AN EVENTFUL JOURNEY.
The shaft-tower of Burnham Breaker reached up so high from the surface
of the earth that it seemed, sometimes, as if the low-hanging clouds
were only a foot or two above its head. In the winter time the wind
swept wildly against it, the flying snow drifted in through the wide
cracks and broken windows, and the men who worked there suffered from
the piercing cold. But when summer came, and the cool breeze floated
across through the open places at the head, and one could look down
always on the green fields far below, and the blossoming gardens,
and the gray-roofed city, and the shining waters of the Lackawanna,
winding southward, and the wooded hills rising like green waves to
touch the far blue line of mountain peaks, ah, then it was a pleasant
place to work in. So Bachelor Billy thought, these warm spring days,
as he pushed the dripping cars from the carriage, and dumped each load
of coal into the slide, to be carried down between the iron-teethed
rollers, to be crushed and divided and screened and re-screened, till
it should pass beneath the sharp eyes and nimble fingers of the boys
who cleansed it from its slate and stone.
Billy often thought, as he dumped a carload into the slide, and saw a
huge lump of coal that glistened brightly, or glowed with iridescent
tints, or was veined with fossil-marked or twisted slate, that
perhaps, down below in the screen-room, Ralph's eyes would see the
brightness of the broken lump, or Ralph's fingers pick the curious
bits of slate from out the moving mass. And as he fastened up the
swing-board and pushed the empty car to the carriage, he imagined how
the boy's face would light up with pleasure, or his brown eyes gleam
with wonder and delight in looking on these strange specimens of
nature's handiwork.
But to-day Ralph was not there. In all probability he would never
be there again to work. Another boy was sitting on his bench in the
screen-room, another boy was watching rainbow coal and fern-marked
slate. This thought in Bachelor Billy's mind was a sad one. He pushed
the empty car on the carriage, and sat down on a bench by the window
to consider the subject of Ralph's absence.
Something had gone wrong at the foot of the shaft. There were no cars
ready for hoisting, and Billy and his co-laborer, Andy Gilgallon, were
able to rest for many minutes from their toil.
As they sat looking down upon the green landscape below them, Bachelor
Billy's attention was attracted to a boy who was hurrying along the
turnpike road a quarter of a mile away. He came to the foot of the
hill and turned up the path to the breaker, looking up to the men in
the shaft-tower as he hastened on, and waving his hand to them.
"I believe it's Ralph," said Billy, "it surely is. An ye'll mind both
carriages for a bit when they start up, Andy, I'll go t' the lad," and
he hurried across the tracks and down the dark and devious way that
led to the surface of the earth.
At the door of the pump-room he met Ralph. "Uncle Billy!" shouted the
boy, "I want to see you; I've got sumpthin' to tell you."
Two or three men were standing by, watching the pair curiously, and
Ralph continued: "Come up to the tree where they ain't so much noise;
'twon't take long."
He led the way across the level space, up the bank, and into the
shadow of the tree beneath which the breaker boys had gathered a year
before to pass resolutions of sympathy for Robert Burnham's widow;
They were no sooner seated on the rude bench than Ralph began:--
"I ought to 'a' told you before, I done very wrong not to tell you,
but I couldn't raise the courage to do it till this mornin'. Here's
what I want you to know."
Then Ralph told, with full detail, of his visit to Sharpman's office
on Sunday evening, of what he had heard there, of his subsequent
journey through the streets of the city, of his night of agony, of his
morning of shame, of his final victory over himself.
Bachelor Billy listened with intense interest, and when he had heard
the boy's story to the end he dashed the tears from his eyes and said:
"Gie's your han' Ralph; gie's your twa han's! Ye're a braw lad. Son or
no son o' Robert Burnham, ye're fit to stan' ony day in his shoes!"
He was looking down with strong admiration into the boy's pale face,
holding the small hands affectionately in both of his.
"I come just as quick as I could," continued the boy, "after I got
over thinkin' I'd keep still about it, just as quick as I could, to
tell you an' ask you what to do. I'll do anything 'at you tell me it's
right to do, Uncle Billy, anything. If you'll only say I must do it,
I will. But it's awful hard to do it all alone, to let 'em know who I
am, to give up everything so, an' not to have any mother any more, nor
no sister, nor no home, nor no learnin', nor nothing; not anything at
all, never, any more; it's terrible! Oh, Uncle Billy, it's terrible!"
Then, for the first time since the dreadful words of Rhyming Joe fell
on his ears in the darkness of Sharpman's office, Ralph gave way to
tears. He wept till his whole frame shook with the deep force of his
sobs.
Bachelor Billy put his arm around the boy and drew him to his side. He
smoothed back the tangled hair from the child's hot forehead and spoke
rude words of comfort into his ears, and after a time Ralph grew
quiet.
"Do you think, Uncle Billy," asked Ralph, "'at Rhymin' Joe was
a-tellin' the truth? He used to lie, I know he did, I've heard 'im
lie myself."
"It looks verra like, Ralph, as though he might 'a' been a-tellin' o'
the truth; he must 'a' been knowin' to it all, or he could na tell it
so plain."
"Oh! he was; he knew all about it. I remember him about the first
thing. He was there most all the time. But I didn't know but he might
just 'a' been lyin' to get that money."
"It's no' unlikely. But atween the twa, I'd sooner think it was the
auld mon was a-tellin' o' the lee. He has more to make out o' it, do
ye see?"
"Well, there's the evidence in court."
"True, but Lawyer Sharpman kens the worth o' that as well as ony o'
us. An he was na fearfu' that the truth would owerbalance it, he wadna
gi' a mon a hunderd an' fifty dollars to hold his tongue. I'm doubtfu'
for ye, Ralph, I'm verra doubtfu'."
Ralph had believed Rhyming Joe's story from the beginning, but he felt
that this belief must be confirmed by Uncle Billy in order to put it
beyond question. Now he was satisfied. It only remained to act.
"It's all true," he said; "I know it's all true, an' sumpthin's got to
be done. What shall I do, Uncle Billy?"
The troubled look deepened on the man's face.
"Whether it's fause or true," he replied, "ye s'ould na keep it to
yoursel'. She ought to know. It's only fair to go an' tell the tale to
her an' let her do what she thenks bes'."
"Must I tell Mrs. Burnham? Must I go an' tell her 'at I ain't her
son, an' 'at I can't live with her, an' 'at we can't never be happy
together the way we talked? Oh, Uncle Billy, I can't do that, I
can't!"
He looked up beseechingly into the man's face. Something that he saw
there--pain, disappointment, affection, something, inspired him with
fresh courage, and he started to his feet and dashed the tears from
his eyes.
"Yes, I can do it too!" he exclaimed. "I can do anything 'at's right,
an' that's right. I won't wait; I'll go now."
"Don't haste, lad; wait a bit; listen! If the lady should be gone to
court ye mus' gae there too. If ye canna find her, ye mus' find her
lawyer. One or the ither ye s'ould tell, afoor the verdict comes;
afterwards it might be too late."
"Yes, I'll do it, I'll do it just like that."
"Mos' like ye'll have to go to Wilkesbarre. An ye do I'll go mysel'.
But dinna wait for me. I'll coom when I can get awa'. Ye s'ould go on
the first train that leaves."
"Yes, I unnerstan'. I'll go now."
"Wait a bit! Keep up your courage, Ralph. Ye've done a braw thing, an'
ye're through the worst o' it; but ye'll find a hard path yet, an'
ye'll need a stout hert. Ralph," he had taken both the boy's hands
into his again, and was looking tenderly into his haggard face and
bloodshot eyes; the traces of the struggle were so very plain--"Ralph,
I fear I'd cry ower ye a bit an we had the time, ye've sufferit so.
An' it's gude for ye, I'm thinkin', that ye mus' go quick. I'd make ye
weak, an' ye need to be strang. I canna fear for ye, laddie; ye ken
the right an' ye'll do it. Good-by till ye; it'll not be lang till I
s'all go to ye; good-by!"
He bent down and kissed the boy's forehead and turned him to face
toward the city; and when Ralph had disappeared below the brow of the
hill, the rough-handed, warm-hearted toiler of the breaker's head
wiped the tears from his face, and climbed back up the steep steps,
and the long walks of cleated plank, to engage in his accustomed task.
There was no shrinking on Ralph's part now. He was on fire with the
determination to do the duty that lay so plainly in his sight. He did
not stop to argue with himself, he scarcely saw a person or a thing
along his path; he never rested from his rapid journey till he reached
the door of Mrs. Burnham's house.
A servant came in answer to his ring at the bell, and gave him
pleasant greeting. She said that Mrs. Burnham had gone to Wilkesbarre,
that she had started an hour before, that she had said she would come
back in the early evening and would doubtless bring her son with her.
Ralph looked up into the woman's face, and his eyes grew dim.
"Thank you," he said, repressing a sob, and he went down the steps
with a choking in his throat and a pain at his heart.
He turned at the gate, and looked back through the half-opened door
into the rich shadows that lay beyond it, with a ray of crimson light
from the stained glass window cleaving them across, and then his eyes
were blinded with tears, and he could see no more. The gates of his
Eden were closed behind him; he felt that he should never enter them
again.
But this was no time for sorrow and regret.
He wiped the tears from his eyes and turned his face resolutely toward
the heart of the city.
At the railroad station he was told that the next train would leave
for Wilkesbarre at twelve o'clock.
It lacked half an hour of that time now. There was nothing to do but
to wait. He began to mark out in his mind the course he should pursue
on reaching Wilkesbarre. He thought he would inquire the way to Mr.
Goodlaw's office, and go directly to it and tell the whole story to
him. Perhaps Mrs. Burnham would be there too, that would be better
yet, more painful but better. Then he should follow their advice as
to the course to be pursued. It was more than likely that they would
want him to testify as a witness. That would be strange, too, that
he should give such evidence voluntarily as would deprive him of a
beautiful home, of a loving mother, and of an honored name. But he was
ready to do it; he was ready to do anything now that seemed right and
best, anything that would meet the approval of his Uncle Billy and of
his own conscience.
When the train was ready he found a seat in the cars and waited
impatiently for them to start. For some reason they were late in
getting away, but, once started, they seemed to be going fast enough
to make up for lost time.
In the seats behind Ralph was a merry party of young girls. Their
incessant chatter and musical laughter came to his ears as from a long
distance. At any former time he would have listened to them with great
pleasure; such sounds had an unspeakable charm for him; but to-day his
brain was busied with weightier matters.
He looked from the car window and saw the river glancing in the
sunlight, winding under shaded banks, rippling over stony bottoms.
He saw the wooded hill-sides, with the delicate green of spring upon
them fast deepening into the darker tints of summer. He saw the giant
breakers looming up, black and massive, in the foreground of almost
every scene. And yet it was all scarcely more to him than a shadowy
dream. The strong reality in his mind was the trying task that lay
before him yet, and the bitter outcome, so soon to be, of all his
hopes and fancies.
At Pittston Junction there was another long delay. Ralph grew very
nervous and impatient.
If the train could have reached Wilkesbarre on time he would have had
only an hour to spare before the sitting of the court. Now he could
hope for only a half-hour at the best. And if anything should happen
to deprive him of that time; if anything _should_ happen so that he
should not get to court until after the case was closed, until after
the verdict of the jury had been rendered, until after the law had
declared him to be Robert Burnham's son; if anything _should_ happen!
His face flushed, his heart began to beat wildly, his breath came in
gasps. If such a thing were to occur, without his fault, against his
will and effort, what then? It was only for a moment that he gave way
to this insidious and undermining thought. Then he fought it back,
crushed it, trampled on it, and set his face again sternly to the
front.
At last the train came, the impatient passengers entered it, and they
were once more on their way.
It was a relief at least to be going, and for the moment Ralph had a
faint sense of enjoyment in looking out across the placid bosom of the
Susquehanna, over into the tree-girt, garden-decked expanse of the
valley of Wyoming. Off the nearer shore of a green-walled island in
the river, a group of cattle stood knee-deep in the shaded water, a
picture of perfect comfort and content.
Then the train swept around a curve, away from the shore, and back
among the low hills to the east. Suddenly there was a bumping together
of the cars, an apparently powerful effort to check their impetus, a
grinding of the brakes on the wheels, a rapid slowing of the train,
and a slight shock at stopping.
The party of girls had grown silent, and their eyes were wide and
their faces blanched with fear.
The men in the car arose from their seats and went out to discover the
cause of the alarm. Ralph went also. The train had narrowly escaped
plunging into a mass of wrecked coal cars, thrown together by a
collision which had just occurred, and half buried in the scattered
coal.
To make the matter still worse the collision had taken place in a deep
and narrow cut, and had filled it from side to side with twisted and
splintered wreckage.
What was to be done? the passengers asked. The conductor replied
that a man would be sent back to the next station, a few miles away,
to telegraph for a special train from Wilkesbarre, and that the
passengers would take the train from the other side of the wreck. And
how long would they be obliged to wait here?
"Well, an hour at any rate, perhaps longer."
"That means two hours," said an impatient traveller, bitterly.
Ralph heard it all. An hour would make him very late, two hours would
be fatal to his mission. He went up to the conductor and asked,--
"How long'd it take to walk to Wilkesbarre?"
"That depends on how fast you can walk, sonny. Some men might do it in
half or three quarters of an hour: you couldn't." And the man looked
down, slightingly, on the boyish figure beside him.
Ralph turned away in deep thought. If he could walk it in
three-quarters of an hour, he might yet be in time; time to do
something at least. Should he try?
But this accident, this delay, might it not be providential? Must he
always be striving against fate? against every circumstance that would
tend to relieve him? against every obstacle thrown into his path to
prevent him from bringing calamity on his own head? Must he?--but the
query went no further. The angel with the flaming sword came back to
guard the gates of thought, and conscience still was king. He would do
all that lay in his human power, with every moment and every muscle
that he had, to fulfil the stern command of duty, and then if he
should fail, it would be with no shame in his heart, no blot upon his
soul.
Already he was making his way through the thick underbrush along the
steep hill-side above the wreck, stumbling, falling, bruising his
hands and knees, and finally leaping down into the railroad track on
the other side of the piled-up cars. From there he ran along smoothly
on the ties, turning out once for a train of coal cars to pass him,
but stopping for nothing. A man at work in a field by the track asked
him what the matter was up the line; the boy answered him in as few
words as possible, walking while he talked, and then ran on again.
After he had gone a mile or more he came to a wagon-road crossing, and
wondered if, by following it, he would not sooner reach his journey's
end. He could see, in the distance, the smoke arising from a hundred
chimneys where the city lay, and the road looked as though it would
take him more directly there. He did not stop long to consider. He
plunged ahead down a little hill, and then along on a foot-path by the
side of the wagon-track. The day had grown to be very warm, and Ralph
removed his jacket and carried it on his arm or across his shoulder.
He became thirsty after a while, but he dared not stop at the houses
along the way to ask for water; it would take too much time. He met
many wagons coming toward him, but there seemed to be few going in to
the city. He had hoped to get a ride. He had overtaken a farmer with
a wagon-load of produce going to the town and had passed him. Two or
three fast teams whirled by, leaving a cloud of dust to envelop him.
Then a man, riding in a buggy, drove slowly down the road. Ralph
shouted at him as he passed:--
"Please, sir, may I have a ride? I'm in a desp'ate hurry!"
But the man looked back at him contemptuously. "I don't run a stage
for the benefit of tramps," he said, and drove on.
Ralph was discouraged and did not dare to ask any one else for a ride,
though there seemed to be several opportunities to get one.
But he came to a place, at last, where a little creek crossed the
road, a cool spring run, and he knelt down by it and quenched his
thirst, and considered that if he had been in a wagon he would have
missed the drink. The road was somewhat disappointing to him, too. It
seemed to turn away, after a little distance, from the direct line to
the city, and to bear to the west, toward the river. He feared that
he had made a mistake in leaving the railroad, but he only walked the
faster. Now and then he would break into a run and keep running until
his breath gave out, then he would drop back into a walk.
His feet began to hurt him. One shoe rubbed his heel until the pain
became so intense that he could not bear it, and he sat down by the
roadside and removed his shoes and stockings, and then ran on in his
bare feet. The sunlight grew hotter; no air was stirring; the dust
hung above the road in clouds. Deep thirst came back upon the boy;
his limbs grew weak and tired; his bared feet were bruised upon the
stones.
But he scarcely thought of these things; his only anxiety was that the
moments were passing, that the road was long, that unless he reached
his journey's end in time injustice would be done and wrong prevail.
So he pressed on; abating not one jot of his swiftness, falling
not one hair's breadth from his height of resolution, on and on,
foot-sore, thirsty, in deep distress; but with a heart unyielding
as the flint, with a purpose strong as steel, with a heroism more
magnificent than that which meets the points of glittering bayonets
or the mouths of belching cannon.