Burnham Breaker Part 22

A FRIEND INDEED.

It had been understood, when Ralph went to Wilkesbarre that morning, that he should return in the afternoon. Bachelor Billy was very much surprised, therefore, when he returned from his work, not to find the boy waiting for him. Indeed, he had more than half expected that Ralph would come up to the breaker to walk home with him, or would, at least, meet him on the way. The Widow Maloney had not seen him, she said; and when supper was ready she sent her little girl down the road to look for him, and to tell him to hurry home.

Before they had finished eating, the child came back, saying that she could not find him. They were not worried about him, though; they thought he had been delayed at court, and would come in on one of the later trains. So, after supper, Billy lighted his pipe and walked down toward the city, hoping to meet the lad. He went on until he reached the railroad station. They told him there that the next train would be in from Wilkesbarre in about an hour. He concluded to wait for it, so he sat on one of the benches, and watched the people coming and going, and smoked his clay-pipe in comparative comfort. The train came at last, and the pa.s.sengers from it crowded through the hall-way, and out into the street. But among them all Bachelor Billy could not discover Ralph. He saw Mrs. Burnham coming from the cars, though, and it occurred to him that possibly she might know something about the boy.

She had doubtless come from Wilkesbarre; indeed it was not unlikely that she had been in court. He did not hesitate to inquire of her; she knew him very well, and always had a kind word for him when she came to see Ralph.

He took off his cap and approached her. "Beggin' your pardon, Mistress Burnham," he said, "but ha' ye seen aught o' Ralph?"

The lady stopped in surprise, but in a moment she recognized the man, and, throwing aside her veil, she replied: "Oh, Billy, is that you?

Ralph, did you say? I have not seen him. Why?"

"He went to Wilkesbarre the day, ma'am, an' he s'ould 'a' comit hame sooner, an' I thocht mayhap ye might 'a' rin across the lad, d'ye see.

Pardon me for a-stoppin' o' ye."

The lady still stood, holding her child by the hand.

"Did he go alone?" she asked.

"No, he went doon wi' Muster Sharpman."

"And has Mr. Sharpman returned?"

"I did na thenk to ask; that was fulish in me,--I s'ould 'a' gone there first."

"I think Mr. Sharpman will look after him. I do not think you need to worry; perhaps it was necessary for them to remain overnight. But, if Ralph does not come in the morning, you must let me know, and I shall a.s.sist you in searching for him."

"Thank ye, Mistress Burnham, thank ye, kindly! I canna feel greatly concernit ower the lad, sin' he's verra gude at carin' for himsel'.

But, gin he does na come i' the mornin', I s'all mak' search for 'im.

Here's James a-waitin' for ye"; going ahead, as he spoke, to stand by the fretting horses while James held open the carriage door.

"Good-night, Billy!" came from inside the coach as it rolled away; and "Good-night, Billy!" echoed the sweet voice of the child.

"Good-nicht to both o' ye!" he shouted, standing to watch them until the carriage disappeared into the darkness.

"She's verra kin'," he said to himself, as he walked up the street toward home, "verra kin', but it's no' sic a care as the lad's ane mither s'ould ha' ower 'im, an' he awa' fra hame i' the darkness o'

the nicht so. But she dinna ken, she dinna ken as he be her son. Coom a day when that's plain to her, an' she'd spare naught to save 'im fra the ghost o' danger."

When Bachelor Billy reached home, Mrs. Maloney was at the door to ask about Ralph. The man told her what Mrs. Burnham had said, and expressed an earnest hope that the boy would come safely back in the morning. Then' he went to his room, started a fire in the grate, and sat down, by it to smoke.

It was already past his customary bed-time, but he could not quite make up his mind to go to bed without Ralph. It seemed a very lonely and awkward thing for him to do. They had gone to bed together every night for nearly three years, and it is not easy to break in upon such a habit as that.

So Billy sat by the fire and smoked his pipe and thought about the boy. He was thoroughly convinced that the child was Robert Burnham's son, and all of his hopes and plans and ambitions, during these days, were centred in the effort to have Ralph restored his family, and to his rights as a member of that family. It would be such a fine thing for the boy, he thought. In the first place, he could have an education. Bachelor Billy reverenced an education. To him, it was almost a personality. He held that, with an education, a man could do anything short of performing miracles; that all possibilities of goodness or greatness that the world holds were open to him. The very first thing he would choose for Ralph would be an education. Then the child would have wealth; that, too, would be a great thing for him and, through him, for society. The poor would be fed, and the homeless would be sheltered. He was so sure of the boy's honest heart and moral firmness that he knew wealth would be a blessing to him and not a curse.

And a beautiful home! Once he had been in Robert Burnham's house; and, for days thereafter, its richness and beauty and its homelike air had haunted him wherever he went. Yes, the boy would have a beautiful home. He looked around on the bare walls and scanty furniture of his own poor dwelling-place as if comparing them with the comforts and luxuries of the Burnham mansion. The contrast was a sharp one, the change would be great. But Ralph was so delicate in taste and fancy, so high-minded, so pure-souled, that nothing would be too beautiful for him, no luxury would seem strange, no life would be so exalted that he could not hold himself at its level. The home that had haunted Bachelor Billy's fancy was the home for Ralph, and there he should dwell. But then--and the thought came suddenly and for the first time into the man's mind--when the boy went there to live, he, Billy, would be alone, _alone_. He would have no one to chatter brightly to him at the dawn of day, no one to walk with him to their daily tasks at Burnham Breaker, to eat from the same pail with him the dinner that had been prepared for both, to come home with him at night, and fill the bare room in which they lived with light and cheer enough to flood a palace. Instead of that, every day would be like this day had been, every night would be as dull and lonely as the night now pa.s.sing.

How could he ever endure them?

He was staring intently into the fire, clutching his pipe in his hand, and spilling from it the tobacco he had forgotten to smoke.

The lad would have a mother, too,--a kind, good, beautiful mother to love him, to caress him, to do a million more things for him than his Uncle Billy had ever done or ever could do. And the boy would love his mother, he would love her very tenderly; he ought to; it was right that he should; but in the beauty and sweetness of such a life as that would Ralph remember him? How could he hope it? Yet, how could he bear to be forgotten by the child? How could he ever bear it?

In his intensity of thought the man had risen to his feet, grasping his clay pipe so closely that it broke and fell in fragments to the hearth.

He looked around again on the bare walls of his home, down on his own bent form, on his patched, soiled clothing and his clumsy shoes, then he sank back into his chair, covered his face with his hands, and gave way to tears. He had lived in this world too long not to know that prosperity breeds forgetfulness, and he felt already in his heart a foretaste of the bitterness that should overwhelm him when this boy, whom he loved as his own child, should leave him alone, forgotten.

But after a time he looked up again. Pleasanter thoughts were in his mind. They were thoughts of the days and nights that he and the boy had spent together, from the time when he had found him, sick, helpless, and alone, on the dusty highway, in the heat of the midsummer sun, to these days that were now pa.s.sing, with their strange revelations, their bright hopes, their shadowy fears.

But in all his thought there was no touch of disappointment, no trace of regret. It was worth it all, he told himself,--worth all the care he had given to the boy, all the money he had spent to restore him to health, worth all he had ever done or ever could do for him, just to have had the lad with him for a year, a month, a week: why it was worth it all and more, yes, vastly more, just to have felt the small hand laid once on his arm, to have seen the loving eyes look up once into his, and to have heard the clear voice say, "Dear Uncle Billy" in the confiding way he knew so well.

It was nearly midnight when Bachelor Billy went to bed, and long after that hour before he fell asleep.

He awoke several times during the night with a sense of loneliness and desolation pressing down upon him, and he arose early to prepare for his day's work. It was arranged at the breakfast-table that Mrs.

Maloney's oldest girl should go down to Lawyer Sharpman's office to inquire about Ralph, and Billy was to come home at noon, contrary to his custom, to hear her report.

Daylight is a great promoter of natural cheer, and the man went away to his work with a strong hope in his heart of Ralph's speedy return; and when the long morning had pa.s.sed and he hurried back to his home, he half expected that the boy would meet him on the way. But he was disappointed; even Mrs. Maloney's girl had no news for him. She had been to Sharpman's office twice, she said, and had not found him in, though the clerk had told her that Mr. Sharpman had returned from Wilkesbarre the day before.

Billy decided then that it was time to make active search for the boy, and when he had finished a hurried dinner, he put on his best clothes and started for the city. He thought it would be wise for him to go first to Sharpman's office and learn what he could there. The lawyer had not yet returned from lunch, but the clerk said he would positively be in at half-past one, so Billy took the proffered chair, and waited. Sharpman came promptly at the time, greeted his visitor cordially, and took him into his private office.

"Well, my friend; what can I do for you?" he asked.

"I cam' to see aboot Ralph, sir; Ralph as lives wi' me."

"Oh! are you Buckley? William Buckley?"

"I am, sir. I want to know when saw ye the lad last?"

"Why, about eleven o'clock yesterday. He came up on the noon train, didn't he?"

"I ha' no' seen 'im."

"Haven't seen him!" exclaimed Sharpman, in a voice expressive of much alarm. "Haven't seen him since when, man?"

"Not sin' yester-mornin', when I said 'good-by' till the lad, an' went t' the breaker. I got scared aboot 'im, an' cam' to look 'im oop."

Bachelor Billy had become infected with Sharpman's alarm.

"Well, we _must_ look him up," said the lawyer, putting on his hat, which he had just laid aside, and taking up a light overcoat. "Come, we'll go down to the station and see if we can learn anything of him there."

Sharpman was really very anxious about the boy; it would interfere sadly with his scheme to have Ralph disappear again, now. The two men went out from the door together and down the street at a rapid pace.

But they had not taken two steps around the corner into Lackawanna Avenue, when they came face to face with the missing boy. He was a sorry sight, limping slowly along, covered with dust, exhausted from his journey. He was no less surprised to meet Bachelor Billy and the lawyer, than they were to meet him, and all three stood speechless, for a moment, with astonishment.

"Why, Ralph!" exclaimed Billy, "Ralph, lad, whaur ye been?"

But Ralph did not know what to say. An overwhelming sense of shame at his unfortunate adventure and at his wretched condition had come suddenly to him, and the lawyer's sharp eyes, fixed steadily upon him, increased his embarra.s.sment not a little.

"Why don' ye speak, lad? Tell Uncle Billy what's happenit to ye; coom noo!" and the man took the child's hands affectionately into his.

Then Ralph spoke. From a full heart, poor lad, he made his confession.