by Morgan Scott
CHAPTER XXV.
FLIGHT.
Ben mounted the stairs in haste. “Here, Jerry,” he said, “let me trythese shoes on you. Let’s see if they fit.” His hands trembled a bit ashe removed the remnants of the shoes the blind boy had worn and triedthe others upon Jerry’s feet. “How do they feel?” he asked, as hehastened to lace them.
“All right,” was the answer. “But what’s the matter, Ben? You’repanting and excited. Has anything happened?”
“I’ve been hurrying,” said Ben evasively.
But even the little yellow dog seemed to realize that something waswrong, for he moved about uneasily, eying the brothers and whining.
“I’ve decided we had better leave Oakdale at once—right away,” saidBen, as he rose to his feet. “Sit still, Jerry, while I gather up thethings I must take.”
“Ben,” said the younger lad, with conviction, “something has happened.You’re nervous and alarmed; I know it by your voice. Why don’t you tellme, Ben—why don’t you tell me?”
At any rate, it would be necessary to tell him in a few moments, andso, seeking to frighten the blind boy as little as possible, Ben did soat once. The moment Jerry learned a man had appeared in Oakdale askingfor him he became panic-stricken; his face grew pallid and he trembledin every limb.
“They will take me away from you, brother—they will separate us!” heexclaimed.
“They shall not!” cried the older lad fiercely. “I had decided alreadyto leave Oakdale to-morrow; we’ll leave to-night—we’ll slip away atonce. Keep still, Jerry, and I’ll make all the preparations.”
“But what if that man should come—what if he should come before we canstart?”
“He’ll have to get here in a hurry to find us.”
Indeed, it did not take Ben Stone long to make a bundle of the fewbelongings he felt he must take. A great deal of his poor personalproperty he had resolved to abandon for the time being, confident thatMrs. Jones would take care of everything for him. Sometime when therewas no longer danger he could recover it all.
“We’ll get out of the house without saying a word to anybody,” saidBen. “That’s the best way, although I hate to do it, for we seem to berunning away like criminals.”
At the last moment, smitten by regret because fancied necessity seemedto compel him to leave without bidding the kind widow good-by, heseized a piece of brown paper and the stub of a pencil and sat down towrite a few words of farewell—Jerry urging him to hasten even while hewas scribbling. This was what he wrote:
“MY DEAR MRS. JONES:—
“I’ll never be able to thank you enough for allyour kindness to me and to my little blind brother.I’m forced to do what I am doing, though Iregret it very much. I wish I might say good-byto you and to Jimmy, but I do not dare. Iknow I shall always be ashamed and sorry forthis last thing I have done, but I couldn’t help it.I hope you’ll forgive me and always think as wellof me as you can, no matter what you may hearabout me.”
At this point Jerry’s impatient pleading could be no longer resisted,and, hastily signing his name, Ben left the note of farewell where itcould not be overlooked by Mrs. Jones. With all possible stealth theydescended the stairs and got softly out of the house.
The night had come on overcast and dark, heavy clouds veiling the moon.A raw wind, chill and dank, came from the east, soughing fitfullythrough the bare limbs of the trees and sending fallen leaves scurryingalong the ground. Just outside the gate Ben turned to look back at thelighted windows. Mamie, accompanying herself on the melodeon, wassinging, and there was a choking sensation in Ben’s throat as helistened.
“An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain;O! give me my lowly thatch cottage again;A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,Which, seek through the world, is ne’er met with elsewhere. Home, home, sweet, sweet home! Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.”
“Come,” entreated Jerry; and they fled on past the silent academy, thegym and the athletic field—on into the bleak night. The blind boy hadbrought his violin, and it was swung by the cord over his back.
With the village behind them, Ben paused once more to look around. Thelights of Oakdale twinkled far down the road. It was there he haddreamed pleasant dreams; it was there he had fought his fight untilvictory seemed within his grasp; but those dreams were over, and he hadbeen conquered by cruel fate in the hour of his triumph. Fear, whichfrequently perverts the soundest judgment, had forced him, withoutreasoning or sober thought, into this flight by night.
They went on, and soon a barren shoulder of Turkey Hill shut out thoselights and they were alone on the highway that led to the northwest.
“We’ll be followed, Ben,” said Jerry apprehensively. “What can we do?”
“If you, blind and alone, save for Pilot, could avoid pursuers so long,surely together we must find it a simpler matter. Trust me. This is notthe first time I have been forced into running away.”
“I know—I know; but they didn’t try to catch you, Ben. They let you goand thought it good riddance. Now it’s different.”
“I don’t understand why they should put themselves to so much troubleand expense to find you, Jerry, and shut you up in an institution.Perhaps they’ll give it up after a while.”
Hand in hand they went on through the black night. At times Pilot,having trotted a short distance ahead, would pause to peer at themthrough the blackness, and whine. The wind moaned across the openspaces and crashed the limbs of trees together while they were passingthrough strips of woods. The dampness in the atmosphere added to thepenetration of the chill, and Jerry’s teeth chattered.
They came to Barville, ten miles from Oakdale, and were in theoutskirts of the dark and silent village before they were aware of it.They were tempted to try to circle round the place, fearing someonemight see them, but only two or three dim lights gleamed faintly fromwindows, and not a soul did they encounter on the streets of the town.Once a dog barked in a house they were passing, but Jerry was swiftenough in bidding Pilot be still to prevent the little animal fromanswering.
Beyond Barville they paused to rest, and Ben, hearing Jerry’s teethchatter, persisted in pulling off his coat and buttoning it about theblind lad’s shoulders. In this manner the violin on Jerry’s back wasprotected when, later, a fine, drizzling rain began.
“But you’ll be wet through, Ben, and you’ll catch cold,” said Jerry. “Iwish you’d take your coat.”
“I’m all right,” laughed the elder brother. “I’m tough, and there’snever anything the matter with me. Perhaps we can find sheltersomewhere.”
The rain, driven in the teeth of the wind, soon drenched him through;and when at last he perceived near the road an old barn with no houseat hand, even Ben was more than willing to stop.
“I think the house must have burned down,” he said, “for there isn’tany to be seen. It’s a good place, Jerry. We must be eighteen or twentymiles from Oakdale. We can stop here and keep out of sight all throughthe day, if necessary.”
So they tried the door of the barn and found it unfastened. In theblack darkness they felt their way cautiously, at last climbing upon ahaymow, where Jerry sank down exhausted.
“Perhaps they’ll give it up when they find we’re gone, Ben,” said theblind boy, shivering. “Maybe they won’t try to follow us.”
“Maybe not. We’ll hope so, anyway. Bern Hayden will be glad when hefinds out. He’ll rejoice over it.”
They burrowed into the hay and talked for a time of various plans,while gradually, in spite of their drenched condition, the heat oftheir bodies as they snuggled close together warmed them through. Pilotcrept up against Jerry and contented himself. The wind swept againstthe old barn and moaned through cracks, while the rain beat unceasinglyupon the roof.
Ben thought of Bern Hayden’s fine home, and he had a wrestle with thebitter resentment against fate which sought to claim him. At first itseemed that ev
erything in the world was wrong and that those who leastdeserved it, or did not deserve it at all, were most favored byfortune; but then he remembered Roger, to whose home he had beenwelcomed, and he knew that some who were worthy were privileged to baskin prosperity’s sunshine.
Finally the mournful sweep of the wind and the fitful beating of rainlulled his senses, and he slept—slept to dream of Hayden leeringtriumphantly upon him. In his sleep he muttered:
“Wait—wait; my time will come!”
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