' both eyes
shut. I am walking slowly, an' lo! there is the banker. I meet
him face to face--an ill-clad, haggard, cold, forgotten creature.
I speak to him.

"'The blessed Lord have mercy on thee,' I said.

"'For meeting thee?' said the poor man. 'What is thy name?'

"'Roderick Darrel.'

"'An' I,' said he, sadly, 'am one o' the lost in hell. Art thou
the devil?'

"'Nay, this hand o' mine hath opened thy door an' blacked thy boots
for thee often,' said I. 'Dost thou not remember?'

"'Dimly--it was a long time ago,' he answered.

"We said more, sor, but that is no part o' the story. Very well!
I went with him to his lodgings,--a little cold room in a
garret,--an' there alone with me he gave account of himself. He
had shovelled, an' dug, an' lifted, an' run errands until his
strength was low an' the weight of his hand a burden. What hope
for him--what way to earn a living!

"'Have courage, man,' I said to him. 'Thou shalt learn to mend
clocks. It's light an' decent work, an' one may live by it an' see
much o' the world.'

"There was an old clock, sor, in a heap o' rubbish that lay in a
corner. I took it apart, and soon he saw the office of each wheel
an' pinion an' the infirmity that stopped them an' the surgery to
make them sound. I tarried long in the great city, an' every
evening we were together in the little room. I bought him a kit o'
tools an' some brass, an' we would shatter the clockworks an' build
them up again until he had skill, sor, to make or mend.

"'Me good friend,' said he, one evening after we had been a long
time at work, 'I wish thou could'st teach me how to mend a broken
life. For God's sake, help me! I am fainting under a great
burden.'

"'What can I do?' said I to him.

"Then, sor, he went over his story with me from beginning to end.
It was an impressive, a sacred confidence. Ah, boy, it would be
dishonour to tell thee his name, but his story, that I may tell
thee, changing the detail, so it may never add a straw to his
burden. I shall quote him in substance only, an' follow the long
habit o' me own tongue.

"'Well, ye remember how me son was taken,' said he. 'I could not
raise the ransom, try as I would. Now, large sums were in me
keeping an' I fell. I remember that day. Ah! man, the devil
seemed to whisper to me. But, God forgive! it was for love that I
fell. Little by little I began to take the money I must have an'
cover its absence. I said to meself, some time I'll pay it
back--that ancient sophistry o' the devil. When me thieving had
gone far, an' near its goal, the bank burned. As God's me witness
I'd no hand in that. I weighed the chances an' expected to go to
prison--well, say for ten years, at least. I must suffer in order
to save the boy, an' was ready for the sacrifice. Free again, I
would help him to return the money. That burning o' the records
shut off the prison, but opened the fire o' hell upon me. Half a
year had gone by, an' not a word from the kidnappers. I took a
note to the place appointed,--a hollow log in the woods, a bit east
of a certain bridge on the public highway twenty miles out o' the
city,--but no answer,--not a word,--not a line up to this moment.
They must have relinquished hope an' put the boy to death.

"'In that old trunk there under the bed is a dusty, moulding,
cursed heap o' money done up in brown paper an' tied with a string.
It is a hundred thousand dollars, an' the price o' me soul.'

"'An' thou in rags an' a garret,' said I.

"'An' I in rags an' hell,' said he, sor, looking down at himself.

"He drew out the trunk an' showed me the money, stacks of it,
dirty, an' stinking o' damp mould.

"'There it is,' said he, 'every dollar I stole is there. I brought
it with me an' over these hundreds o' miles I could hear the tongue
o' gossip. Every night as I lay down I could hear the whispering
of all the people I ever knew. I could see them shake their heads.
Then came this locket o' gold.'

"A beautiful, shiny thing it was, an' he took out of it a little
strand o' white hair an' read these words cut in the gleaming
case:--

"'Here are silver an' gold,
The one for a day o' remembrance between thee an' dishonour,
The other for a day o' plenty between thee an' want.'

"It was an odd thought an' worth keeping, an' often I have repeated
the words. The silvered hair, that was for remembrance; an' the
gold he might sell and turn it into a day o' plenty.

"'In the locket was a letter,' said the poor man. 'Here it is,'
an' he held it in the light o' the candle. 'See, it is signed
"mother."'

"An' he read from the letter words o' sorrow an' bitter shame, an'
firm confidence in his honour,

"'It ground me to the very dust,' he went on. 'I put the money in
that bundle, every dollar. I could not return it, an' so confirm
the disgrace o' her an' all the rest. I could not use it, for if I
lived in comfort they would ask--all o' them--whence came his
money? For their sake I must walk in poverty all me days. An' I
went to work at heavy toil, sor, as became a poor man. As God's me
judge I felt a pride in rags an' the horny hand.'"

The tinker paused a moment in which all the pendulums seemed to
quicken pace, tick lapping upon tick, as if trying to get ahead of
each other.

"Think of it, boy," Darrel continued. "A pride in rags an'
poverty. Bring that into thy book an' let thy best thinking bear
upon it. Show us how patch an' tatter were for the poor man as
badges of honour an' success.

"'I thought to burn the money,' me host went on. 'But no, that
would have robbed me o' one great possibility--that o' restoring
it. Some time, when they were dead, maybe, an' I could suffer
alone, I would restore it, or, at least, I might see a way to turn
it into good works. So I could not be quit o' the money. Day an'
night these slow an' heavy years it has been me companion, cursing
an' accusing me.

"'I lie here o' nights thinking. In that heap o' money I seem to
hear the sighs an' sobs o' the poor people that toiled to earn it.
I feel their sweat upon me, an' God! this heart o' mine is crowded
to bursting with the despair o' hundreds. An', betimes, I hear the
cry o' murder in the cursed heap as if there were some had blood
upon it. An' then I dream it has caught fire beneath me an' I am
burning raw in the flame.'"

The tinker paused again, crossing the room and watching the swing
of a pendulum.

"Boy, boy," said he, returning to his chair, "think' o' that
complaining, immovable heap lying there like the blood of a murder.
An' thy reader must feel the toil an' sweat an' misery an' despair
that is in a great sum, an' how it all presses on the heart o' him
that gets it wrongfully.

"'Well, sor,' the poor fellow continued, 'now an' then I met those
had known me, an' reports o' me poverty went home. An' those dear
to me sent money, the sight o' which filled me with a mighty
sickness, an' I sent it back to them. Long ago, thank God! they
ceased to think me a thief, but only crazy. Tell me, man, what
shall I do with the money? There be those living I have to
consider, an' those dead, an' those unborn.'

"'Hide it,' said I, 'an' go to thy work an' God give thee counsel.'"

Man and boy rose from the table and drew up to the little stove.

"Now, boy," said the clock tinker, leaning toward him with knitted
brows, "consider this poor thief who suffered so for his friends.
Think o' these good words, 'Greater love hath no man than this,
that he lay down his life for his friends.' If thou should'st ever
write of it, thy problem will be to reckon the good an' evil, an'
give each a careful estimate an' him his proper rank!"

"What a sad tale!" said the boy, thoughtfully. "It's terrible to
think he may be my father."

"I'd have no worry o' that, sor," said the clock tinker. "There be
ten thousand--ay, more--who know not their fathers. An', moreover,
'twas long, long ago."

"Please tell me when was the boy taken," said Trove.

"Time, or name, or place, I cannot tell thee, lest I betray him,"
said the old man, "Neither is necessary to thy tale. Keep it with
thee a while; thou art young yet an' close inshore. Wait until ye
sound the further deep. Then, sor, write, if God give thee power,
and think chiefly o' them in peril an' about to dash their feet
upon the stones."

For a moment the clocks' ticking was like the voice of many ripples
washing the shore of the Infinite. A new life had begun for Trove,
and they were cutting it into seconds. He looked up at them and
rose quickly and stood a moment, his thumb on the door-latch.
Outside they could hear the rush and scatter of the snow.

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