THE ANGEL WITH THE SWORD.
Ralph had entered the office just as Rhyming Joe reached the point of
his disclosure. He had heard him declare, in emphatic tones: "I say
the boy Ralph is not Robert Burnham's son."
It was as though some one had struck him. He dropped into a chair and
sat as if under a spell, listening to every word that was uttered. He
was powerless to move or to speak until the man who had told the cruel
story had passed by him in the dark and gone down the walk into the
street.
Then he arose and followed him; he did not know just why, but it
seemed as if he must see him, if only to beg him to declare that the
story he had just heard him tell was all a lie. And yet Ralph believed
that Rhyming Joe had told the truth. Why should he not believe him
when Sharpman himself had put such faith in the tale as to purchase
the man's silence with money. But if the story were true, if it _were_
true, then it should be known; Mrs. Burnham should know it, Mr.
Goodlaw should know it, Mr. Sharpman should not conceal it, Rhyming
Joe must not be allowed to depart until he had told it on the
witness-stand, in open court. He must see him, Ralph thought; he must
find him, he must, in some way, compel him to remain. The sound of the
man's footsteps had not yet died away as the boy ran after him along
the street, but half-way down the block his breath grew short, his
heart began to pound against his breast, he pressed his hand to his
side as if in pain, and staggered up to a lamp-post for support.
When he recovered sufficiently to start on, Rhyming Joe had passed
out of both sight and hearing. Ralph hurried down the street until he
reached Lackawanna Avenue, and there he stopped, wondering which way
to turn. But there was no time to lose. If the man should escape him
now he might never see him again, he might never hear from his lips
whether the dreadful story was really and positively true. He felt
that Rhyming Joe would not lie to him to-night, nor deceive him, nor
deny his request to make the truth known to those who ought to know
it, if he could only find him and speak to him, and if the man could
only see how utterly miserable he was. He plunged in among the Sunday
evening saunterers, and hurried up the street, looking to the right
and to the left, before and behind him, hastening on as he could. Once
he thought he saw, just ahead, the object of his search. He ran up to
speak to him, looked into his face, and--it was some one else.
Finally he reached the head of the avenue and turned up toward the
Dunmore road. Then he came back, crossed over, and went down on the
other side of the street. Block after block he traversed, looking into
the face of every man he met, glancing into doorways and dark corners,
making short excursions into side streets; block after block, until
he reached the Hyde Park bridge. He was tired and disheartened as he
turned back and wondered what he should do next. Then it occurred to
him that he had promised to meet Mr. Sharpman that night. Perhaps the
lawyer was still waiting for him. Perhaps, if he should appeal to him,
the lawyer would help him to find Rhyming Joe, and to make the truth
known before injustice should be done.
He turned his steps in the direction of Sharpman's office, reached
it finally, went up the little walk, tried to open the door, and
found it locked. The lights were out, the lawyer had gone. Ralph was
very tired, and he sat down on the door-step to rest and to try to
think. He felt that he had made every effort to find Rhyming Joe and
had failed. To-morrow the man would be gone. Sharpman would go to
Wilkesbarre. The evidence in the Burnham case would be closed. The
jury would come into court and declare that he, Ralph, was Robert
Burnham's son--and it would be all a lie. Oh, no! he could not let
that be done. His whole moral nature cried out against it. He must
see Sharpman to-night and beg him to put a stop to so unjust a cause.
To-morrow it might be too late. He rose and started down the walk to
find the lawyer's dwelling. But he did not know in which direction to
turn. A man was passing along the street, and Ralph accosted him:--
"Please, can you tell me where Mr. Sharpman lives?" he asked.
"I don't know anything about him," replied the man gruffly, starting
on.
In a minute another man came by, and Ralph repeated his question.
"I don't know where he does live, sonny," said the man, "but I know
where he would live if I had my choice as to his dwelling-place; he'd
reside in the county jail," and this man, too, passed on.
Ralph went back and sat down on the steps again.
The sky had become covered with clouds, no stars were visible, and it
was very dark.
What was to be done now? He had failed to find Rhyming Joe, he had
failed to find Lawyer Sharpman. The early morning train would carry
both of them beyond his reach. Suppose it should? Suppose the case at
Wilkesbarre should go on to its predicted end, and the jury should
bring in their expected verdict, what then?
Why, then the law would declare him to be Robert Burnham's son; the
title, the position, the fortune would all be his; Mrs. Burnham would
take him to her home, and lavish love and care upon him; all this
unless--unless he should tell what he had heard. Ah! there was a
thought. Suppose he should not tell, suppose he should let the case go
on just as though he had not known the truth, just as though he had
stayed at home that night instead of coming to the city; who would
ever be the wiser? who would ever suspect him of knowing that the
verdict was unjust? He might yet have it all, all, if only he would
hold his tongue. His heart beat wildly with the thought, his breath
came in gasps, something in his throat seemed choking him. But that
would be wrong--he knew it would be wrong, and wicked; a sense of
shame came over him, and he cast the tempting thought aside.
No, there was but one thing for him, as an honest boy, to do, and that
was to tell what he had heard.
If he could tell it soon enough to hold the verdict back, so much the
better, if he could not, still he had no right to keep his knowledge
to himself--the story must be known. And then farewell to all his
hopes, his plans, his high ambition. No beautiful home for him now,
no loving mother nor winsome sister nor taste of any joy that he had
thought to know. It was hard to give them up, it was terrible, but it
must be done.
He fell to thinking of his visit to his mother. It seemed to him as
though it were something that had taken place very long ago. It was
like a sweet dream that he had dreamed as a little boy. He wondered
if it was indeed only that afternoon that it had all occurred. It
had been so beautiful, so very beautiful; and now! Could it be that
this boy, sitting weak, wretched, disconsolate, on the steps of this
deserted office, in the night-time, was the same boy whose feet had
scarcely touched the ground that afternoon for buoyant happiness? Oh,
it was dreadful! dreadful! He began to wonder why he did not cry. He
put up his hands to see if there were any tears on his cheeks, but he
found none. Did only people cry who had some gentler cause for tears?
But the thought of what would happen if he should keep his knowledge
to himself came back again into his mind. He drove it out, but it
returned. It had a fascination about it that was difficult to resist.
It would be so easy simply to say nothing. And who would ever know
that he was not Mrs. Burnham's son? Why, Old Simon would know, but he
would not dare to tell; Lawyer Sharpman would know, but he would not
dare to tell; Rhyming Joe would know, but he would not dare to tell,
at least, not for a long time. And suppose it should be known after
a year, after two years or longer, who would blame him? he would be
supposed to have been ignorant of it all; he would be so established
by that time in his new home that he would not have to leave it. They
might take his property, his money, all things else, but he knew that
if he could but live with Mrs. Burnham for a year she would never let
him leave her, and that was all he cared for at any rate.
But then, he himself would know that he had no right there; he would
have to live with this knowledge always with him, he would have to
walk about with an ever present lie on his mind and in his heart. He
could not do that, he would not do it; he must disclose his knowledge,
and make some effort to see that justice was not mocked. But it was
too late to do anything to-night. He wondered how late it was. He
thought of Bachelor Billy waiting for him at home. He feared that the
good man would be worried on account of his long absence. A clock in a
church tower not far away struck ten. Ralph started to his feet, went
out into the street again, and up toward home.
But Uncle Billy! what would Uncle Billy say when he should tell him
what he had heard? Would he counsel him to hold his tongue? Ah, no!
the boy knew well the course that Uncle Billy would mark out for him.
But it would be a great blow to the man; he would grieve much
on account of the lad's misfortune; he would feel the pangs of
disappointment as deeply as did Ralph himself. Ought he not to be
spared this pain?
And then, a person holding the position of Robert Burnham's son could
give much comfort to the man who had been his dearest friend, could
place him beyond the reach of possible want, could provide well
for the old age that was rapidly approaching, could make happy and
peaceful the remnant of his days. Was it not the duty of a boy to
do it?
But, ah! he would not have the good man look into his heart and see
the lie there, not for worlds.
Ralph was passing along the same streets that he had traversed in
coming to the city two hours before; but now the doors of the houses
were closed, the curtains were drawn, the lights were out, there was
no longer any sound of sweet voices at the steps, nor any laughter,
nor any music in the air. A rising wind was stirring the foliage of
the trees into a noise like the subdued sobbing of many people; the
streets were deserted, a fine rain had begun to fall, and out on the
road, after the lad had left the suburbs, it was very dark. Indeed, it
was only by reason of long familiarity with the route that he could
find his way at all.
But the storm and darkness outside were not to be compared with the
tempest in his heart; that was terrible. He had about made up his
mind to tell Bachelor Billy everything and to follow his advice when
he chanced to think of Mrs. Burnham, and how great her pain and
disappointment would be when she should know the truth. He knew that
she believed him now to be her son; that she was ready to take him
to her home, that she counted very greatly on his coming, and was
impatient to bestow on him all the care and devotion that her mother's
heart could conceive. It would be a bitter blow to her, oh, a very
bitter blow. It would be like raising her son from the dead only to
lay him back into his grave after the first day.
What right had he to inflict such torture as this on a lady who had
been so kind to him? What right? Did not her love for him and his love
for her demand that he should keep silence? But, oh! to hear the sound
of loving words from her lips and know that he did not deserve them,
to feel her mother's kisses on his cheek and know that his heart was
dark with deep deceit. Could he endure that? could he?
As Ralph turned the corner of the village street, he saw the light
from Bachelor Billy's window shining out into the darkness. There were
no other lights to be seen. People went early to bed there; they must
rise early in the morning.
The boy knew that his Uncle Billy was waiting for him, doubtless with
much anxiety, but, now that he had reached the cottage, he stood
motionless by the door. He was trying to decide what he should do and
say on entering. To tell Uncle Billy or not to tell him, that was the
question. He had never kept anything from him before; this would be
the first secret he had not shared with him. And Uncle Billy had been
so good to him, too, so very good! Yes, he thought he had better tell
him; he would do it now, before his resolution failed. He raised his
hand to lift the latch. Again he hesitated. If he should tell him,
that would end it all. The good man would never allow him to act a
falsehood. He would have to bid farewell to all his sweet dreams of
home, and his high plans for life, and step back into the old routine
of helpless poverty and hopeless toil. He felt that he was not quite
ready to do that yet; heart, mind, body, all rebelled against it. He
would wait and hope for some way out, without the sacrifice of all
that he had longed for. His hand fell nerveless to his side. He still
stood waiting on the step in the beating rain.
But then, it was wrong to keep silent, wrong! wrong! wrong!
The word went echoing through his mind like the stern sentence of
some high court; conscience again pushed her way to the front, and
the struggle in the boy's heart went on with a fierceness that was
terrible.
Suddenly the door was opened from the inside, and Bachelor Billy
stood there, shading his eyes with his hand and peering out into the
darkness.
"Ralph," he said, "is that yo' a-stannin' there i' the rain? Coom in,
lad; coom in wi' ye! Why!" he exclaimed, as the boy entered the room,
"ye're a' drippin' wet!"
"Yes, Uncle Billy, it's a-rainin' pirty hard; I believe I--I believe I
did git wet."
The boy's voice sounded strange and hard even to himself. Bachelor
Billy looked down into his face questioningly.
"What's the matter wi' ye, Ralph? Soun's like as if ye'd been
a-cryin'. Anything gone wrong?"
"Oh, no. Only I'm tired, that's all, an'--an' wet."
"Ye look bad i' the face. Mayhap an' ye're a bit sick?"
"No, I ain't sick."
"Wull, then, off wi' the wet duddies, an' we'll be a-creepin' awa' to
bed."
As Ralph proceeded to remove his wet clothing, Bachelor Billy watched
him with increasing concern. The boy's face was white and haggard,
there were dark crescents under his eyes, his movements were heavy and
confused, he seemed hardly to know what he was about.
"Has the lawyer said aught to mak' ye unhappy, Ralph?" inquired Billy
at last.
"No, I ain't seen Mr. Sharpman. He wasn't in. He was in when I first
went there, but somebody else was there a-talkin' to 'im, an' I went
out to wait, an' w'en I got back again the office was locked, so I
didn't see 'im."
"Ye've been a lang time gone, lad?"
"Yes, I waited aroun', thinkin' maybe he'd come back, but he didn't. I
didn't git started for home" till just before it begun to rain."
"Mayhap ye got a bit frightened a-comin' up i' the dark?"
"No--well, I did git just a little scared a-comin' by old No. 10
shaft; I thought I heard a funny noise in there."
"Ye s'ould na be oot so late alone. Nex' time I'll go wi' ye mysel'!"
Ralph finished the removal of his wet clothing, and went to bed, glad
to get where Bachelor Billy could not see his face, and where he need
not talk.
"I'll wait up a bit an' finish ma pipe," said the man, and he leaned
back in his chair and began again his slow puffing.
He knew that something had gone wrong with Ralph. He feared that he
was either sick or in deep trouble. He did not like to question him
too closely, but he thought he would wait a little before going to bed
and see if there were any further developments.
Ralph could not sleep, but he tried to lie very still. A half-hour
went by, and then Bachelor Billy stole softly to the bed and looked
down into the lad's face. He was still awake.
"Have you got your pipe smoked out, Uncle Billy?" he asked.
"Yes, lad; I ha' just finished it."
"Then are you comin' to bed now?"
"I thocht to. Do ye want for anything?"
"Oh, no! I'm all right."
The man began to prepare for bed.
After a while Ralph spoke.
"Uncle Billy!"
"What is it, lad?"
"I've been thinkin', s'pose this suit should go against us, do you
b'lieve Mrs. Burnham would do anything more for me?"
"She's a gude woman, Ralph. Na doot she'd care for ye; but ye could
na hope to have her tak' ye to her hame, an they proved ye waur no'
her son."
"An' then--an' then I'd stay right along with you, wouldn't I?"
"I hope so, lad, I hope so. I want ye s'ould stay wi' me till ye find
a better place."
"Oh, I couldn't find a better place to stay, I know I couldn't, 'xcept
with my--'xcept with Mrs. Burnham."
"Wull, ye need na worry aboot the matter. Ye'll ha' naught to fear fra
the trial, I'm thinkin'. Gae to sleep noo; ye'll feel better i' the
mornin', na doot."
Ralph was silent, but only for a minute. A new thought was working
slowly into his mind.
"But, Uncle Billy," he said, "s'pose they should prove, to-morrow, 'at
Simon Craft is my own gran'father, would I have to--Oh! Uncle Billy!"
The lad started up in bed, sat there for a moment with wildly staring
eyes, and then sprang to the floor trembling with excitement and fear.
"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 hoarsely 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
appetites; 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
shivered 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 flashing 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.
He seized his hat and started up the village street and across the
hill to Burnham Breaker There was no lagging now, no indecision in his
step, no doubt within his mind.
He was once more brave, hopeful, free-hearted, ready to do anything or
all things, that justice might be done and truth become established.
The sun shone down upon him tenderly, the birds sang carols to him on
the way, the blossoming trees cast white flowers at his feet; but he
never stayed his steps nor turned his thought until the black heights
of Burnham Breaker threw their shadows on his head.