CHAPTER XXX.BEN.
Ben sat among his boxes and barrels cracking hickory nuts and carrying on a one sided conversation with the well fed cat and six beautiful kittens, which were gamboling over the floor, the terror of rats and mice and the pride of their owner, who found his heart altogether too tender to destroy any one of them by the usual means of drowning or decapitation. So he was literally killing them with kindness, and with his seven cats and odd ways was the wonder and favorite of the entire village.
The night was dark and stormy, and fancying he had dismissed his last customer he had settled himself before the glowing stove with nearly half a peck of nuts at his side, when the door opened, and a little boy came in, his light hair covered with snow, which had also settled upon other portions of his person.
“Good evenin’, Sandy,” was Ben’s salutation.
“What brung you here to-night?”
“Got you a letter,” returned Sandy, who was the chore boy of the Post Master. “It’s been a good while coming, too, for all it says ‘in haste,’” and passing the note to Ben, he caught up five or six of the kittens, while Ben, tearing open the envelope and snuffing a tallow candle with his fingers read:
“Dear Ben,
“Dear Ben,
“Dear Ben,
“Dear Ben,
“Frederic knows it all, and we are so happy. We are to have a great party on the 20th and you mustsurely come. Don’t fail us, that’s a dear, good Ben, but come as soon as you get this. Then I will tell you what I can’t write now, for Frederic keeps worrying me with teasing me to kiss him.
Yours truly,“Marian.
Yours truly,“Marian.
Yours truly,“Marian.
Yours truly,
“Marian.
“P. S.—Alice sends her love, so does Frederic, and so do I, dear Ben.”
“I ‘most wish she’d left off that last, and that about his kissin’ her,” said Ben, when, after the boy Sandy departed he was alone. “It makes me feel so streaked like. Guy, wouldn’t I give all my groceries, and the six cats into the bargain, to be in Fred Raymond’s boots;” and, taking up the kitten he called “Marian Grey,” he fondled it tenderly, for the sake of her whose name it bore. “I shall go to this party,” he continued, as his mind reverted again to the letter, “though I’ll be as much out of place as a toad in a sugar bowl; but, I can see Marian, and that little blind girl, and Josh. Wa’n’t he a case, though?” And leaning back in his chair, Ben mentally made the necessary arrangements for leaving.
These arrangements were next day carried into effect, and as he must start at once if he would be there in time for the party, he took the night express for Albany, having left his feline family to the care of the boy Sandy. The second night found him on the train between Buffalo and Cleveland, and as the weather was very cold and the seat near the stove unoccupied, he appropriated it to himself, and was just falling away to sleep, when a lady, wrapped in velvet and furs, with a thickly dotted vail over her face, came up to him, and said, rather haughtily:
“Can I have this seat, sir? I prefer it to any other.”
“So do I,” returned Ben; “but bein’ you’re a woman, I’ll give it up, I guess.”
And he sought another, of which there were plenty, for it was the last car, and not one-third full.
“Considerable kind o’ toppin’,” was his mental comment, as he coiled himself in his shaggy overcoat for a second time, sleeping ere long so soundly that nothing disturbed him, until at last, as they turned a short curve, the car was detached from the others, and, leaving the track, was precipitated down an embankment, which, fortunately, was not very steep, so that none were killed, although several were wounded, and among them the lady who had so unceremoniously taken possession of Ben’s comfortable seat.
“Wall, now,” said Ben, crawling out of a window, and holding fast to his hat, which being new, was his special care, “if this ain’t a little the imperlitest way of wakin’ a feller out of a sound sleep, to pitch him head over heels in among these blackb’ry bushes and stuns; but who the plague is that a screechin’ so?—a woman’s voice, too!”
And with all his gallantry aroused, Ben went to the rescue, feeling his way through briars and grass and broken pieces of the car, until he reached the human form struggling beneath the ruins, in close proximity to the hissing stove.
“Easy, now, my gal,” he said, lifting her up. “Haul your foot out, can’t you?”
“No, no, it’s crushed;” and Ben’s knees shook beneath him at the cry of pain.
Relief soon came from other sources, and as this lady seemed more seriously injured than either of the other passengers, she was carried carefully to a dwelling near by, and laid upon a bed, before Ben had a chance to see her features distinctly.
“Pretty well jammed,” said he, examining the bonnet, which the women of the farm-house had removed.
Supposing he meant herself, the lady moaned,
“Oh, sir, is my face entirely crushed?”
“I meant your bonnet,” returned Ben, “though if I was to pass judgment on you, I should say some of your feathers was crumpled a little; but law, beauty ain’tbut skin deep. It’s good, honest actions that makes folks liked.”
And taking the lamp, he bent to investigate, discovering to his utter amazement, that the lady was none other than Isabel Huntington!
Some weeks before, and ere Marian’s identity with Frederic’s wife had been made known, Mrs. Rivers had invited her to visit Kentucky, and as there was now nothing in Yonkers to interest her she had accepted, with the forlorn hope that spite of Frederic’s improbable story about a living wife, he might eventually be won back to his old allegiance. Accordingly she had taken the same train and car with Ben, and by rather rudely depriving him of his seat near the stove had been considerably injured, receiving several flesh wounds, besides breaking her ankle. For this last, however, she did not care; that would get well again; but her face—was it so disfigured as to spoil her boasted beauty? This was her constant thought as she lay moaning upon her pillows, and when for a few moments she was alone with Ben, whom she knew to be the Yankee peddler, and who considered it his duty to stay with her, she said to him:
“Please, Mr. Butterworth, tell me just how much I am bruised, and whether I shall probably be a fright the rest of my days.”
“Wall, now,” returned Ben, taking the lamp a second time and coming nearer to her, “there’s no knowin’ how you will look hereafter, but the fact is you ain’t none too han’some now, with your face swelled as big as two, and all scratched up with them pesky briars.”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted Isabel, “but the swelling will go down and the scratches will get well. That isn’t all.”
“You’re right,” said Ben, peering curiously at her; “that ain’t all. You know, I ’spose, that six of your front teeth are knocked out.”
“Yes, but false ones will remedy that. I’ll havethem made a little uneven so as to look natural; go on.”
“Wall,” continued Ben, “you’ve fixed your teeth, but what are you goin’ to do with yourbrokenose?”
“Oh!” screamed Isabel, clasping her hand to that organ, which, from its classic shape had been her special pride. “Not broken—is it broken, true?”
“Looks mighty’ like it,” answered Ben, “but law, doctors can do anything. They’ll tinker it up so it will answer to sneeze out of and smell with as good as ever; and they’ll sew up that ugly gash, too, that runs like a Virginny fence from your ear up onto your forehead and part of your cheek. Looks as though there’d been a scar of some kind there before,” and looking closer, Ben saw the mark which the hot iron had made that night when the proud Isabel had given the cruel blow to the blind girl.
This she had heretofore managed to conceal by combing over it her hair, but nothing could hide the seam she knew would always be upon her forehead and cheek.
“Oh, I wish I could die,” she groaned, “if I must be so mutilated.”
“Pshaw! no you don’t,” returned Ben, now acting the part of a consoler. “Your eyes ain’t damaged, nor your hair neither, only singed a little with the stove. There’s somewhiteones, I see, but they must have been there before. Never used Wood’s brimstony stuff, did you? That’ll keep it from turnin.’ I knew a chap once with a broke nose that looked like the notch in the White Mountains, and nobody thought of it, he was so good. Maybe your’n ain’t so bad. Perhaps it’s only out of jint. The doctor’ll know—here he comes,” and Ben stood back respectfully, while the physician examined the nature and extent of Isabel’s injuries.
There was nothing serious, he said; nothing from which she would not recover. She was only stunned and bruised, besides having a broken ankle. The cuton the face would probably leave a scar, and the nose never be straight again, otherwise she would ere long be as well as ever, but she must of course remain where she was for two or three weeks, and he asked if she had friends with her.
“No,” she said, while Ben said; “Yes, I’m her friend, and though I want to go on the wust way, I’ll stay till her mother comes. We’d better telegraph, I guess.”
This brought the tears from the heartless Isabel, for she appreciated Ben’s kindness in not deserting her, and when again they were alone, she thanked him for so generously staying with her when she heard him say he wished to go on.
“Were you going to Kentucky?” she asked, and Ben replied: “Yes, goin’ to see how Miss Raymond looks at the head of a family. You’ve heard, I s’pose, that Marian Grey was Fred’s runaway wife, and that they are as happy now as two clams.”
Unmindful of the fierce twinges of pain it gave her to move, Isabel started up exclaiming, “No, no, how can that be?”
“Just as easy,” said Ben, proceeding to narrate a few particulars to his astonished listener, who, when he had finished, lay back again upon her pillow, weeping bitterly.
This, then, was the end of all her secret hopes. Frederic was surely lost to her; the beautiful Marian Grey was his wife, and what was worse than all, her treachery was undoubtedly suspected, and what must they think of her? Poor Isabel, she was in a measure suffering for her sins, and she continued to weep while Ben tried in vain to sooth her, talking to her upon the subject uppermost in his mind, namely, Marian’s happiness and his own joy that it had all come right at last. Isabel would rather have heard of anything else, but when she saw how kind Ben was, she compelled herself to listen, even though every word he said ofMarian and Frederic pierced her with a keener pain than even her bruises produced.
“I shan’t be in time for the doin’s any way,” thought Ben, when Mrs. Huntington did not come at the expected time, and as he fancied it his duty to let Marian know why he was not there, he telegraphed to her, “We’ve had a break down, and Isabel is knocked into a cocked hat.”
This telegram, which created no little sensation at the office, was copied verbatim and sent to Frederic, who read it, while Marian, in her chamber, was dressing for the party. He could not forbear laughing heartily, it sounded so much like Ben, but he wisely determined to keep it from his wife and Alice, as it might cause them unnecessary anxiety. He accordingly thrust it in his pocket, and then, when it was time, went up for Marian, who, in her bridal dress of satin and lace, with pearls and diamonds woven among her shining hair, and flashing from her neck and arms, looked wondrously beautiful to him, and received many words of commendation from the guests, who soon began to appear, and who felt that the bride of Redstone Hall well became her high position. Many were the pleasant jokes passed at Frederic’s expense, and the clergyman who had officiated at his wedding more than six years before, laughingly offered to repeat the ceremony. But Frederic shook his head, saying, he was satisfied if Marian was, while the look the beautiful, blushing bride gave to him, was quite as expressive of her answer as words would have been. And so, amid smiles and congratulations, the song and the dance moved on, and all went merry as a marriage bell, until at last, as the clock told the hour of midnight, the last guest had departed, and Frederic, with his arm round Marian, was calling her Mrs. Raymond, on purpose to see her blush, when there came up the avenue the sound of rapid wheels, followed by a bound on the piazza, and the next moment Ben burst into theroom, holding up both hands, as he caught sight of Marian in her bridal robes.
“My goodness!” he exclaimed. “Ain’t she pretty, though. It’s curis how clothes will fix up a woman,” and the tears came to Ben’s eyes in his delight at seeing Marian so resplendent in jewels and costly lace.
The meeting between Frederic and Ben was like brother greeting brother, for the former felt that he almost owed his life to the great-hearted Yankee, and he grasped his hand warmly, bidding him welcome to Redstone Hall, and, by his kind, familiar manner, putting him at once at his ease. Alice, too, did her part well, and, pressing Ben’s hand to her lips, she said:
“I love you, Ben Burt; love you a heap, for being so good to Marian.”
“Don’t now,” said Ben, whiningly. “Don’t set me to bellerin’ the fust thing. I only did what anybody would have done, unless the milk of human kindness was all turned to bonny clabber!” Then, as he thought of Isabel, he continued, “I tried to get here sooner, but Miss Huntington didn’t come till the last minute, and I couldn’t leave Isabel. How she does take on about her sp’ilt beauty.”
“What do you mean?” asked Marian. “Where is Isabel?” and as Frederic then passed her the telegram, she continued to ask questions, until she had learned the whole.
“Poor girl!” she sighed; “I pity her, and if she were here, I would so gladly take care of her.”
Instantly there flashed upon Alice’s mind an idea every way worthy of her, but she would not suggest it then, as it was growing late, and when she heard ere long a loud yawn from Ben, she thoughtfully rang the bell, bidding the servant who came “show Mr. Burt to his room;” then, kissing Frederic and Marian goodnight, she, too, departed, leaving them alone.
Next morning, at the breakfast table, she said to Frederic:
“Don’t folks most always take a bridal tour?”
“Sometimes, when they can’t be happy at home,” returned Frederic. “Where does my blind birdie wish to go?”
“I don’t really wish to go,” answered Alice; “but wouldn’t it be nice to surprise poor Isabel, lying so bruised and sick in that old farm-house in Ohio? Maybe she wants money? I heard them say at Yonkers that she had spent all Mr. Rivers left her, except the house, and that was mortgaged. I’ve got ten dollars that I’ll give her.”
“Blessed baby!” said Ben, bringing out his pocket-handkerchief, which he was pretty sure to need.
This suggestion was warmly seconded by Marian, and after a little further consultation, it was decided that they should start the next day for the place where Isabel lay sick.
“She may confess about the letters,” said Marian, “and that will make me like her so much better.”
This being settled, Alice’s next inquiry was for her cat, and her brown eyes opened wide with wonder when told of the six young kittens which had a home in Ben Burt’s grocery, and one of which was called for her.
“It ought to be blind,” said the little girl, and, with a quivering chin, Ben answered:
“That’s it, though I shouldn’t have told you for fear of hurtin’ your feelin’s. The little catisblind, and when Sandy—that’s a boy who lives there—said how he would kill it for me, it struck to my stomick to once, for that little critter lies even nigher to my heart than the handsomest, sleekest one, which I call ‘Marian Grey,’ and ’tis grey, too, with mottled spots all over its back, while Alice is white as milk!”
The cat story being satisfactorily concluded, Ben went out to renew his acquaintance with the negroes, who vied with each other in paying him marked attention. Though they did not quite understand it, they knew that he was in some way connected withthe return of their young mistress, and neither Dinah nor Hetty made the least objection when, before night, they saw the two black babies which had usurped the rights ofDudandVictory, seated upon his lap and “riding to Boston to buy penny cakes,” at a rate which bade fair to throw them to the top of the ceiling at least, if not to land them somewhere in the vicinity of the bay state capital.
The next morning, Frederic, Marian and Alice started for Ohio, leaving Ben in charge at Redstone Hall.
“He’d tend to the niggers,” he said, and he bade the “Square,” as he persisted in calling Frederic, “not to worry at all about things to hum.”
The family had scarcely been gone an hour when Dinah came in quest of Ben, whom she found in the parlor drumming Yankee Doodle upon the piano with one hand and whistling by way of accompaniment.
“Thar was the queerest actin’ man in the dinin’ room,” she said, “and he done ax for marster, and when I tole him he had gone to the ’Hio with his wife, he laughed so hateful, and say how’t she isn’t his wife, that I come for you, ’case thar’s a look in his eye I don’t like.”
“Catch him tellin’ me Marian ain’t a lawful wife,” said Ben, starting from the stool and hurrying to the dining room, where very much intoxicated, Rudolph McVicar was sitting.
He had landed not long before at New Orleans, and coming up the river as far as Louisville had stopped in that city, where he accidentally heard a young man speak of Frederic’s wedding party, which had taken place the previous night.
“Who is the bride?” he asked eagerly. “Is it Miss Huntington?” and the young man who knew none of the particulars, and who had once heard that Frederic was to marry a lady of that name, replied: “Yes, I believe it is, or at all events she was his governess.”
Rudolph waited for no more, but started at once forRedstone Hall, chuckling with delight as he thought of the consternation his visit would create. He did not at first recognize Ben, neither did Ben know him, so bloated had he become with drink, and so rough and red with exposure upon the sea.
“Where is the woman they call Mrs. Raymond?” he asked with a sneer; and Ben replied: “Gone with her husband to Ohio.”
“Her husband!” repeated Rudolph. “He isn’t her husband. She has no right to be his wife, and I have come to tell her so.”
“You say that again if you dare!” said Ben, bristling up in Marian’s defense. “You say that Marian ain’t Frederic’s lawful wife, and I’ll show you the door, plaguy quick. I’m boss here now.”
As Ben was speaking, Rudolph remembered that they had met before, but he scarcely heeded that, so intent was he upon the name which Ben had uttered.
“Marian!” he repeated, a light breaking over him; “Is not Isabel Huntington the bride?”
“No, sir,” answered Ben, snapping his fingers almost in the stranger’s face. “She didn’t come that game, though she tried it hard enough. But what do you know about it, any way?”
“I know I’ve been a fool,” answered Rudolph, explaining, in a few words, what he once had done.
“So you wrote that letter, you scullion,” returned Ben. “But it didn’t do no good; and the smartest trick you ever done was to sign yourselfgreen. Ugh!” and Ben’s voice was quite expressive of his contempt. “I don’t blame you so much though,” he continued, “for wantin’ to pester that Isabel, but you’d better let the Lord ’tend to such critters in his own way. He can fix ’em better’n we can,” and Ben proceeded to give an account of the accident in which Isabel’s beauty had been seriously impaired.
“I am so glad,” was Rudolph’s exclamation, and he was proceeding further to express his malicious joy, when Ben cut him short by saying:
“It don’t look well to rejoice over anybody’s downfall, though I’m none too friendly to the gal, I shan’t hear her berated, and you may as well quit.”
On ordinary occasions, Rudolph would have resented any attempt at restraint, but he was too much intoxicated now fully to realize anything, and staring vacantly at Ben, he made no reply, but ere long fell asleep, dozing in his chair for several hours. Then, with faculties somewhat brightened, he announced his intention of leaving. With an immense degree of satisfaction Ben watched him as he went slowly down the avenue, saying to himself:
“Poor drunken critter, he’s disappointed, I s’pose, in not gettin’ revenge his own way; but I don’t blame her much for givin’ him the mitten. Wouldn’t they have scratched each other’s eyes out, if they’d come together! Better be as ’tis—she a nervous old maid, and he in a drunkard’s grave, where he will be mighty soon—the bloat!” and having finished his soliloquy, Ben returned again to his music.
Meantime, in a most unenviable frame of mind, Isabel was chiding her mother for doing everything wrong, and bewailing her own sad fate:
“Oh, why didn’t I stay at home,” she said; “and so not have become the fright I know I am?”
It was in vain that her mother made her feel thankful that her life was spared. Isabel did not care for that. She thought only of her lost teeth, her disjointed nose, and ugly scar, and turning her face to the wall she was wishing she could die, when the woman of the house came in, telling her “some friends were there from Kentucky.”
“Who are they?” she asked; but ere the woman could reply, a sweet voice said:
“It’s me, and all of us;” and Alice’s little hands were tenderly pressed to Isabel’s feverish brow.
Then, indeed, the haughty girl wept aloud, for she knew she did not deserve this kindness either from Alice or Marian, the latter of whom soon came in,greeting her as pleasantly as if she had never received an injury from her hands. Frederic, too, was perfectly self-possessed, expressing his sympathy for her misfortune, and with these kind friends to cheer her sick room, Isabel recovered in a measure her former cheerfulness. But there was evidently something resting heavily upon her mind, and that night, when alone with Frederic and Marian, she confessed to them her wickedness in opening the letter, and sending it back with so cruel a message.
“We knew you must have done it,” said Frederic, at the same time assuring her of his own and Marian’s forgiveness. “It kept us apart for many years,” he continued, “but I have found her at last, and love her all the more for what I suffered.”
And Isabel, when she saw the look of deep affection he gave to his young wife, covered her face with her hands, and wept silently, until Marian asked “if she knew aught of the letter from Sarah Green?”
“No, no,” she answered; “I am surely innocent of that,” and they believed her, wondering all the more whence it could have come or why it had been sent.
Toward the close of the next day, they took their leave, cordially inviting Isabel to visit them at Redstone Hall, should she ever feel inclined so to do.
“We will let bygones be bygones,” said Frederic, taking her hand at parting. “You and I have both learned that to deal fairly and openly is the best policy, and it is to be hoped we will profit by the experience.”
Isabel did not answer, but she pressed his hand, and returned warmly the kiss which both Marian and Alice gave to her. As the latter was turning away she detained her a moment while she whispered in her ear, “Will you forgive me for that blow I gave you when I thought I was about to be exposed?”
“Yes, willingly,” was the answer, and thrusting the golden eagle under the pillow, Alice hurried away. They found it after she was gone, and when at lastIsabel was able to go home, they found their bills paid, too, and were at no loss to know to whom they were indebted for the generous act. “I do not deserve this from him of all others,” said Isabel, and drawing her thick, green veil close over her marred face she entered the carriage which had come to take them to the depot.
Not once during the journey home did she remove the veil, but in an obscure corner of the car she sat, a forlorn, wretched woman, brooding drearily over the past, and seeing in the future no star to cheer her pathway. Frederic lost, Redstone Hall lost, her little fortune wasted,—and worse than all, her boasted beauty gone forever. Poor, poor Isabel!