laugh. "Now, then, Jasper," bestowing a pat on his dark hair, "you get
into your chair and we'll see this thing through. Well, about Pip now,"
and both boys being settled, "you want me to ask Doctor Presbrey to let
him stay here till you go back. Is that the idea?" the old gentleman
glanced first at one and then at the other of the faces, now very much
flushed.
"Yes, sir," said Jasper and Ben together.
"I know the poor little beggar has a hard enough time at that school,
from what I saw myself," said Mr. King, "and I suppose I don't know half
how bad it is."
"No, you don't, Father," broke in Jasper, quickly, and tossing the dark
hair off from his hot forehead. It was easy enough now to find his
tongue, seeing they were safely launched on Pip,--"for Doctor Presbrey
even doesn't know it."
"A precious set of scamps they are," declared the old gentleman,
wrathfully,--"gentlemen's sons! Pretty poor stuff they show for it, to
hound a poor, insignificant little specimen like that lad. They ought to
be ducked in the nearest pond."
"And it isn't always because they mean to be cruel," said Jasper,
loyally, and slipping to the edge of his chair in his earnestness.
"But they are all the same," said old Mr. King, stoutly.
"O dear me! I know it, Father," said Jasper, quite distressed; "that is,
some of them are--"
"Don't tell any theories of 'didn't think,' and 'didn't mean to,' and
all that stuff," said the old gentleman, dryly; "it's plain to see that
the Presbrey boys didn't regard Pip in the light of a desirable
acquaintance."
"No, they didn't," said Jasper, honestly.
"I don't blame them for not being especially drawn to him," said his
Father; "he's not to my taste exactly as a boy. But for schoolfellows to
act so like the Dickens,--well there, that's my opinion of the whole
matter." He brought his good right hand down again on the table, till
several articles jumped, and the penholder fell off the silver rack and
rolled to the floor.
"I'm altogether too obstreperous one way or the other this morning,"
said the old gentleman, with a laugh, as Jasper jumped and recovered it.
Then the boys laughing, the air seemed to be cleared. So Mr. King
settled back in his big chair and folded his hands in real enjoyment.
"Now I don't know but that it would be a good plan," he said, nodding
his head, "for me to request Doctor Presbrey to allow the little lad to
stay and return with you, Jasper. Understand that I don't say that I
believe it will strike the Doctor so; but I can broach it, and if I put
it rightly, and--"
"And you can, Father," Jasper in his eagerness was guilty of
interrupting; "he will do it for you."
"I don't know about that, Jasper," said his Father, grimly, but he was
vastly pleased nevertheless at the words; "what I know about Doctor
Presbrey gives me reason to believe that no one ever makes him do a
thing."
"Well, he will do it for you, I know," declared Jasper, shaking his dark
head confidently.
"But it may strike the Doctor favorably; there's hope in that,"
proceeded Mr. King, briskly, "so I'll write to him and put the case as
strongly as I know how. I promise you that, boys."
"Oh, thank you, Father," and "Oh, thank you, sir," from Jasper and Ben
in the same breath.
"Well, now be off with you!"--the old gentleman dismissed them
peremptorily,--"for if I have this letter to write I'd best have it off
my mind at once," and off they flew on happy heels.
"Dear me! Here's Madam Van Ruypen," exclaimed Jasper, too elated to
choose his words. "Now, what shall we do, Ben Pepper? Dodge this way;"
and they scuttled down the back hall, as Hobson flung wide the big oaken
front door.
They needn't have troubled themselves, however, to get out of the way,
as the farthest from the stately old lady's mind was the desire to meet
any of the children on this especial morning, her mind being weighted
with other matters. When she was told that Mr. King was busy in his
writing room, she waved one of her long black gloves at the butler, and
said nonchalantly, "Oh, well, then I will see him there," and, to his
great dismay, she sailed, with her Roman nose and big white puffs well
in the air, down the hall to his door.
"Madam," essayed Hobson, starting after her,--but she was just going
into the room.
As there was never any lack of directness in any of Madam Van Ruypen's
purposes, or her statements, so now she said, scarcely pausing for a
casual nod of recognition, "I want you to do me a favor, my good sir."
"Eh--er--" cried Mr. King, who had supposed it was Mrs. Whitney's rap
that had called forth his "Come in." "My dear Madam," he rose, and with
his courtliest air extended his hand, "you do me great honor," and he
drew up a chair for her.
"Well, if I do you the honor, you must do me the favor," said Madam Van
Ruypen, with a little laugh, and settling her stately figure on the
chair.
"I shall be charmed to," said old Mr. King, "I promise you that, Madam."
"That's good," the old lady nodded with great satisfaction. "Well, now,
you know, sir," then she paused, strangely at a loss how to begin, "that
I am very much disturbed;" the face under the big white puffs fell into
long lines that added at once ever so many years to her age.
"Oh, I am sorry to hear it," said old Mr. King, in great concern.
"I am, indeed. In fact, I have seldom been so upset. Perhaps I have no
cause to be; it may turn out well for me." She gave vent to an uneasy
little laugh, made an aimless sort of attempt to reach a fan that
dangled by a jet chain from her wrist, gave it up, and settled back
rigidly in her chair.
Mr. King, having nothing to say, picked up a paper-cutter on his
writing-table and played with it, not looking at her.
"I'll tell you the whole story, then you'll see how I've got the notion
in my head," she said explosively at last. "A notion that has turned to
absolute truth, as I hope and pray!" Her thin face was white and drawn.
"I shall be very glad to hear whatever you may choose to tell me," said
the old gentleman, turning courteously to her, "and then if I can be of
any service, Madam Van Ruypen, you may command me."
She nodded her stately head. "You knew Emily?" she asked abruptly, her
sharp eyes full on his face.
"Emily?" He searched his mind diligently, but no Emily, who naturally
connected herself with the lady before him, appeared. "I am afraid not,"
he reluctantly admitted.
"You cannot have forgotten my daughter," cried Madam Van Ruypen, "though
to be sure she was quite a child when we took her abroad to live."
"Oh, your daughter!" cried Mr. King; "indeed, I remember her quite well,
though, as you say, she was a mere child when you deserted your own
country to educate her abroad. But she was not Emily in those days," he
rubbed his forehead in a puzzled way; "unless my memory plays me a
trick, she was Helena."
"Helena she was," assented the old lady, undisturbed. "I remember now,
it was afterward we began to call her Emily,--quite for a family reason.
Well, that is neither here nor there. Now I won't go into details;
enough to say that Emily, despite all her advantages, disappointed us
utterly. Perhaps you remember hearing about that. Echoes, if no more,
and plenty of them, reached my old home here," she added bitterly.
Mr. King bowed silently.
"You don't know that Emily married against her father's and my will;
that she refused our help, and went off with her husband to share his
lot. Oh, she was a proud one!" Madam Van Ruypen crushed her gloves
together so tightly that the long hands within must have suffered. There
was a pause, and Mr. King turned off to play with the paper-cutter
again.
"And despite all our efforts, and, after Mr. Van Ruypen died, my
individual attempts, we never could get any communication with her or
her husband. Mr. King, I never blamed her; it was the influence of the
man she married." She faced him now with blazing eyes and head erect.
Mr. King laid down the paper-cutter and turned back sympathetically;
albeit several friends in the old town had kept alive for Emily
Hastings's memory much commendation that she did not yield to her
parents' choice of the superannuated wealthy foreigner they had selected
as a husband for her.
"And he never let me know when the end was coming;" her voice did not
break--she was to keep herself in hand until through. "Word was sent
only after she had gone from this earth. Mr. King, who is that Pip you
have with you?"
The transition was so sudden that the old gentleman started nearly out
of his chair, stared at her, and gasped, "Pip--my dear Madam--"
"Tell me." He could see she was suffering now. The little beads of
moisture ran down below the white puffs, and her eyes were fairly hungry
for the reply.
"Pip--why, Pip--" stammered Mr. King.
"Tell me," she commanded peremptorily, "his name."
"It's--let me see, we have called him Pip constantly--" he groped for
the rest of the recital Jasper had given him one day concerning the lad
so thrown upon their sympathy. "I shall think of it presently,--or I can
ask Jasper, or Ben," starting out of his chair.
"Stay," she laid a detaining hand upon his arm; "where did he live?"
"I recall that--South America," replied the old gentleman, promptly.
A spasm passed over her face.
"His--his father is dead?" It was almost a whisper in which these words
came.
"Yes," said Mr. King, decidedly, "that is the reason that the poor
little lad is under Dr. Presbrey's care."
The first gleam of comfort swept over the long, white face. "But the
name,--you cannot think of it?" she begged piteously.
"Let me see,"--the old gentleman drummed on the writing-table, rubbing
his white hair with an absorbed hand,--"Lef--Lef? Yes, I am quite sure,
Leffingwell is Pip's name. Why, my dear Madam!"--he started and put out
a strong hand to catch her as she swayed in her chair,--"what is it?
What can be the matter?"
She recovered herself immediately and sat erect. "I am convinced that he
is Emily's child."
"Impossible!" Old Mr. King started back and held up both hands
incredulously.
She twitched her black bonnet strings apart with a hasty hand, as if
finding it difficult to breathe.
"So I thought at first, and I have battled the idea as absurd. But it
has conquered me to-day to come here and ask you about his history. And
now I _know_ he is Emily's child."
"I did not hear that she had a son," said old Mr. King, as something
seemed to be required of him.
"I did not know it until after his mother died," said Madam Van Ruypen,
her voice breaking, "then chance report brought me the news. But I could
never get in touch with his father, though I tried many a time.
Cornelius Leffingwell was--"
"Cornelius?" broke in Mr. King.
"The name of Emily's husband," said the old lady.
"That is Pip's name, too," said the old gentleman.
XXVIII
BEN DECIDES THE MATTER FOR HIMSELF
Ben walked back and forth, his hands thrust deeply in his pockets. "It's
no use, Mamsie," he came now and stood straight before her, his blue
eyes fastened steadily upon her face; "I've just _got_ to do it."
"There is no need for you to say that, Ben." Mrs. Fisher's tone was
quiet, but the blood was leaping in her veins. "You're my oldest child,"
then her voice broke.
"And that's the reason." Ben threw his head back and took his hands out
of his pockets to clench them together hard. "It would be mean as--mean
as anything to let Grandpapa do anything more for me, and--"
"There's where you are wrong, Ben," cried his mother, eagerly, and
guilty of interrupting, "it is Mr. King's dearest wish to provide an
education for you children; you can pay him back afterward. I have
accepted for the others; why not for you?"
"Because,--look at Polly. Oh, mother, think what Polly can do with her
music!" His whole face was working now, and his eyes shone.
"I know it," cried Mrs. Fisher, proudly. "Polly will be able to pay him
back, there is no doubt about that."
"But I'm different," added Ben, quickly, "such a dull, plodding fellow.
Oh, Mamsie, what would a college education amount to for me? I'm best to
buckle right down to business."
"Ben, Ben!" Mother Fisher's tone was quite reproachful now, and she
seized his hand and covered it with her two strong ones. "Any one can
accomplish what he sets out to. You can amount to whatever you put your
mind on; and you deserve a college education if ever a boy did." She
broke down now and was sobbing on his shoulder.
Ben didn't say anything, this being quite beyond him, to see his mother
cry. But he patted the smooth black hair with an unsteady hand.
"To think of your giving up your chance," at last Mrs. Fisher said
brokenly; "it isn't right, Ben. Can't you see you ought not to do it?"
"But it _is_ right," said Ben, sturdily recovering himself when he saw
that his mother could really talk about it. "I'm to be a business man,
and I'm going to begin at the very bottom, as an errand boy, or an
office boy, and work up." Here he straightened his square shoulders as
if already pretty near the top of things.
"Ah, Ben, my boy," Mrs. Fisher raised her head to look at him, "all you
can get in the way of education helps you on just so much."
"And I can have all these years I'd be spending at college in learning
the business," Ben hurried on, feeling if he didn't say something, he
should surely break down; for there was such a world of pleading in the
black eyes that he didn't dare to trust himself to look into them.
"Don't you see, Mother? Besides,--well, I just _can't_ do it."
When Ben called her "Mother," it always meant something requiring grave
attention. So Mrs. Fisher knew as well then as afterward that it was a
decided thing that Ben was to leave school and go into a business life.
All she said now was, "Come," leading the way to the roomy old sofa,
where the children used often to tell their troubles or joys to her as
they sat side by side.
When Ben emerged from his mother's room, he held his head high, but his
breath came hard, and one fist deep in his pocket was clenched tightly.
"Halloo!"--Joel plunged into him; "where've you been?" And, not waiting
for a reply, "Grandpapa says I'm to go if you'll go with me,"--he
swarmed all over him in his eagerness.
"Get off, Joe!" cried Ben, roughly. It seemed as if he couldn't bear any
more just then, and he gave him, without stopping to think, a little
shove.
Joel looked at him with very wide eyes.
"You're always hanging on to me," went on Ben, crossly, not realizing a
word he was saying. "Goodness me, a chap can't stir but you must pop
up."
Joel stood perfectly still, plastered against the wall, his mouth open,
but not equal to uttering a word, as Ben stalked on down the hall.
"Oh, you think you're smart, I s'pose," at last it came in a burst
behind him. "Well, I don't want you to go with me, Mr. Ben Pepper--Mr.
Ebenezer Pepper." Joel could hardly get the long name out, being so
wholly unaccustomed to its use. "And I will tell Grandpapa I wouldn't
have you go with me for anything."
"Joel!" Ben called hoarsely after him, whirling in his tracks to see
Joel fly down the hall. "Oh, come back."
"You aren't going," declared Joel, savagely, and stopping long enough to
snap his fingers at Ben, "no-sir-ee, not a single step!" And despite all
Ben's efforts he pranced off with a final jump that defied pursuit.
Ben stood perfectly still for a moment, then strode off up to his room,
where he locked the door fast, went over and sat on the side of the bed,
and buried his face in his hands.
How long he sat there he never knew. The first thing that brought him to
himself was Polly's voice, and her fingers drumming on the door.
"Bensie, are you here? O dear me! _Do_ open the door."
Ben took up his head at first with the wild thought that he wouldn't
answer. But then, it was Polly calling, and such a thing as a locked
door between them would never do. So he staggered off as best he might,
not seeing his pale face in the mirror as he went by, and slowly turned
the key.
"Oh, Ben! O dear me! What is it?" Polly cried, quite aghast at his face.
She huddled up to him and grasped his arm. "Tell me, Ben," and the
fright at seeing him thus drove every bit of color from her face.
"Nothing," said Ben, shortly, "that is--"
"Oh, now you are sick," cried Polly, quite wildly, and with another look
into his face, usually so ruddy, she tore off her hands and raced toward
the stairs. "I shall call Mamsie."
"Polly, Polly!" cried Ben, rushing out after her, "you must not call
Mamsie. I'll tell you all about it, Polly. Polly, do come back."
But she didn't hear anything but the first words, that Mamsie must not
be called, and feeling more sure than ever by this that Ben was really
sick, she redoubled her speed and rushed into Mother Fisher's room,
crying, "Oh, Mamsie, do come quickly; something is the matter with Ben."
Mrs. Fisher had sat down resolutely to her sewing after the decision had
been made by Ben that put aside all her hopes for his future education.
She now sprang to her feet, upsetting the big work-basket, and
forgetting Polly, said, "It's been too much for him."
"What's been too much?" cried Polly, hanging to Mother Fisher's hand,
her heart going like a trip-hammer. "Oh, Mamsie, what _is_ the matter
with Ben?" The room seemed to go round with her and everything to turn
black.
"Polly," said Mrs. Fisher, firmly, "I cannot tell you anything now. You
must stay here. I am going to see Ben." And Polly, left alone, had
nothing to do but throw herself on the big, old sofa, where she crouched
in her distress till Mamsie should come back and tell her all about the
dreadful mystery.
For that something awful had happened to Ben, Polly was now quite sure,
as she lay there, her head burrowed in the big pillow, the wildest
thoughts running through her brain. The first thing she knew, a hard
little hand was tucked into her neck. She knew Joel's tickles, that he
loved to give her, long before he sang out, "Polly Pepper, lying down in
the daytime! Aren't you ashamed?"
"Oh, Joel," cried Polly, in a smothered voice; "do go away," she begged.
For answer Joel slid to his knees and crowded his chubby face into the
pillow. "Are you sick, Polly?" he cried, in an awe-struck voice.
"No," said Polly, wriggling hard to keep him from seeing her face; "do,
please, go away, Joey."
"I know you're sick," contradicted Joel, stubbornly; and bounding to his
feet, "Where's Mamsie?" peering all around the room.
Polly didn't answer, being unwilling to tell about Ben.
"Well, I shall go and find her," declared Joel, decidedly, preparing to
rush off.
"You must not," cried Polly, bounding up to sit straight. "You mustn't
and you can't, because--"
"Because what?" demanded Joel, coming back to the sofa to fasten his
black eyes on her face.
"Oh, because--" began Polly, again casting frantically about in her mind
what to say and twisting her handkerchief with nervous fingers.
"Now I know that my Mamsie is sick and you're keeping it from me," cried
Joel, in a loud, insistent voice, "and I shall go and find her; so
there, Polly Pepper."
"Joel, if you do," began Polly, desperately, seizing his jacket-end;
then she knew he would have to be told when she saw his face, for
nothing could be worse than to let him think anything had happened to
Mamsie. "I'll tell you all about it," she promised; "do sit down," and
she pulled him into the corner of the big sofa by her side; "you see
it's about Ben."
Joel whirled around and fixed wide eyes of astonishment upon her.
"And I don't know in the least," said Polly, brokenly, "what's the
matter with him. He acts so funny, Joel, you can't think," she brought
up, mournfully, while she twisted her poor handkerchief worse than ever.
Joel pushed his face up to scan her thoughtfully to see if there were
anything more forthcoming.
"And to think of it--Ben--" went on Polly in a fresh gust, "he's never
acted so. O dear me! What can it be, Joel?"
In her distress she forgot that she was to comfort him, and she seized
his arm and clung to it.
"It's me," blurted Joel, forgetting grammar and everything else, and
pulling away from her, he slipped off the sofa and began a quick pace to
the door.
"Where are you going?" Polly flew after him, and although he ran
smartly, she had hold of his jacket-end. "Joel Pepper, you must _not_ go
up to Ben's room. Mamsie wouldn't let me."
"But I made him bad," said Joel, his face dreadfully red and twitching
violently to get free.
"_You made him bad_," repeated Polly, faintly, and, tumbling backward in
surprise, she let the jacket-end go. "O dear me!"
"And I'm going to make him well," screamed Joel, plunging off. She could
hear him clambering up over the stairs two at a time.
"If I could only go too," mourned Polly, having nothing to do but go
slowly back and shut herself into Mamsie's room, as bidden.
She threw herself down again on the old sofa, and buried her face in the
pillows. It was Joel who bounded in and up to her side, calling, "Oh,
Polly!" that sent her flying up to sit straight. "Ben wants you," he
cried excitedly.
"Oh, Joel, what is it?" she exclaimed, flying off from the sofa; "what
is the matter with Ben?"
"Nothing," said Joel, in high glee. As long as Ben wasn't sick, and he
had made matters right with him, the rest could wait. So downstairs Joel
ran to Grandpapa, to tell him that he had made a grand mistake; that he
did want Ben to go on the expedition, no more nor less than a visit to
the Museum.
"I thought so, my boy," said old Mr. King, patting him on the shoulder.
"Now, if I were you, I wouldn't go off half-cocked again, especially
with Ben. No doubt he was in the wrong, too. There are always two sides
to a thing."
"Oh, no, he wasn't," protested Joel, terribly alarmed lest Ben should be
blamed. "I was cross, Grandpapa. 'Twas all my fault." He was so
distressed that the old gentleman hastened to add, "Yes, yes; well,
there now, that's quite enough. As I've never seen Ben treat you
one-half as badly as you deserve, sir, I'll believe you. Now be off with
you, Joel!" and with a little laugh and another last pat he dismissed
him.
Meantime Polly was having a perfectly dreadful time up in Ben's room. It
took Mrs. Fisher as well as Ben to comfort her in the least for her
dreadful disappointment that Ben was not going to accept a long and
thorough education at Mr. King's hands.
But all this was as nothing to Grandpapa's dismay when the truth came
out. And it took more than the combined efforts of the whole household
to restore him to equanimity when he saw that Ben was actually not to be
moved from his resolution. It was little Doctor Fisher who finally
achieved the first bit of resignation reached.
"Now, my good sir;" the little man put himself, unasked, beside the
stately figure pacing with ill-concealed irritation down the "long
path." It was several days since Ben had made his announcement, and
Grandpapa had been hoping against all obstacles that the boy would give
in at the last. But to-day even that hope slipped away.
"Let me speak a word for Ben," the little Doctor went on, raising his
big spectacles just as cheerfully to the clouded face as if a warm
invitation had been extended him.
"Ben needs no words from you, Doctor Fisher," said Mr. King, icily; "I
really consider the least said on this subject the better, perhaps."
"Perhaps--and perhaps not," said the little man, just as cheerily. It
was impossible to quarrel with him or to shake him off, and Mr. King,
realizing this, kept on his walk with long strides, Doctor Fisher
skipping by his side, telling off the points of what he had come to say,
on his nervous fingers.
"Do you realize," he said at length, "that you would break down all
Ben's best powers if you had your way with him?"
"Hold on there, man," roared the old gentleman, coming to an abrupt
pause in his walk, "do you mean to say, and do you take me for an idiot,
which I should be if I believed it, that the more education a boy gets,
the more he injures his chances for life?"
The little man squinted at the tips of the trees waving their skeleton
branches in the crisp air, then brought a calm gaze to the excited old
face: "Not exactly; but I do say when you make a boy like Ben turn from
the path he has marked out for himself, all the education that culture
would crowd on him is just so much to break down the boy. Ben wouldn't
be Ben after you got through with him. Now be sensible." He got up on
his tiptoes and actually bestowed a pat on the stately shoulder. "Ben
wants to go to work. Give him his head,--you can trust him; and let's
you and I keep our hands off from him."
And the little Doctor, having said his say, got down on his feet again
and trotted off.