It was Sunday and a clear, frosty morning of midwinter. Trove hadrisen early and was walking out on a long pike that divided thevillage of Hillsborough and cut the waste of snow, winding overhills and dipping into valleys, from Lake Champlain to LakeOntario. The air was cold but full of magic sun-fire. All thingswere aglow--the frosty roadway, the white fields, the hoary forest,and the mind of the beholder. Trove halted, looking off at the farhills. Then he heard a step behind him and, as he turned, saw atall man approaching at a quick pace. The latter had no overcoat.A knit muffler covered his throat, and a satchel hung from a strapon 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 ofus, 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, praiseGod! I've yet a merry gong in me. An' what think you, sor, I'vetravelled 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 manremarked wearily.
"I'm going to school here," said Trove, "and hope I may see youoften."
"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 whato'clock it is in thy country."
They were now in the village, and, halfway down its mainthoroughfare, went up a street of gloom and narrowness betweendingy workshops. At one of them, shaky, and gray with the stain ofyears, they halted. The two lower windows in front were dim withdirt and cobwebs. A board above them was the rude sign of SamBassett, carpenter. On the side of the old shop was a flight ofsagging, rickety stairs. At the height of a man's head an oldbrass dial was nailed to the gray boards. Roughly lettered inlampblack beneath it were the words, "Clocks Mended." They climbedthe shaky stairs to a landing, supported by long braces, andwhereon was a broad door, with latch and keyhole in its weatheredtimber.
"All bow at this door," said the old tinker, as he put his longiron key in the lock. "It's respect for their own heads, not formine," he continued, his hand on the eaves that overhung below thelevel of the door-top.
They entered a loft, open to the peak and shingles, with a windowin each end. Clocks, dials, pendulums, and tiny cog-wheels of woodand brass were on a long bench by the street window. Thereon,also, were a vice and tools. The room was cleanly, with a crudehomelikeness about it. Chromos and illustrated papers had beenpasted on the rough, board walls.
"On me life, it is cold," said the tinker, opening a small stoveand 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 hewore 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 youshivering in the cold. Take it, and make me happy."
"Well, if it keep me warm, an' thee happy, it will be a wonderfulcoat," said the old man, wiping his gray eyes.
Then he rose and filled the stove with wood and sat down, peeringat Trove between the upper rim of his spectacles and the featheryarches 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 weremy father and mother, I never knew. If I meet a man who is inneed, I say to myself, 'He may be my father or my brother, I mustbe 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 kindto 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 furtherin the matter? Have ye seen whither it goes?"
"I fear not."
"Well, sor, under the ancient law, ye reap as ye have sown, butmore abundantly. I gave me coat to one that needed it more, an' bythe goodness o' God I have reaped another an' two friends. Hold tothy 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 afriend;' an' love shall increase in thee, an' around thee, an'bring happiness. Ah, boy! in the business o' the soul, men paythee 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 suchprofit? 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 pipeand stretching himself on a lounge. "Thou art not long out o' thyclouts. It is, 'Thou shalt learn to think an' obey.' Consider howman and beast are bound by it. Very well--think thy way up. Hastthou 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 mindye, boy, fear is an excellent good thing, an' has done a work inthe 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 otherwent as well without a whip in the wagon. Now, tell me, which wasthe 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 heloved 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 twoneighbours, 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 lovedthan all kings? Fear, boy, that is the whip o' destiny driving thedumb herd. To all that fear I say 'tis well, have fear, but praythat love may conquer it. To all that love I say, fear only lestye lose the great treasure. Love is the best thing, an' with toomuch fear it sickens. Always keep it with thee--a little is agoodly 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 thelittle town lay dusky in a scud of snow mist. The old stairs werequivering in the storm as Trove climbed them.
"Welcome, good youth," said the clock tinker, shaking the boy'shand as he came in. "Ho there! me servitors. Let the feast bespread," he called in a loud voice, stepping quickly to the stovethat held an upper deck of wood, whereon were dishes. "Right Handbring the meat an' Left Hand the potatoes an' Quick Foot give usthy help here."
He suited his action to the words, placing a platter of ham andeggs in the centre of a small table and surrounding it with hotroast potatoes, a pot of tea, new biscuit, and a plate of honey.
"Ho! Wit an' Happiness, attend upon us here," said he, makingready to sit down.
Then, as if he had forgotten something, he hurried to the door andopened it.
"Care, thou skeleton, go hence, and thou, Poverty, go also, and seethou 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 along time ago."
"And who was he?"
"Youth! lovely, beautiful Youth! but let us be happy. I would nothave 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 sofreely, afforded his young friend no little amusement. His tonguehad long obeyed the lilt of classic diction; his thought came easyin Elizabethan phrase. The slight Celtic brogue served to enhancethe piquancy of his talk. Moreover he was really a man of wit andimagination.
"Once," said the boy, after a little hesitation, "I thought Ishould try to be a statesman, but now I am sure I would ratherwrite 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 forthy soul, an' some day, boy, 'twill give thee occupation for thywits."
"I'd love to hear it," said the boy.
The pendulums were ever swinging like the legs of a processiontrooping through the loft, some with quick steps, some with slow.Now came a sound as of drums beating. It was for the hour ofeight, and when it stopped the tinker began.
"Once upon a time," said he, as they rose from the table and theold man went for his pipe, "'twas long ago, an' I had then the roseo' youth upon me, a man was tempted o' the devil an' stole money--alarge sum--an' made off with it. These hands o' mine used to servehim 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 ofcertainty in his opinions and had long been trained to theuncompromising thought of the Puritan. "A man who steals can haveno honour in him."
"Ho! Charity," said the clock tinker, turning as if to address onebehind 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 soredhim. He was officer of a great bank--let us say--in Boston. Somethought 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 racehe belonged to--grand people they were, all o' them--with housesan' lands an' many servants. His wife was dead, sor, an' he'd onechild--a little lad o' two years, an' beautiful. One day the boywent out with his nurse, an' where further nobody knew. He nevercame back. Up an' down, over an' across they looked for him, nightan' day, but were no wiser, A month went by an' not a sight or signo' him, an' their hope failed. One day the father he got anote,--I remember reading it in the papers, sor,--an' it was a callfor ransom money--one hundred thousand dollars."
"Kidnapped!" Trove exclaimed with much interest.
"He was, sor," the clock tinker resumed. "The father he was up tohis neck in trouble, then, for he was unable to raise the money.He had quarrelled with an older brother whose help would have beensufficient. Well, God save us all! 'twas the old story o' pridean' bitterness. He sought no help o' him. A year an' a halfpasses an' a gusty night o' midwinter the bank burns. Books,papers, everything is destroyed. Now the poor man has lost hisoccupation. A week more an' his good name is gone; a month an'he's homeless. A whisper goes down the long path o' gossip. Washe a thief an' had he burned the record of his crime? The scenechanges, 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 matterslittle. Boy an' man, where were they? O the sad world, sor! Toall that knew them they were as people buried in their graves.Think o' this drowning in the flood o' years--the stately shipssunk an' rotting in oblivion; some word of it, sor, may well gointo thy book."
The tinker paused a moment, lighting his pipe, and after a puff ortwo went on with the tale.
"It is a winter day in a great city--there are buildings an' crowdsan' busy streets an' sleet'in the bitter wind. I am there,--an' mepath is one o' many crossing each other like--well, sor, like lineson a slate, if thou were to make ten thousand o' them an' both eyesshut. I am walking slowly, an' lo! there is the banker. I meethim 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 thouthe devil?'
"'Nay, this hand o' mine hath opened thy door an' blacked thy bootsfor 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 agarret,--an' there alone with me he gave account of himself. Hehad shovelled, an' dug, an' lifted, an' run errands until hisstrength was low an' the weight of his hand a burden. What hopefor him--what way to earn a living!
"'Have courage, man,' I said to him. 'Thou shalt learn to mendclocks. It's light an' decent work, an' one may live by it an' seemuch o' the world.'
"There was an old clock, sor, in a heap o' rubbish that lay in acorner. I took it apart, and soon he saw the office of each wheelan' pinion an' the infirmity that stopped them an' the surgery tomake them sound. I tarried long in the great city, an' everyevening we were together in the little room. I bought him a kit o'tools an' some brass, an' we would shatter the clockworks an' buildthem up again until he had skill, sor, to make or mend.
"'Me good friend,' said he, one evening after we had been a longtime at work, 'I wish thou could'st teach me how to mend a brokenlife. For God's sake, help me! I am fainting under a greatburden.'
"'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 bedishonour to tell thee his name, but his story, that I may tellthee, changing the detail, so it may never add a straw to hisburden. I shall quote him in substance only, an' follow the longhabit o' me own tongue.
"'Well, ye remember how me son was taken,' said he. 'I could notraise the ransom, try as I would. Now, large sums were in mekeeping an' I fell. I remember that day. Ah! man, the devilseemed to whisper to me. But, God forgive! it was for love that Ifell. 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 itback--that ancient sophistry o' the devil. When me thieving hadgone far, an' near its goal, the bank burned. As God's me witnessI'd no hand in that. I weighed the chances an' expected to go toprison--well, say for ten years, at least. I must suffer in orderto save the boy, an' was ready for the sacrifice. Free again, Iwould help him to return the money. That burning o' the recordsshut off the prison, but opened the fire o' hell upon me. Half ayear had gone by, an' not a word from the kidnappers. I took anote to the place appointed,--a hollow log in the woods, a bit eastof a certain bridge on the public highway twenty miles out o' thecity,--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 broughtit with me an' over these hundreds o' miles I could hear the tongueo' gossip. Every night as I lay down I could hear the whisperingof 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 littlestrand o' white hair an' read these words cut in the gleamingcase:--
"'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 repeatedthe words. The silvered hair, that was for remembrance; an' thegold 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 inthat bundle, every dollar. I could not return it, an' so confirmthe disgrace o' her an' all the rest. I could not use it, for if Ilived in comfort they would ask--all o' them--whence came hismoney? For their sake I must walk in poverty all me days. An' Iwent to work at heavy toil, sor, as became a poor man. As God's mejudge I felt a pride in rags an' the horny hand.'"
The tinker paused a moment in which all the pendulums seemed toquicken pace, tick lapping upon tick, as if trying to get ahead ofeach other.
"Think of it, boy," Darrel continued. "A pride in rags an'poverty. Bring that into thy book an' let thy best thinking bearupon it. Show us how patch an' tatter were for the poor man asbadges of honour an' success.
"'I thought to burn the money,' me host went on. 'But no, thatwould have robbed me o' one great possibility--that o' restoringit. Some time, when they were dead, maybe, an' I could sufferalone, I would restore it, or, at least, I might see a way to turnit 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, cursingan' accusing me.
"'I lie here o' nights thinking. In that heap o' money I seem tohear 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 crowdedto bursting with the despair o' hundreds. An', betimes, I hear thecry o' murder in the cursed heap as if there were some had bloodupon it. An' then I dream it has caught fire beneath me an' I amburning raw in the flame.'"
The tinker paused again, crossing the room and watching the swingof a pendulum.
"Boy, boy," said he, returning to his chair, "think' o' thatcomplaining, immovable heap lying there like the blood of a murder.An' thy reader must feel the toil an' sweat an' misery an' despairthat is in a great sum, an' how it all presses on the heart o' himthat gets it wrongfully.
"'Well, sor,' the poor fellow continued, 'now an' then I met thosehad known me, an' reports o' me poverty went home. An' those dearto me sent money, the sight o' which filled me with a mightysickness, an' I sent it back to them. Long ago, thank God! theyceased to think me a thief, but only crazy. Tell me, man, whatshall I do with the money? There be those living I have toconsider, 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 knittedbrows, "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 everwrite 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 tothink he may be my father."
"I'd have no worry o' that, sor," said the clock tinker. "There beten 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 withthee a while; thou art young yet an' close inshore. Wait until yesound the further deep. Then, sor, write, if God give thee power,and think chiefly o' them in peril an' about to dash their feetupon the stones."
For a moment the clocks' ticking was like the voice of many rippleswashing the shore of the Infinite. A new life had begun for Trove,and they were cutting it into seconds. He looked up at them androse quickly and stood a moment, his thumb on the door-latch.Outside they could hear the rush and scatter of the snow.
"Poor youth!" said the old man. "Thou hast no coat--take mine.Take it, I say. It will give thee comfort an' me happiness."
He would hear no refusal, and again the coat changed owners, givinghappiness to the old and comfort to the new.
Then Trove went down the rickety stairs and away in the darkness.