CHAPTER III.THE UNQUIET CONSCIENCE.And Tom yielded.The whisperings of conscience were drowned in the anticipation of Bennie’s joy. The fear of personal violence would not have conquered him; neither would the fallacious argument of compensation by destruction have done so. But that vision of Bennie, with eyes that could look into his eyes, with eyes that could see the houses and the breakers, the trees and the birds and the flowers, that could even see the far-off stars in the sky at night,—that was the vision that crowded out from Tom’s mind the sharp distinction between right and wrong, and delivered him over wholly to the tempter.But he felt the shame of it, nevertheless, as he answered, in a choking voice, at last,—“Yes, I could. A hundred dollars ’d give sight to Bennie. I wouldn’t lie for it, but I’ll keep still for it.”Lawyer Pleadwell doubled up his glasses, slipped them into a morocco case, and slipped the case into his vest-pocket. His object was accomplished.“Tom,” he said, “you’re a wise lad. If you keep on in this way, you’ll make a lawyer; and a lawyer, with so evenly balanced a conscience as yours, will be a credit to the profession.”Tom was not quite sure whether this was intended for a compliment or not, so he simply said, “Yes, sir.”Pleadwell reached across the table for his high silk hat, motioned to Carolan to follow him, and went out, saying to Tom as he went,—“You stay here and amuse yourself; we’ll be back shortly.”Tom sat there alone quite still. His mind was in a tumult. Is it right? Is itright? Some unseen presence kept crowding the question in upon him.What would Bennie say to it?What would Mommie say to it?Yet there were no lies to be told; he was simply to hold his tongue.But was it not shielding a criminal from just punishment? Was it not virtually selling his honor for money? Would it not be better, after all, to take back his promise, to do his duty fearlessly, and to work and wait, patiently and with a clear conscience, for means to accomplish the desire of his heart for Bennie?He was just getting into a state of painful indecision when Carolan came in alone, and closed the door carefully behind him. Without saying a word, he handed to Tom, one by one, ten crisp, new ten-dollar bills. The boy had never in his life before seen so much money at one time. To hold it was like a scene in a fairy story; to own it was to be rich beyond belief. The whispers of conscience were again stilled in the novelty of possessing wealth with which such blessings might be bought.Tom took the money, folded it awkwardly, and placed it in the inside pocket of his vest. Carolan looked on with apparentsatisfaction; then went and seated himself in the chair he had formerly occupied, without having uttered a word.This man was a marked character in the anthracite coal region twenty years ago. He was known among the miners as “Silent Mike,” was credited with much native ability and sharpness, and was generally believed to be at the head, in the anthracite region, of the secret order of Molly Maguires. He was always shrewd enough not to implicate himself in any lawlessness. The fact that he so controlled the organization as to meet his personal ends caused it, eventually, to be split with internal dissensions. Then, as a new reign of law and order came in, and as organized labor began to base itself on higher principles, and to work out its problem with less of vengeance and more of justice, the order gradually passed out of existence.Thinking there was nothing more to be said or done, Tom rose to go; but just then Pleadwell entered, laid his silk hat carefully on the table, and motioned to him to be seated. Having taken his eye-glassesfrom their case and adjusted them carefully on his nose, he said to Tom,—“It will not be wise for you to make any large expenditures of money for any purpose until after the trial; and in the mean time it will be absolutely unsafe for you to disclose to any one the fact of your having money or the means by which it was obtained. Your own discretion will teach you this. You understand me, do you not?”Tom nodded, and Pleadwell continued:“There is one thing more that I desire to speak of: I have heard that when you reached the foot of the hill on the night the breaker was burned, you saw a man come from near the point where the fire broke out, pass by you in the shadow of the building, and disappear around the corner by the engine-room. Is this true?”“Yes, sir.”“What kind of a looking man was this? Describe him.”“He was a short man,” Tom replied, “kind o’ slim, an’ he didn’t have any whiskers”—a sudden thought seemedto strike the boy, and looking for a moment earnestly at Carolan, and then pointing his finger at him, he exclaimed,—“Why, he looked just like—just like him!”Carolan smiled grimly, but Pleadwell laughed aloud.“Well, Tom,” he said, “we shall not ask you to tell whom he looks like, but if I should require your presence at the trial, and should call you to the witness-stand, you would have no objection, I presume, to giving a description of the man you saw pass by you in the shadow of the breaker, just as you have described him to me?”“No,” replied Tom, “not so long as it’s true.”“Oh, I should expect you to say nothing that is not strictly true,” said Pleadwell. “I would not allow a witness of mine to tell a lie. Well, then, you are to be in the court-room here a week from next Tuesday morning at nine o’clock. Do you understand?”“Yes, sir.”“Carolan, put Thomas Taylor’s name onthat subpœna. You will consider yourself subpœnaed, Tom. Now,” taking a heavy gold watch from his fob-pocket and glancing at it, “you will have just time to catch the train north.” Then stepping to the door between the two rooms, and throwing it open, he said, “Harris, go to the station with this boy, buy his ticket, and see that he gets the right train.”Harris was the young man who came down with Tom, and he and the boy were soon on the street together, walking briskly toward the station.An hour earlier, when they were coming in, Tom had been very talkative and inquiring, but now his companion was able to get from him no more than a simple “yes” or “no,” and that only in answer to questions.Conversation was impossible to the boy, with his mind so crowded with perplexing doubts. He could not even take notice of the shop-windows, or of the life in the streets, but followed blindly along by the side of Harris. Somehow he felt as though he were walking under a heavyweight, and that roll of money in his pocket seemed to be burning him where it rested against his breast. He imagined that the people he met looked at him suspiciously, as if they knew he had been bribed—bribed!The word came into his mind so suddenly, and with such startling force, that he stopped still in the street, and only recovered himself when Harris turned and called to him.They were just in time for the train.Tom found a place in the corner of the car where he would be alone, and sat there thinking over what he had done, and trying to reason himself into justification of his conduct.The conductor came along and punched his ticket, and looked at him so sharply that Tom wondered if he knew. But of course that was absurd. Then he tried to dismiss the matter from his mind altogether, and give his attention to what he could see from the car-window.Outside a drizzling rain was beginning to fall on the brown fields and leafless trees,and the autumn early twilight was fast deepening into darkness. It was very dismal and cheerless, and not at all the kind of outlook that could serve to draw Tom’s mind from its task of self-contemplation. It was but a few minutes, therefore, before this controversy with himself was going on again, harder than before.Somehow that strange word “bribed” kept haunting him. It sounded constantly in his ears. He imagined that the people in the cars were speaking it; that even the rhythmic rattle of the wheels upon the rails kept singing it to him with monotonous reiteration, “Bribed!bribed!”Tom thought, as he hurried down the street in the gathering darkness, out upon the plank walk, and up the long hill toward home, that he had never been so unhappy in all his life before. It was strange, too, for he had so often dreamed of the great joy he should feel when the coveted hundred dollars had been saved.Well, he had it now, every cent of it, rolled up and tucked safely away in thepocket of his vest; but instead of happiness, it had brought misery.For the first time within his memory, the thought of meeting his mother and his brother gave him no pleasure. He would not tell them about the money that night at any rate; he had decided upon that. Indeed, he had almost concluded that it would be better that they should not know about it until after the trial. And then suppose they should not approve! He was aghast at the very thought.But Tom was a brave lad, and he put on a bright face before these two, and told them of his trip to Wilkesbarre, and about what he had seen and heard,—about the law-office, about Pleadwell and Carolan, about every thing, indeed, but the bargain and the money.He tried to eat his supper as if he enjoyed it, though every mouthful seemed about to choke him, and on the plea of being very tired, he went early to bed. There he lay half the night debating with his conscience, trying to make himself believe that he had done right, yet feelingall the time that he had stooped to dishonor.He went over in his mind the way in which he should break the news to Mommie and Bennie, and wondered how they would receive it; and always beating upon his brain, with a regular cadence that followed the pulsation of his heart, and with a monotonous rhythm that haunted him even after he had fallen into a troubled sleep, went that terrible word,Bribed!The autumn days went by, and still the strike continued. There were no signs of resumption, no signs of compromise. On the contrary, the breach between the miners and the operators was growing daily wider. The burning of the Valley breaker and the arrest of Jack Rennie had given rise to a bitterness of feeling between the two classes that hindered greatly an amicable settlement of their differences.Acts of lawlessness were common, and it was apparent that but little provocation would be needed to bring on deeds ofviolence of a desperate nature. The cry of want began to be heard, and, as the winter season was drawing near, suffering became more frequent among the improvident and the unfortunate.The Taylor family saw coming the time when the pittance of twenty dollars that the boys had saved for Bennie must be drawn upon to furnish food and clothing for them all. Tom had tried to get work outside of the mines, but had failed; there were so many idle men and boys, and there was so little work to be done at that season of the year. But the district school was open, not far from his home, and Tom went there instead.He was fond of books, and had studied much by himself. He could read very well indeed. He used to read aloud to Bennie a great deal, and during these days of enforced idleness the boys occupied much of their time in that way; finding their literature in copies of old newspapers which had been given to them, and in a few old books which had belonged to their father.Indian Summer came late that year, but it was very fair. It lingered day after day, with its still air, its far-sounding echoes, its hazy light and its smoky distances; and the brooding spirit of nature’s quiet rested down, for a brief but beautiful season, about the unquiet spirits of men.On the afternoon of one of its most charming days, Tom and Bennie sauntered out, hand in hand, as they always went, to where the hill, south of their little mining village, rose like a huge, upturned bowl, sloping downward from its summit to every point of the compass. Over in the little valley to the south lay the ruins of the burned breaker, still untouched; and off upon the other side, one could see the sparkling Susquehanna far up into the narrow valley where its waters sweep around the base of Campbell’s Ledge; across to the blue mountains on the west; and down the famous valley of Wyoming, with its gray stone monument in the middle distance, until the eastern hills crept in to intercept the view.It was a dreamy day, and a day fit fordreams, and when the boys reached the summit of the hill, Tom lay down upon the warm sod, and silently looked away to the haze-wrapped mountains, while Bennie sat by his side, and pictured to his mind the view before him, as Tom had described it to him many times, sitting in that very spot.Poor Tom! These beautiful days had brought to him much perplexity of mind, much futile reasoning with his conscience, and much, very much, of silent suffering.Lying there now, in the sunlight, with open eyes, he saw, in reality, no more of the beautiful scene before him than did blind Bennie at his side. He was thinking of the trial, now only three days distant, of what he should be called upon to do and to say, and of how, after it was all over, he must tell Mommie and Bennie about the hundred dollars.Ah, there was the trouble! he could see his way clearly enough until it should come to that; but how should he ever be able to tell to these two a thing of which he triedto be proud, but of which, after all, he felt guilty and ashamed?Then, what would they say to him? Would they praise him for his devotion to Bennie, and for his cleverness in having grasped an opportunity? Or would they grieve over his lack of manly firmness and his loss of boyish honor? Alas! the more he thought of it, the more he feared that they would sorrow rather than rejoice.But an idea came to Tom, as he lay there, thinking the matter over; the idea that perhaps he could learn what Bennie’s mind would be on the subject, without exciting any suspicion therein of what had actually occurred. He resolved to try.He hardly knew how best to approach the matter, but, after some consideration, he turned to Bennie and said,—“Bennie, do you s’pose Jack Rennie act’ally set fire to that breaker?”“I shouldn’t wonder a bit, Tom,” replied Bennie; “those ’at know, him says he’s dreadful bad. ’Taint so much worse to burn a breaker than ’tis to burn a shaft-house, an’ they say he act’ally did burn ashaft-house up at Hyde Park, only they couldn’t prove it on him.”“Well, s’pose you’d ’a’ seen—s’pose you could see, you know, Bennie—an’ s’pose you’d ’a’ seen Jack Rennie set fire to that breaker; would you tell on him?”“Yes, I would,” said Bennie, resolutely, “if I thought he’d never get punished for it ’less I did tell on him.”“Well, don’t you think,” continued Tom, reflectively, “’at that’d be sidin’ with the wealthyclapitulist, against the poor laborer, who ain’t got no other way to get even justice for himself, except to make the richcorpurationsafraid of him, that way?”Tom was using Pleadwell’s argument, not because he believed in it himself, but simply to see how Bennie would meet it.Bennie met it by saying,—“Well, I don’t care; I don’t b’lieve it’severright to burn up any thing ’at belongs to anybody else; an’ if I saw any one a-doin’ it, I’d tell on him if”—Bennie hesitated a moment, and Tom looked up eagerly—“if I wasn’t afraid o’ the MollyMaguires. Jack Rennie’s a Molly, you know.”“Butwouldn’tyou be afraid of ’em? s’pose one of ’em should come to you an’ say, ‘Ben Taylor, if you tell on Jack, we’ll put out your’—I mean ‘cut off your tongue.’ What’d you do?”Bennie thought a moment.“Well, I b’lieve I’d tell on him, anyway; an’ then I’d get a pistol, an’ I wouldn’t let no Molly get nearer to me’n the muzzle of it.”In spite of his great anxiety, Tom laughed at the picture of weak, blind little Bennie holding a crowd of outlaws at bay, with a cocked revolver in his hand. But he felt that he was not getting at the real question very fast, so he tried again.“Well, Bennie, s’pose you’d ’a’ seen him start that fire, an’ he’d ’a’ knowed it, an’ he’d ’a’ said to you, ‘Ben Taylor, if you ever tell on me, I’ll burn your Mommie’s house down, an’ I’ll most kill your brother Tom!’thenwhat’d you do?”Bennie hesitated. This was more of a poser.“Well,” he answered, at last, “if I’d ’a’ b’lieved he’d ’a’ done what he said—I don’t know—I guess I’d—well, maybe, if I didn’t have to tell any lie, I just wouldn’t say any thing.”Tom’s spirits rose; he felt that a great point was gained. Here was a matter in which Bennie would have been even less firm than he himself had been. Now was the time to come directly to the issue, to ask the final question.Tom braced himself to the task. He tried to speak naturally and carelessly, but there was a strange shortness of breath, and a huskiness in his voice which he could not control; he could only hope that Bennie would not notice it.“Well, then, s’pose—just s’pose, you know—thatI’dseen Jack Rennie set fire to the breaker, an’ ’at he knew I was goin’ to tell on him, an’ ’at he’d ’a’ said to me, ‘Tom, you got a blind brother Bennie, ain’t you?’ an’ I’d ’a’ said, ‘Yes,’ an’ he’d ’a’ said, ‘What’ll it cost to get Bennie’s sight for him?’ an’ I’d ’a’ said, ‘Oh, maybe a hundred dollars,’ an’ he’d ’a’ said, ‘Here, Tom,here’s a hundred dollars; you go an’ get Bennie’s eyes cured; an’ don’t you say any thin’ about my settin’ that fire.’ What—what’d you ’a’ done if you’d ’a’ been me?”Tom raised himself to a sitting posture, and leaned toward Bennie, with flushed face and painful expectancy in his eyes.He knew that for him Bennie’s answer meant either a return to a measure of the old happiness, or a plunging into deeper misery.The blind boy rose to his feet and stood for a moment as if lost in thought. Then he turned his sightless eyes to Tom, and said, very slowly and distinctly,—“If you’d ’a’ took it, Tom, an’ if you’d ’a’ used it to cure me with, an’ I’d ’a’ known it, an’ I’d ’a’ got my sight, I don’t believe—I don’t believe I should ever ’a’ wanted to look at you, Tom, or wanted you to see me; I’d ’a’ been so ’shamed o’ both of us.”
And Tom yielded.
The whisperings of conscience were drowned in the anticipation of Bennie’s joy. The fear of personal violence would not have conquered him; neither would the fallacious argument of compensation by destruction have done so. But that vision of Bennie, with eyes that could look into his eyes, with eyes that could see the houses and the breakers, the trees and the birds and the flowers, that could even see the far-off stars in the sky at night,—that was the vision that crowded out from Tom’s mind the sharp distinction between right and wrong, and delivered him over wholly to the tempter.
But he felt the shame of it, nevertheless, as he answered, in a choking voice, at last,—
“Yes, I could. A hundred dollars ’d give sight to Bennie. I wouldn’t lie for it, but I’ll keep still for it.”
Lawyer Pleadwell doubled up his glasses, slipped them into a morocco case, and slipped the case into his vest-pocket. His object was accomplished.
“Tom,” he said, “you’re a wise lad. If you keep on in this way, you’ll make a lawyer; and a lawyer, with so evenly balanced a conscience as yours, will be a credit to the profession.”
Tom was not quite sure whether this was intended for a compliment or not, so he simply said, “Yes, sir.”
Pleadwell reached across the table for his high silk hat, motioned to Carolan to follow him, and went out, saying to Tom as he went,—
“You stay here and amuse yourself; we’ll be back shortly.”
Tom sat there alone quite still. His mind was in a tumult. Is it right? Is itright? Some unseen presence kept crowding the question in upon him.
What would Bennie say to it?
What would Mommie say to it?
Yet there were no lies to be told; he was simply to hold his tongue.
But was it not shielding a criminal from just punishment? Was it not virtually selling his honor for money? Would it not be better, after all, to take back his promise, to do his duty fearlessly, and to work and wait, patiently and with a clear conscience, for means to accomplish the desire of his heart for Bennie?
He was just getting into a state of painful indecision when Carolan came in alone, and closed the door carefully behind him. Without saying a word, he handed to Tom, one by one, ten crisp, new ten-dollar bills. The boy had never in his life before seen so much money at one time. To hold it was like a scene in a fairy story; to own it was to be rich beyond belief. The whispers of conscience were again stilled in the novelty of possessing wealth with which such blessings might be bought.
Tom took the money, folded it awkwardly, and placed it in the inside pocket of his vest. Carolan looked on with apparentsatisfaction; then went and seated himself in the chair he had formerly occupied, without having uttered a word.
This man was a marked character in the anthracite coal region twenty years ago. He was known among the miners as “Silent Mike,” was credited with much native ability and sharpness, and was generally believed to be at the head, in the anthracite region, of the secret order of Molly Maguires. He was always shrewd enough not to implicate himself in any lawlessness. The fact that he so controlled the organization as to meet his personal ends caused it, eventually, to be split with internal dissensions. Then, as a new reign of law and order came in, and as organized labor began to base itself on higher principles, and to work out its problem with less of vengeance and more of justice, the order gradually passed out of existence.
Thinking there was nothing more to be said or done, Tom rose to go; but just then Pleadwell entered, laid his silk hat carefully on the table, and motioned to him to be seated. Having taken his eye-glassesfrom their case and adjusted them carefully on his nose, he said to Tom,—
“It will not be wise for you to make any large expenditures of money for any purpose until after the trial; and in the mean time it will be absolutely unsafe for you to disclose to any one the fact of your having money or the means by which it was obtained. Your own discretion will teach you this. You understand me, do you not?”
Tom nodded, and Pleadwell continued:
“There is one thing more that I desire to speak of: I have heard that when you reached the foot of the hill on the night the breaker was burned, you saw a man come from near the point where the fire broke out, pass by you in the shadow of the building, and disappear around the corner by the engine-room. Is this true?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What kind of a looking man was this? Describe him.”
“He was a short man,” Tom replied, “kind o’ slim, an’ he didn’t have any whiskers”—a sudden thought seemedto strike the boy, and looking for a moment earnestly at Carolan, and then pointing his finger at him, he exclaimed,—
“Why, he looked just like—just like him!”
Carolan smiled grimly, but Pleadwell laughed aloud.
“Well, Tom,” he said, “we shall not ask you to tell whom he looks like, but if I should require your presence at the trial, and should call you to the witness-stand, you would have no objection, I presume, to giving a description of the man you saw pass by you in the shadow of the breaker, just as you have described him to me?”
“No,” replied Tom, “not so long as it’s true.”
“Oh, I should expect you to say nothing that is not strictly true,” said Pleadwell. “I would not allow a witness of mine to tell a lie. Well, then, you are to be in the court-room here a week from next Tuesday morning at nine o’clock. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Carolan, put Thomas Taylor’s name onthat subpœna. You will consider yourself subpœnaed, Tom. Now,” taking a heavy gold watch from his fob-pocket and glancing at it, “you will have just time to catch the train north.” Then stepping to the door between the two rooms, and throwing it open, he said, “Harris, go to the station with this boy, buy his ticket, and see that he gets the right train.”
Harris was the young man who came down with Tom, and he and the boy were soon on the street together, walking briskly toward the station.
An hour earlier, when they were coming in, Tom had been very talkative and inquiring, but now his companion was able to get from him no more than a simple “yes” or “no,” and that only in answer to questions.
Conversation was impossible to the boy, with his mind so crowded with perplexing doubts. He could not even take notice of the shop-windows, or of the life in the streets, but followed blindly along by the side of Harris. Somehow he felt as though he were walking under a heavyweight, and that roll of money in his pocket seemed to be burning him where it rested against his breast. He imagined that the people he met looked at him suspiciously, as if they knew he had been bribed—bribed!
The word came into his mind so suddenly, and with such startling force, that he stopped still in the street, and only recovered himself when Harris turned and called to him.
They were just in time for the train.
Tom found a place in the corner of the car where he would be alone, and sat there thinking over what he had done, and trying to reason himself into justification of his conduct.
The conductor came along and punched his ticket, and looked at him so sharply that Tom wondered if he knew. But of course that was absurd. Then he tried to dismiss the matter from his mind altogether, and give his attention to what he could see from the car-window.
Outside a drizzling rain was beginning to fall on the brown fields and leafless trees,and the autumn early twilight was fast deepening into darkness. It was very dismal and cheerless, and not at all the kind of outlook that could serve to draw Tom’s mind from its task of self-contemplation. It was but a few minutes, therefore, before this controversy with himself was going on again, harder than before.
Somehow that strange word “bribed” kept haunting him. It sounded constantly in his ears. He imagined that the people in the cars were speaking it; that even the rhythmic rattle of the wheels upon the rails kept singing it to him with monotonous reiteration, “Bribed!bribed!”
Tom thought, as he hurried down the street in the gathering darkness, out upon the plank walk, and up the long hill toward home, that he had never been so unhappy in all his life before. It was strange, too, for he had so often dreamed of the great joy he should feel when the coveted hundred dollars had been saved.
Well, he had it now, every cent of it, rolled up and tucked safely away in thepocket of his vest; but instead of happiness, it had brought misery.
For the first time within his memory, the thought of meeting his mother and his brother gave him no pleasure. He would not tell them about the money that night at any rate; he had decided upon that. Indeed, he had almost concluded that it would be better that they should not know about it until after the trial. And then suppose they should not approve! He was aghast at the very thought.
But Tom was a brave lad, and he put on a bright face before these two, and told them of his trip to Wilkesbarre, and about what he had seen and heard,—about the law-office, about Pleadwell and Carolan, about every thing, indeed, but the bargain and the money.
He tried to eat his supper as if he enjoyed it, though every mouthful seemed about to choke him, and on the plea of being very tired, he went early to bed. There he lay half the night debating with his conscience, trying to make himself believe that he had done right, yet feelingall the time that he had stooped to dishonor.
He went over in his mind the way in which he should break the news to Mommie and Bennie, and wondered how they would receive it; and always beating upon his brain, with a regular cadence that followed the pulsation of his heart, and with a monotonous rhythm that haunted him even after he had fallen into a troubled sleep, went that terrible word,Bribed!
The autumn days went by, and still the strike continued. There were no signs of resumption, no signs of compromise. On the contrary, the breach between the miners and the operators was growing daily wider. The burning of the Valley breaker and the arrest of Jack Rennie had given rise to a bitterness of feeling between the two classes that hindered greatly an amicable settlement of their differences.
Acts of lawlessness were common, and it was apparent that but little provocation would be needed to bring on deeds ofviolence of a desperate nature. The cry of want began to be heard, and, as the winter season was drawing near, suffering became more frequent among the improvident and the unfortunate.
The Taylor family saw coming the time when the pittance of twenty dollars that the boys had saved for Bennie must be drawn upon to furnish food and clothing for them all. Tom had tried to get work outside of the mines, but had failed; there were so many idle men and boys, and there was so little work to be done at that season of the year. But the district school was open, not far from his home, and Tom went there instead.
He was fond of books, and had studied much by himself. He could read very well indeed. He used to read aloud to Bennie a great deal, and during these days of enforced idleness the boys occupied much of their time in that way; finding their literature in copies of old newspapers which had been given to them, and in a few old books which had belonged to their father.
Indian Summer came late that year, but it was very fair. It lingered day after day, with its still air, its far-sounding echoes, its hazy light and its smoky distances; and the brooding spirit of nature’s quiet rested down, for a brief but beautiful season, about the unquiet spirits of men.
On the afternoon of one of its most charming days, Tom and Bennie sauntered out, hand in hand, as they always went, to where the hill, south of their little mining village, rose like a huge, upturned bowl, sloping downward from its summit to every point of the compass. Over in the little valley to the south lay the ruins of the burned breaker, still untouched; and off upon the other side, one could see the sparkling Susquehanna far up into the narrow valley where its waters sweep around the base of Campbell’s Ledge; across to the blue mountains on the west; and down the famous valley of Wyoming, with its gray stone monument in the middle distance, until the eastern hills crept in to intercept the view.
It was a dreamy day, and a day fit fordreams, and when the boys reached the summit of the hill, Tom lay down upon the warm sod, and silently looked away to the haze-wrapped mountains, while Bennie sat by his side, and pictured to his mind the view before him, as Tom had described it to him many times, sitting in that very spot.
Poor Tom! These beautiful days had brought to him much perplexity of mind, much futile reasoning with his conscience, and much, very much, of silent suffering.
Lying there now, in the sunlight, with open eyes, he saw, in reality, no more of the beautiful scene before him than did blind Bennie at his side. He was thinking of the trial, now only three days distant, of what he should be called upon to do and to say, and of how, after it was all over, he must tell Mommie and Bennie about the hundred dollars.
Ah, there was the trouble! he could see his way clearly enough until it should come to that; but how should he ever be able to tell to these two a thing of which he triedto be proud, but of which, after all, he felt guilty and ashamed?
Then, what would they say to him? Would they praise him for his devotion to Bennie, and for his cleverness in having grasped an opportunity? Or would they grieve over his lack of manly firmness and his loss of boyish honor? Alas! the more he thought of it, the more he feared that they would sorrow rather than rejoice.
But an idea came to Tom, as he lay there, thinking the matter over; the idea that perhaps he could learn what Bennie’s mind would be on the subject, without exciting any suspicion therein of what had actually occurred. He resolved to try.
He hardly knew how best to approach the matter, but, after some consideration, he turned to Bennie and said,—
“Bennie, do you s’pose Jack Rennie act’ally set fire to that breaker?”
“I shouldn’t wonder a bit, Tom,” replied Bennie; “those ’at know, him says he’s dreadful bad. ’Taint so much worse to burn a breaker than ’tis to burn a shaft-house, an’ they say he act’ally did burn ashaft-house up at Hyde Park, only they couldn’t prove it on him.”
“Well, s’pose you’d ’a’ seen—s’pose you could see, you know, Bennie—an’ s’pose you’d ’a’ seen Jack Rennie set fire to that breaker; would you tell on him?”
“Yes, I would,” said Bennie, resolutely, “if I thought he’d never get punished for it ’less I did tell on him.”
“Well, don’t you think,” continued Tom, reflectively, “’at that’d be sidin’ with the wealthyclapitulist, against the poor laborer, who ain’t got no other way to get even justice for himself, except to make the richcorpurationsafraid of him, that way?”
Tom was using Pleadwell’s argument, not because he believed in it himself, but simply to see how Bennie would meet it.
Bennie met it by saying,—
“Well, I don’t care; I don’t b’lieve it’severright to burn up any thing ’at belongs to anybody else; an’ if I saw any one a-doin’ it, I’d tell on him if”—Bennie hesitated a moment, and Tom looked up eagerly—“if I wasn’t afraid o’ the MollyMaguires. Jack Rennie’s a Molly, you know.”
“Butwouldn’tyou be afraid of ’em? s’pose one of ’em should come to you an’ say, ‘Ben Taylor, if you tell on Jack, we’ll put out your’—I mean ‘cut off your tongue.’ What’d you do?”
Bennie thought a moment.
“Well, I b’lieve I’d tell on him, anyway; an’ then I’d get a pistol, an’ I wouldn’t let no Molly get nearer to me’n the muzzle of it.”
In spite of his great anxiety, Tom laughed at the picture of weak, blind little Bennie holding a crowd of outlaws at bay, with a cocked revolver in his hand. But he felt that he was not getting at the real question very fast, so he tried again.
“Well, Bennie, s’pose you’d ’a’ seen him start that fire, an’ he’d ’a’ knowed it, an’ he’d ’a’ said to you, ‘Ben Taylor, if you ever tell on me, I’ll burn your Mommie’s house down, an’ I’ll most kill your brother Tom!’thenwhat’d you do?”
Bennie hesitated. This was more of a poser.
“Well,” he answered, at last, “if I’d ’a’ b’lieved he’d ’a’ done what he said—I don’t know—I guess I’d—well, maybe, if I didn’t have to tell any lie, I just wouldn’t say any thing.”
Tom’s spirits rose; he felt that a great point was gained. Here was a matter in which Bennie would have been even less firm than he himself had been. Now was the time to come directly to the issue, to ask the final question.
Tom braced himself to the task. He tried to speak naturally and carelessly, but there was a strange shortness of breath, and a huskiness in his voice which he could not control; he could only hope that Bennie would not notice it.
“Well, then, s’pose—just s’pose, you know—thatI’dseen Jack Rennie set fire to the breaker, an’ ’at he knew I was goin’ to tell on him, an’ ’at he’d ’a’ said to me, ‘Tom, you got a blind brother Bennie, ain’t you?’ an’ I’d ’a’ said, ‘Yes,’ an’ he’d ’a’ said, ‘What’ll it cost to get Bennie’s sight for him?’ an’ I’d ’a’ said, ‘Oh, maybe a hundred dollars,’ an’ he’d ’a’ said, ‘Here, Tom,here’s a hundred dollars; you go an’ get Bennie’s eyes cured; an’ don’t you say any thin’ about my settin’ that fire.’ What—what’d you ’a’ done if you’d ’a’ been me?”
Tom raised himself to a sitting posture, and leaned toward Bennie, with flushed face and painful expectancy in his eyes.
He knew that for him Bennie’s answer meant either a return to a measure of the old happiness, or a plunging into deeper misery.
The blind boy rose to his feet and stood for a moment as if lost in thought. Then he turned his sightless eyes to Tom, and said, very slowly and distinctly,—
“If you’d ’a’ took it, Tom, an’ if you’d ’a’ used it to cure me with, an’ I’d ’a’ known it, an’ I’d ’a’ got my sight, I don’t believe—I don’t believe I should ever ’a’ wanted to look at you, Tom, or wanted you to see me; I’d ’a’ been so ’shamed o’ both of us.”