FLIGHT.
Ben mounted the stairs in haste. “Here, Jerry,” he said, “let me try
these shoes on you. Let’s see if they fit.” His hands trembled a bit as
he removed the remnants of the shoes the blind boy had worn and tried
the others upon Jerry’s feet. “How do they feel?” he asked, as he
hastened to lace them.
“All right,” was the answer. “But what’s the matter, Ben? You’re
panting and excited. Has anything happened?”
“I’ve been hurrying,” said Ben evasively.
But even the little yellow dog seemed to realize that something was
wrong, for he moved about uneasily, eying the brothers and whining.
“I’ve decided we had better leave Oakdale at once—right away,” said
Ben, as he rose to his feet. “Sit still, Jerry, while I gather up the
things I must take.”
“Ben,” said the younger lad, with conviction, “something has happened.
You’re nervous and alarmed; I know it by your voice. Why don’t you tell
me, Ben—why don’t you tell me?”
At any rate, it would be necessary to tell him in a few moments, and
so, seeking to frighten the blind boy as little as possible, Ben did so
at once. The moment Jerry learned a man had appeared in Oakdale asking
for him he became panic-stricken; his face grew pallid and he trembled
in every limb.
“They will take me away from you, brother—they will separate us!” he
exclaimed.
“They shall not!” cried the older lad fiercely. “I had decided already
to leave Oakdale to-morrow; we’ll leave to-night—we’ll slip away at
once. Keep still, Jerry, and I’ll make all the preparations.”
“But what if that man should come—what if he should come before we can
start?”
“He’ll have to get here in a hurry to find us.”
Indeed, it did not take Ben Stone long to make a bundle of the few
belongings he felt he must take. A great deal of his poor personal
property he had resolved to abandon for the time being, confident that
Mrs. Jones would take care of everything for him. Sometime when there
was no longer danger he could recover it all.
“We’ll get out of the house without saying a word to anybody,” said
Ben. “That’s the best way, although I hate to do it, for we seem to be
running away like criminals.”
At the last moment, smitten by regret because fancied necessity seemed
to compel him to leave without bidding the kind widow good-by, he
seized a piece of brown paper and the stub of a pencil and sat down to
write a few words of farewell—Jerry urging him to hasten even while he
was scribbling. This was what he wrote:
“MY DEAR MRS. JONES:—
“I’ll never be able to thank you enough for all
your kindness to me and to my little blind brother.
I’m forced to do what I am doing, though I
regret it very much. I wish I might say good-by
to you and to Jimmy, but I do not dare. I
know I shall always be ashamed and sorry for
this last thing I have done, but I couldn’t help it.
I hope you’ll forgive me and always think as well
of me as you can, no matter what you may hear
about me.”
At this point Jerry’s impatient pleading could be no longer resisted,
and, hastily signing his name, Ben left the note of farewell where it
could not be overlooked by Mrs. Jones. With all possible stealth they
descended the stairs and got softly out of the house.
The night had come on overcast and dark, heavy clouds veiling the moon.
A raw wind, chill and dank, came from the east, soughing fitfully
through the bare limbs of the trees and sending fallen leaves scurrying
along the ground. Just outside the gate Ben turned to look back at the
lighted windows. Mamie, accompanying herself on the melodeon, was
singing, and there was a choking sensation in Ben’s throat as he
listened.
“An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain;
O! give me my lowly thatch cottage again;
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,
Which, seek through the world, is ne’er met with elsewhere.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
Be it ever so humble, there’s no
place like home.”
“Come,” entreated Jerry; and they fled on past the silent academy, the
gym and the athletic field—on into the bleak night. The blind boy had
brought his violin, and it was swung by the cord over his back.
With the village behind them, Ben paused once more to look around. The
lights of Oakdale twinkled far down the road. It was there he had
dreamed pleasant dreams; it was there he had fought his fight until
victory seemed within his grasp; but those dreams were over, and he had
been conquered by cruel fate in the hour of his triumph. Fear, which
frequently perverts the soundest judgment, had forced him, without
reasoning or sober thought, into this flight by night.
They went on, and soon a barren shoulder of Turkey Hill shut out those
lights and they were alone on the highway that led to the northwest.
“We’ll be followed, Ben,” said Jerry apprehensively. “What can we do?”
“If you, blind and alone, save for Pilot, could avoid pursuers so long,
surely together we must find it a simpler matter. Trust me. This is not
the first time I have been forced into running away.”
“I know—I know; but they didn’t try to catch you, Ben. They let you go
and thought it good riddance. Now it’s different.”
“I don’t understand why they should put themselves to so much trouble
and expense to find you, Jerry, and shut you up in an institution.
Perhaps they’ll give it up after a while.”
Hand in hand they went on through the black night. At times Pilot,
having trotted a short distance ahead, would pause to peer at them
through the blackness, and whine. The wind moaned across the open
spaces and crashed the limbs of trees together while they were passing
through strips of woods. The dampness in the atmosphere added to the
penetration of the chill, and Jerry’s teeth chattered.
They came to Barville, ten miles from Oakdale, and were in the
outskirts of the dark and silent village before they were aware of it.
They were tempted to try to circle round the place, fearing someone
might see them, but only two or three dim lights gleamed faintly from
windows, and not a soul did they encounter on the streets of the town.
Once a dog barked in a house they were passing, but Jerry was swift
enough in bidding Pilot be still to prevent the little animal from
answering.
Beyond Barville they paused to rest, and Ben, hearing Jerry’s teeth
chatter, persisted in pulling off his coat and buttoning it about the
blind lad’s shoulders. In this manner the violin on Jerry’s back was
protected when, later, a fine, drizzling rain began.
“But you’ll be wet through, Ben, and you’ll catch cold,” said Jerry. “I
wish you’d take your coat.”
“I’m all right,” laughed the elder brother. “I’m tough, and there’s
never anything the matter with me. Perhaps we can find shelter
somewhere.”
The rain, driven in the teeth of the wind, soon drenched him through;
and when at last he perceived near the road an old barn with no house
at hand, even Ben was more than willing to stop.
“I think the house must have burned down,” he said, “for there isn’t
any to be seen. It’s a good place, Jerry. We must be eighteen or twenty
miles from Oakdale. We can stop here and keep out of sight all through
the day, if necessary.”
So they tried the door of the barn and found it unfastened. In the
black darkness they felt their way cautiously, at last climbing upon a
haymow, where Jerry sank down exhausted.
“Perhaps they’ll give it up when they find we’re gone, Ben,” said the
blind boy, shivering. “Maybe they won’t try to follow us.”
“Maybe not. We’ll hope so, anyway. Bern Hayden will be glad when he
finds out. He’ll rejoice over it.”
They burrowed into the hay and talked for a time of various plans,
while gradually, in spite of their drenched condition, the heat of
their bodies as they snuggled close together warmed them through. Pilot
crept up against Jerry and contented himself. The wind swept against
the old barn and moaned through cracks, while the rain beat unceasingly
upon the roof.
Ben thought of Bern Hayden’s fine home, and he had a wrestle with the
bitter resentment against fate which sought to claim him. At first it
seemed that everything in the world was wrong and that those who least
deserved it, or did not deserve it at all, were most favored by
fortune; but then he remembered Roger, to whose home he had been
welcomed, and he knew that some who were worthy were privileged to bask
in prosperity’s sunshine.
Finally the mournful sweep of the wind and the fitful beating of rain
lulled his senses, and he slept—slept to dream of Hayden leering
triumphantly upon him. In his sleep he muttered:
“Wait—wait; my time will come!”
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