The clock tinker was off in the snow paths every other week. In
more than a hundred homes, scattered far along road lines of the
great valley, he set the pace of the pendulums. Every winter the
mare was rented for easy driving and Darrel made his journeys
afoot. Twice a day Trove passed the little shop, and if there were
a chalk mark on the dial, he bounded upstairs to greet his friend.
Sometimes he brought another boy into the rare atmosphere of the
clock shop--one, mayhap, who needed some counsel of the wise old
man.
Spring had come again. Every day sowers walked the hills and
valleys around Hillsborough, their hands swinging with a godlike
gesture that summoned the dead to rise; everywhere was the odour of
broken field or garden. Night had come again, after a day of magic
sunlight, and soon after eight o'clock Trove was at the door of the
tinker with a schoolmate.
"How are you?" said Trove, as Darrel opened the door.
"Better for the sight o' you," said the old man, promptly. "Enter
Sidney Trove and another young gentleman."
The boys took the two chairs offered them in silence.
"Kind sor," the tinker added, turning to Trove, "thou hast thy cue;
give us the lines."
"Pardon me," said the boy. "Mr. Darrel, my friend Richard Kent."
"Of the Academy?" said Darrel, as he held to the hand of Kent.
"Of the Academy," said Trove.
"An', I make no doubt, o' good hope," the tinker added. "Let me
stop one o' the clocks--so I may not forget the hour o' meeting a
new friend."
Darrel crossed the room and stopped a pendulum.
"He would like to join this night-school of ours," Trove answered.
"Would he?" said the tinker. "Well, it is one o' hard lessons.
When ye come t' multiply love by experience, an' subtract vanity
an' add peace, an' square the remainder, an' then divide by the
number o' days in thy life--it is a pretty problem, an' the result
may be much or little, an' ye reach it--"
He paused a moment, thoughtfully puffing the smoke.
"Not in this term o' school," he added impressively.
All were silent a little time.
"Where have you been?" Trove inquired presently.
"Home," said the old man.
There was a puzzled look on Trove's face.
"Home?" he repeated with a voice of inquiry.
"I have, sor," the clock tinker went on. "This poor shelter is not
me home--it's only for a night now an' then. I've a grand house
an' many servants an' a garden, sor, where there be flowers--lovely
flowers--an' sunlight an' noble music. Believe me, boy, 'tis
enough to make one think o' heaven."
"I did not know of it," said Trove.
"Know ye not there is a country in easy reach of us, with fair
fields an' proud cities an' many people an' all delights, boy, all
delights? There I hope thou shalt found a city thyself an' build
it well so nothing shall overthrow it--fire, nor flood, nor the
slow siege o' years."
"Where?" Trove inquired eagerly.
"In the Blessed Isles, boy, in the Blessed Isles. Imagine the
infinite sea o' time that is behind us. Stand high an' look back
over its dead level. King an' empire an' all their striving
multitudes are sunk in the mighty deep. But thou shalt see rising
out of it the Blessed Isles of imagination. Green--forever green
are they--and scattered far into the dim distance. Look! there is
the city o' Shakespeare--Norman towers and battlements and Gothic
arches looming above the sea. Go there an' look at the people as
they come an' go. Mingle with them an' find good
company--merry-hearted folk a-plenty, an' God knows I love the
merry-hearted! Talk with them, an' they will teach thee wisdom.
Hard by is the Isle o' Milton, an' beyond are many--it would take
thee years to visit them. Ah, sor, half me time I live in the
Blessed Isles. What is thy affliction, boy?"
He turned to Kent--a boy whose hard luck was proverbial, and whose
left arm was in a sling.
"Broke it wrestling," said the boy.
"Kent has bad luck," said Trove. "Last year he broke his leg."
"Obey the law, or thou shalt break the bone o' thy neck," said
Darrel, quickly.
"I do obey the law," said Trent.
"Ay--the written law," said the clock tinker, "an' small credit to
thee. But the law o' thine own discovery,--the law that is for
thyself an' no other,--hast thou ne'er thought of it? Ill luck is
the penalty o' law-breaking. Therefore study the law that is for
thyself. Already I have discovered one for thee, an' it is, 'I
have not limberness enough in me bones, so I must put them in no
unnecessary peril.' Listen, I'll read thee me own code."
The clock tinker rose and got his Shakespeare, ragged from long
use, and read from a fly-leaf, his code of private law, to wit:--
"Walk at least four miles a day.
"Eat no pork and be at peace with thy liver.
"Measure thy words and cure a habit of exaggeration.
"Thine eyes are faulty--therefore, going up or down, look well to
thy steps.
"Beware of ardent spirits, for the curse that is in thy blood. It
will turn thy heart to stone.
"In giving, remember Darrel.
"Bandy no words with any man.
"Play at no game of chance.
"Think o' these things an' forget thyself."
"Now there is the law that is for me alone," Darrel continued,
looking up at the boys. "Others may eat pork or taste the red cup,
or dally with hazards an' suffer no great harm--not I. Good
youths, remember, ill luck is for him only that is ignorant,
neglectful, or defiant o' private law."
"But suppose your house fall upon you," Trove suggested.
"I speak not o' common perils," said the tinker. "But
enough--let's up with the sail. Heave ho! an' away for the Blessed
Isles. Which shall it be?"
He turned to a rude shelf, whereon were books,--near a score,--some
worn to rags.
"What if it be yon fair Isle o' Milton?" he inquired, lifting an
old volume.
"Let's to the Isle o' Milton," Trove answered.
"Well, go to one o' the clocks there, an' set it back," said the
tinker.
"How much?" Trove inquired with a puzzled look.
"Well, a matter o' two hundred years," said Darrel, who was now
turning the leaves. "List ye, boy, we're up to the shore an' hard
by the city gates. How sweet the air o' this enchanted isle!
"'And west winds with musky wing
Down the cedarn alleys fling
Nard and cassia's balmy smells.'"
He quoted thoughtfully, turning the leaves. Then he read the
shorter poems,--a score of them,--his voice sounding the noble
music of the lines. It was revelation for those raw youths and led
them high. They forgot the passing of the hours and till near
midnight were as those gone to a strange country. And they long
remembered that night with Darrel of the Blessed Isles.