Burnham Breaker Part 39

"Oh, don't!" he cried; "Uncle Billy, don't let him take me back there to live with him! I couldn't stan' it! I couldn't! I'd die! I can't go, Uncle Billy! I can't!"

"There, there, lad! ha' no fear; ye'll no' go back, I'll no' let ye."

The man had Ralph in his arms trying to quiet him.

"But," persisted the boy, "he'll come for me, he'll, make me go. If they find out I'm his gran'son there at the court, they'll tell him to take me, I know they will!"

"But ye're no' his gran'son, Ralph, ye've naught to do wi' 'im. Ye're Robert Burnham's son."

"Oh, no, Uncle Billy, I ain't, I--" He stopped suddenly. The certain result of disclosing his knowledge to his Uncle Billy flashed warningly across his mind. If Bachelor Billy knew it, Mrs. Burnham must know it; if Mrs. Burnham knew it, Goodlaw and the court must know it, the verdict would be against him, Simon Craft would come to take him back to the terrors of his wretched home, and he would have to go. The law that would deny his claim as Robert Burnham's son would stamp him as the grandson of Simon Craft, and place him again in his cruel keeping.

Oh, no! he must not tell. If there were reasons for keeping silence before, they were increased a hundred-fold by the shadow of this last danger. He felt that he had rather die than go back to live with Simon Craft.

Bachelor Billy was rocking the boy in his arms as he would have rocked a baby.

"There, noo, there, noo, quiet yoursel'," he said, and his voice was very soothing, "quiet yoursel'; ye've naught to dread; it'll a'

coom oot richt. What's happenit to ye, Ralph, that ye s'ould be so fearfu'?"

"N--nothin'; I'm tired, that's all. I guess I'll go to bed again."

He went back to bed, but not to sleep. Hot and feverish, and with his mind in a tumult, he tossed about, restlessly, through the long hours of the night. He had decided at last that he could not tell what he had heard at Sharpman's office. The thought of having to return to Simon Craft had settled the matter in his mind. The other reasons for his silence he had lost sight of now; this last one outweighed them all, and placed a seal upon his tongue that he felt must not be broken.

Toward morning he fell into a troubled sleep and dreamed that Old Simon was holding him over the mouth of Burnham Shaft, threatening to drop him down into it, while Sharpman stood by, with his hands in his pockets, laughing heartily at his terror. He managed to cry out, and awoke both himself and Bachelor Billy. He started up in bed, clutching at the coverings in an attempt, to save himself from apparent disaster, trembling from head to foot, moaning hoa.r.s.ely in his fright.

"What is it, Ralph, lad, what's ailin' ye?"

"Oh, don't! don't let him throw me--Uncle Billy, is that you?"

"It's me, Ralph. Waur ye dreamin'? There, never mind; no one s'all harm ye, ye're safe i' the bed at hame. Gae to sleep, lad, gae to sleep."

"I thought they was goin' to throw me down the shaft. I must 'a' been a-dreamin'."

"Yes, ye waur dreamin'. Gae to sleep."

But Ralph did not go to sleep again that night, and when the first gray light of the dawning day came in at the cottage window he arose.

Bachelor Billy was still wrapped in heavy slumber, and the boy moved about cautiously so as not to waken him.

When he was dressed he went out and sat on a bench by the door. The storm of the night before had left the air cool and sweet, and it refreshed him to sit there and breathe it, and watch the sun as it came up from behind the long slanting roof of Burnham Breaker.

But he was very miserable, very miserable indeed. It was not so much the sense of fear, of pain, of disappointment that disturbed him now, it was the misery of a fettered conscience, the shadow of an ever present shame.

Finally the door was opened and Bachelor Billy stepped out.

"Good mornin', Uncle Billy," said the boy, trying to speak cheerfully.

"Gude mornin' till ye, Ralph! Ye're up airly the mornin'. I mak' free to say ye're a-feelin' better."

"Yes, I am. I didn't sleep very well, but I'm better this mornin'. I wisht it was all over with--the trial I mean; you see it's a-makin' me kind o' nervous an'--an' tired. I can't stan' much 'xcitement, some way."

"Wull, ye'll no' ha' lang to wait I'm a-thinkin'. It'll be ower the day. What aboot you're gaein' to Wilkesbarre?"

"I don't know. I guess I'll go down to Mr. Sharpman's office after a while, an' see if he's left any word for me."

Mrs. Maloney appeared at her door.

"The top o' the mornin' to yez!" she cried, cheerily. "It's a fine mornin' this!"

Both Bachelor Billy and Ralph responded to the woman's hearty greeting. She continued:

"Ye'll be afther gettin' out in the air, I mind, to sharpen up the appet.i.tes; an' a-boardin' with a widdy, too, bad 'cess to ye!"

Mrs. Maloney was inclined to be jovial, as well as kind-hearted.

"Well, I've a bite on the table for yez, an ye don't come an' ate it, the griddle-cakes'll burn an' the coffee'll be cowld, an'--why, Ralph, is it sick ye are? sure, ye're not lookin' right well."

"I wasn't feelin' very good las' night, Mrs. Maloney, but I'm better this mornin'."

The sympathetic woman took the boy's hand and rubbed it gently, and, with many inquiries and much advice, she led him to the table. He forced himself to eat a little food and to drink something that the good woman had prepared for him, which, she declared emphatically, would drive off the "wakeness."

Bachelor Billy did not take his dinner with him that morning as usual.

He said he would come back at noon to learn whether anything new had occurred in the matter of the lawsuit, and whether it would be necessary for Ralph to go to Wilkesbarre.

He was really much concerned about the boy. Ralph's conduct since the evening before had been a mystery to him. He knew that something was troubling the lad greatly; but, whatever it was, he had faith that Ralph would meet it manfully, the more manfully, perhaps, without his help. So he went away with cheering predictions concerning the suit, and with kindly admonition to the boy to remain as quiet as possible and try to sleep.

But Ralph could not sleep, nor could he rest. He was laboring under too much excitement still to do either. He walked nervously about the cottage for a while, then he started down toward the city. He went first to Sharpman's office, and the clerk told him that Mr. Sharpman had left word that Ralph need not go to Wilkesbarre that day. Then he went on to the heart of the city. He was trying to divert himself, trying to drown his thought, as people try who are suffering from the reproaches of conscience.

He walked down to the railroad station. He wondered if Rhyming Joe had gone. He supposed he had. He did not care to see him now, at any rate.

He sat on a bench in the waiting-room for a few minutes to rest, then he went out into the street again. But he was very wretched. It seemed to him as though all persons whom he met looked down on him disdainfully, as if they knew of his proposed deceit, and despised him for it. A lady coming toward him crossed to the other side of the walk before she reached him. He wondered if she saw disgrace in his face and was trying to avoid him.

After that he left the busy streets and walked back, by a less frequented route, toward home. The day was very bright and warm, but the brightness had a cold glare in Ralph's eyes, and he actually s.h.i.+vered as he walked on in the shade of the trees. He crossed to the sunny side of the street, and hurried along through the suburbs and up the hill.

Widow Maloney called to him as he reached the cottage door, to ask after his health; but he told her he was feeling better, and went on into his own room. He closed the door behind him, locked it, and threw himself down upon the bed. He was very wretched. Oh, very wretched, indeed.

He had decided to keep silent, and to let the case at Wilkesbarre go on to its expected end, but the decision had brought to him no peace; it had only made him more unhappy than he was before. But why should it do this? Was he not doing what was best? Would it not be better for Uncle Billy, for Mrs. Burnham, for himself? Must he, for the sake of some farfetched moral principle, throw himself into the merciless clutch of Simon Craft?

Thus the fight began again, and the battle in the boy's heart went on with renewed earnestness. He gave to his conscience, one by one, the reasons that he had for acting the part of Robert Burnham's son; good reasons they were too, overwhelmingly convincing they seemed to him; but his conscience, like an angel with a flaming sword, rejected all of them, declaring constantly that what he thought to do would be a grievous wrong.

But whom would it wrong? Not Ralph Burnham, for he was dead, and it could be no wrong to him; not Mrs. Burnham, for she would rejoice to have this boy with her, even though she knew he was not her son; not Bachelor Billy, for he would be helped to comfort and to happiness.

And yet there stood the angel with the flaming sword crying out always that it was wrong.

But whom would it wrong? himself? Ah! there was a thought--would it be wronging himself?

Well, would it not? Had it not already made a coward of him? Was it not degrading him in his own eyes? Was it not trying to stifle the voice of conscience in his breast? Would it not make of him a living, walking lie? a thing to be shunned and scorned? Had he a right to place a burden so appalling on himself? Would it not be better to face the toil, the pain, the poverty, the fear? Would it not be better even to die than to live a life like that?

He sprang from the bed with clenched hands and flas.h.i.+ng eyes and swelling nostrils. A fire of moral courage had blazed up suddenly in his breast. His better nature rose to the help of the angel with the flaming sword, and together they fought, as the giants of old fought the dragons in their path. Then hope came back, and courage grew, and resolution found new footing. He stood there as he stood that day on the carriage that bore Robert Burnham to his death, the light of heroism in his eyes, the glow of splendid faith illuming his face. He could not help but conquer. He drove the spirit of temptation from his breast, and enthroned in its stead the principle of everlasting right.

There was no thought now of yielding; he felt brave and strong to meet every trial, yes, every terror that might lie in his path, without flinching one hair's breadth from the stern line of duty.

But now that his decision was made, he must act, and that promptly.

What was the first thing to be done? Why, the first thing always was to confide in Uncle Billy, and to ask for his advice.