by E. W. Howe
CHAPTER XXI.
LITTLE BEN.
In answer to a note requesting his presence at The Locks, Silas Davyhurried towards that part of the town as soon as he found relief fromhis duties at the hotel, regretting as he went along that Mr. Whittlewas not ahead of him with his gun, for late events had not been of acheerful nature, and he felt the need of better company than little Ben,who dragged his weary frame into the hotel kitchen a few minutes beforeSilas started.
Not that Silas did not love the boy; nor had he any objection to hiscompany on this errand, but with cries of murder in the air, and thereports of guns, he thought he would have preferred a stouter companionin his walk; but as they hurried along, little Ben keeping up withdifficulty, Silas thought that perhaps the boy's mild goodness wouldkeep away evil, and protect them both. It occurred to him for the firsttime that in a storm of thunder and lighting he should like to keepclose to little Ben, for though mankind might be unjust to him, themonsters of strength would pity his weakness, and strike elsewhere,therefore Silas came to feel quite content in his company.
Of the shot in the bottoms which had created so much excitement inDavy's Bend, and of the drifting boat which had been found in the floodby Thompson Benton and his men, Silas knew nothing except as he heardthese matters discussed about the hotel. Although the people went to TheLocks in crowds the day after the body was found, and remained therefrom early in the morning until late at night, every new arrival beingtaken into one of the darkened lower rooms to look at the dead man,Silas was not of the number. He was afraid to look at his friend's face,fearing he could see in it an accusation of his neglect to give warningof the shadow, so he remained away, and went about his duties in adreamy way, starting at every sound, as though he feared that the peoplehad at last found out his guilt, and had come to accuse him for notnotifying them of the danger of which he had been aware. The receipt ofthe note had frightened him, too, and he felt sure that when he enteredthe presence of Annie Dorris, she would break down, and inquire why hehad robbed her of a husband in his usual thoughtless way. Perhaps thesight of little Ben, in his weakness and goodness, would plead for him,so he picked the child up, and carried him on the way as far as his ownweak arms would permit.
Mrs. Wedge soon appeared in answer to his ring at The Locks gate, andadmitted him into the hall where he had heard the step on the stair onthe night when there was alarm because of Dorris's absence in thebottoms. It was dark in the hall now, as it was then, and while Silaswaited for Mrs. Wedge to fasten the door at which they had entered, helistened eagerly for the footsteps, and when he did not hear them, hetrembled at the sound of his own as he finally went up the stairs behindMrs. Wedge, followed by little Ben.
Going up to the door leading into the room which had been occupied byhis friend, Silas was ushered into the presence of Annie Dorris, who wasseated near the window where the shadow had twice appeared. There was agreat change in her manner, he noticed at once; the pretty face, whichhad formerly always carried the suspicion of a laugh, was nowdistinguished by a settled grief, and it was pale and haggard.
Her pale face was in sharp contrast to the dress of mournful black, andthe good fellow who was always trying to do right, but who was always indoubt as to which was right and which was wrong, would have given hislife cheerfully to have been a month younger.
While Silas stood near the doorway, changing his hat from one hand tothe other in confusion, he noticed that tears started to her eyes.
"Please don't cry," Silas said, walking towards her. "I want to tell youthe guilty part I have taken in this dreadful affair, but I cannotmuster up the courage when there are tears in your eyes. Please don'tcry."
Annie Dorris bravely wiped her tears away at this request, and looked atSilas with a face indicating that if his presence had opened her woundsafresh, she would try and conceal it.
"I am oppressed with the fear that I am to blame for this," hecontinued, in desperate haste, "and I must tell you, and get it off mymind, even though you send for the sheriff and have me arrested; Icannot contain the secret any longer, now that I am in your presence."
Little Ben had crawled into a chair on entering the room, and wasalready fast asleep, with his head hanging on his breast, dreaming, letus hope, of kind treatment, and of a pleasant home.
"Within a month after Allan Dorris came to Davy's Bend," Silas said,seating himself near Mrs. Dorris, "Tug and I discovered that he wasshadowed by some one, who came and went at night. For more than ayear,--until the day before it happened--we saw the strange man atintervals, but Tug said it would unnecessarily alarm you both to knowit, so we kept it to ourselves. I am sorry we did it, but we thoughtthen it was for the best. I always wanted to tell you, but Tug, whoworshipped you both, would never consent to it until the morning yourhusband went into the bottoms alone. When he came here, and found thathe had gone, he followed him, and has not been seen since. The daybefore, while rowing in the bottoms, I met the shadow, and when Tugheard this, he came at once to warn your husband not to venture outalone."
Annie Dorris made no reply. Perhaps this was no more than she expectedfrom Silas, whom she had sent for to question.
"The shot which once came in at that window was fired by Tug," Davycontinued, pointing to the pane which had been broken on the night ofAllan Dorris's marriage to Annie Benton, "and he fired at the shadow asit was looking in at your husband. For more than a year Tug has carrieda gun, and has tried to protect you; but he made a mistake in not givingwarning of this stealthy enemy. Of late months he has spent his nightsin walking around this place, trying to get a shot at the shadow; andthough some people accuse him of a horrible crime, because of hisabsence from town, he is really on the track of the guilty man, and willreturn to prove it. I cannot tell you how sorry I am to see you inmourning, but I hope you believe I did what I thought was for the best."
When Silas had concluded, they were both silent and thoughtful, and theheavy breathing of little Ben was all the sound that could be heard.This attracted the attention of Silas, and he said, respectfully,--
"Would you mind kissing the boy, ma'am? The poor little fellow is sofriendless, and has such a hard time of it, that he makes my heart ache.If you will be good enough, I will tell him of it, and he will alwaysremember it gratefully. Poor chap! I don't suppose he was ever kissed inhis life."
Annie Dorris went over to the sleeping boy, and, after kissing him, ashad been requested, picked him up, and laid him down on a lounge whichstood in the room.
"There was always something fierce and mysterious about my husband,"Mrs. Dorris said, after a time; "but both attracted me to him. I couldnot help it. A hundred times he has offered to tell me his story, but Idid not care to hear it; so that now I know nothing about him exceptthat he was the most worthy gentleman I ever knew, and combined allthose qualities which my heart craved. I knew when we were first marriedthat some such result as this was probable, but I could not resist him;and I do not regret it now. Three months of such happiness as I haveknown will repay me for future years of loneliness, and his kindness andconsideration are sweet memories, which console me even now while mygrief is so fresh. He was manly and honorable with me in every way; andthe fault, if there has been a fault, was my own. I am sure that he wasa better man because of his misfortune. I believe now that troublepurifies men, and makes them better; and the more I studied him the moreI was convinced that there were few like him; that a trifling thing hadruined his life, and that there were hundreds of men, less honorable,who were more fortunate. Even now I do not care to know more of him thanI already know. I fear that this is a fault; but I knew him better thananyone else in the world, and his manner was so pathetic at times, andhis love for me always so pronounced, that, though I am now a youngwoman, I expect to spend my life in doing honor to a noble memory."
There was something so womanly in her manner that Silas was convincedthat she would live only to honor the memory of his friend. There wasinexpressible sadness in her face, but there was also strength,
andcapacity, and love, and honor.
"I am the one person whose good opinion he cared for," she said again;"and I forget everything except his love for me, and his manliness ineverything. It is nothing to me what he was away from here. A singleatom in the human sea, he may have committed a wrong while attempting todo right, and came here a penitent, trying to right it; but as I knewhim he was worthy of any woman's profoundest admiration, and he shallreceive it from me as long as I live. The stream of life leads upwardsto heaven against a strong current, and, knowing myself, I do not wonderthat occasionally the people forget, and float down with the tide. Hehas told me that he had but one apology to make to any one,--to me, fornot finding me sooner. This was a pretty and an undeserved compliment;but it was evident that in his own mind he did not feel that he hadwronged anyone, and I feel so. I have no idle regrets, and do not blameyou and Tug. On the contrary, I thank you both for your thoughtful care.When Tug returns, as I am sure he will, bring him here. Who has notwounded their best friends in trying to befriend them? Though you twohave grievously wounded me, I recognize the goodness of your motives,and feel grateful."
She got up at this, and started toward the door, motioning Silas tofollow. From the dark hall she stepped through the door which Dorris hadnever entered alive; but he had been carried there dead. A dim lightburned near the door, and there was something in the air--a taint not tobe described, but to be remembered with dread--which made Silas think ofa sepulchre.
On a raised platform, in the room to which the steps of poor Helen werealways leading, stood a metallic burial case, with a movable lid showingthe face under glass. The face was so natural that Silas thought it musthave been preserved in some manner, for his friend seemed to be quietlysleeping, and he could not realize that he had been dead a week. Evenbefore Silas had taken his hasty glance, Annie Dorris had knelt besidethe inanimate clay of her husband, and he thought he had better goaway--he could think of nothing else to do--and leave her. And this hedid, only stopping at the door to see a picture which he neverforgot,--the coffin, the sobbing woman, the dim light, and the gloomyhangings of the room.
On being awakened, little Ben shielded his face with his hands, as ifexpecting a blow, which was his usual greeting on opening his eyes, but,recognizing his friend, he contentedly followed him down the stairs, andout at the iron gate into the street. Davy was not a large man or astrong man, but little Ben found it difficult to follow him, and wascompelled to ask his friend to stop and rest before they reached thehotel. When they finally reached the kitchen, they found it deserted,and Silas hastily placed meat and bread before the boy. This he devouredlike a hungry wolf, and Davy wondered that such a little boy had so muchroom under his jacket.
"They don't feed you overly well at the farm, do they, Ben?" Silasinquired.
The boy had turned from the table, and was sitting with his handsclasped around his knees, and his bare feet on the upper round of thechair. After looking at his companion a moment, he thoughtfully shookhis head.
"You work hard enough, heaven knows," Silas said again, in a tone whichsounded like a strong man pitying some one less unfortunate, but therewas little difference between the two, except age, for there was everyreason to believe that should little Ben's cough get better, he wouldbecome such a man as Silas was.
"I do all I can," little Ben answered, "but I am so weak that I cannotdo enough to satisfy them. I haven't had enough sleep in years: I thinkthat is the trouble with me."
That cough, little Ben, is not the result of loss of sleep: you musthave contracted that in going out to work in the early morning, illyclad, while other children were asleep.
"I'm going to tell you something, poor fellow," Silas said, "which willplease you. While you were asleep up at The Locks to-night, the ladykissed you."
Little Ben put his hand apologetically to his mouth, and coughed with ahoarse bark that startled Silas, for he noticed that the cough seemedworse every time the boy came to town. But he seemed to be only coughingto avoid crying, for there were tears in his eyes.
"You are not going to cry, Ben?" Silas said, in a voice that indicatedthat he was of that mind himself.
"I think not, sir," the boy replied. "When I first went to the farm, Icried so much that I think that the tears have all left me. I was onlythinking it was very kind of the lady, for nobody will have me aboutexcept you, Mr. Davy. My father and mother, they won't have me around,and I am in Mr. Quade's way; and his wife and children have so muchtrouble of their own that they cannot pay attention to me. They livevery poorly, and work very hard, sir, and I do not blame them; but Ioften regret that I am always sick and tired, and that no one seems tocare for me."
Little Ben seemed to be running the matter over in his mind, for he wassilent a long while. In rummaging among his recollections he foundnothing pleasant, apparently, for when he turned his face to Silas itshowed the quivering and pathetic distortion which precedes an openburst of grief.
"If you don't care," he said, "I believe I _will_ cry; I can't help it,since you told me about the lady."
The little fellow sobbed aloud at the recollection of his hard life, allthe time trying to control himself, and wiping his eyes with his roughsleeve. He was such a picture of helpless grief that Silas Davy turnedhis back, and appeared to be rubbing something out of his eyes; firstone and then the other.
"I am sorry I am not able to help you, Ben," the good fellow said,turning toward the boy again, after he had recovered himself; "but I amof so little consequence that I am unable to help anyone; I cannot helpmyself much. I have rather a hard time getting along, too, and I am agood deal like you, Ben, for, though I work all the time, I do not givemuch satisfaction."
Little Ben looked at his companion curiously.
"I thought you were very happy here, sir," he said, "with plenty to eatevery day. You are free to go to the cupboard whenever you are hungry,but often I am unable to sleep because I am so hungry. You never go tobed feeling that way, do you, Mr. Davy?"
"No," he replied, almost smiling at the boy's idea that anyone who hadplenty to eat must be entirely content; "but I am a shiftless sort of aman, and I don't get on very well. I always want to do what is right andfair, but somehow I don't always do it; I sometimes think, though, thatI am more unjust to myself than to anyone else. It causes me a good dealof regret that I am not able to help such as you, Ben. If I were able, Iwould like to buy you a suit of clothes."
"Summer is coming on, sir, and these will do very well," the boyreplied.
"Yes; but you were very thinly clad last winter, Ben, and oftentimes Icould not sleep from thinking of how cold you were when out in thefields with the stock. If ever there was a good boy, you are one, Ben;but you are not treated half so well as the bad boys I know. This iswhat worries me, as hunger worries you."
"I am sorry to hear you are poor, sir," little Ben said. "Not that Iwant you to do more for me than you have done, but you have always beenso kind to me that I thought you must be rich to afford it. You alwayshave something for me when I come to town, and I am very thankful toyou."
What a friendless child, Davy thought, to consider what he had done forhim the favor of a rich man! A little to eat, and small presents onholidays; he had been able to do no more than that; but, since no oneelse was kind to the boy, these were magnificent favors in his eyes.
"On which cheek did the lady kiss me, Mr. Davy?" the boy inquired laterin the night.
"On this one," Davy replied, touching his left cheek with his fingertips.
"I was thinking it was that one," little Ben continued. "There has beena glow in it ever since you told me. I should think that the boys whohave mothers who do not hate them are very happy. Do you know whetherthey are, Mr. Davy?"
"I know they ought to be," he said; "but some of them are veryindifferent to their mothers. I have never had any experience myself; myown mother died before I could remember."
"It seems to me," little Ben continued, "that if I were as well off assome of the boys I see, I shoul
d be entirely satisfied. I must starthome soon, or I will not get there in time to be called for to-morrow'swork, and when I creep into the hay, where I sleep after coming to seeyou, I intend to think that the kiss the lady gave me was the kiss of mymother, and that she does not hate me any more."
For such as you, little Ben, there must be a heaven. The men who arestrong in doubt, as well as in the world's battles, come to thatconclusion when they remember that there can be no other reward for suchas you and Silas Davy, for your weakness is so unfit for this life thatit must be a burden which can only be reckoned in your favor in theMaster's house where there are many mansions.
"If there were not so many happy children," little Ben said again,"perhaps I should not mind it so much, but I see them wherever I go, andI cannot understand why my lot is so much harder than theirs. My bonesache so, and I want to sleep and rest so much, that I cannot helpfeeling regret; except for this I hope I would be happy as you are."
Silas Davy is anything but a happy man, little Ben, but, being a goodman, he does not complain, and does the best he can, so when the boysoon after started for the farm, and Silas walked with him to the edgeof the town, he pretended to be very well satisfied with himself, andwith everything around him. Indeed, he was almost gay, but it was onlymockery to encourage his unfortunate companion.
"Next Christmas, Ben," Silas said, as they walked along, "you shallhave"--he paused a moment to consider his financial possibilities--"asled from the store."
"_That_ is too much," Ben replied, with hope and gladness in his voice."A sled will cost a great deal, for the painting and striping must comehigh. I would like to have a sled more than anything else, but I amafraid you would rob yourself in buying it. I am afraid that is toomuch, Mr. Davy."
"It will not cost as much as you expect, and I can easily save the moneybetween this and Christmas," the good fellow replied. "I have alwayswanted to do it, and I will, and it will be a pleasure. Remember, Ben,when you feel bad off in future, what you are to get when you come tosee me Christmas morning."
"I will not forget, sir."
"When you own the sled, and I have had the pleasure of giving it to you,we will feel like very fortunate fellows, won't we, Ben?" Silas saidagain, cheerfully, as they walked along.
"We shall feel as though we are getting along in the world, I shouldthink, Mr. Davy," the boy replied.
They had reached the edge of the town by this time, and Davy stopped toturn back. He took the boy's hand for a moment, and said,--
"Remember the sled, Ben. Good night."
"Good night, sir. I will not forget."
Silas had scarcely said good night to him before he was lost to hissight,--he was such a very little fellow.