Darrel of the Blessed Isles Part 45

"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 G.o.d, I know which way to turn."

x.x.xIII

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 pa.s.sions. He s.h.i.+vered 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.ses; 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.