Darrel of the Blessed Isles Part 5

"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. "G.o.d 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 n.o.body 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, G.o.d save us all! 'twas the old story o' pride an' bitterness. He sought no help o' him. A year an' a half pa.s.ses 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 pa.s.sed--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 s.h.i.+ps 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 h.e.l.l. 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 bra.s.s, 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 G.o.d'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, G.o.d 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 G.o.d'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' h.e.l.l 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' h.e.l.l,' 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, s.h.i.+ny 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 G.o.d's me judge I felt a pride in rags an' the h.o.r.n.y 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' G.o.d! 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 G.o.d! 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' G.o.d give thee counsel.'"

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