University of Virginia Library

20. XX.
JOB AND HIS BENEFACTOR.

LITTLE Job, left alone after Guy's talk with him,
kindled his imagination with visions of a great
banquet of bear. His idea of heavenly felicity,
if called for that afternoon, would have been found to involve
a liberal supply of that rare kind of meat. In his Paradise,
bill-of-fare and fill-of-bear would have been perpetually and
euphoniously synonymous.

The hungry child sucked his fingers in fancy over the
indefinitely promised repast, until he concluded it would be
edifying to take a peep at this necessary ingredient of bliss.
The doctor kept some in a prohibited tub down cellar. Thither
goes Job, removes the cover, pulls up his sleeve, introduces
his grimy little hand into the weak brine, and fishes up a
pound and a half of happiness.

He grins at it hungrily, not doubting that, raw and salt as
it is, it would taste good, and comfort the gnawing, disconsolate
stomach of him. If he only durst! But unfortunately,
ever since, on an occasion of wrath, he fell into the hands of

Biddikin, and came out with a numerical deficiency of front
teeth, his bite betrays him. Rinds and crusts seem formed
to retain the marks of his dental irregularities. He cannot
nibble any thing, but the doctor, with his keen anatomical perception,
is fatally certain to discover the depredation, and, holding
up the bit of bread or cheese, to shout, “Your teeth, Job!
bring the whip, Job!” Therefore, with the exception of
such substances as milk and gruel, which do not have to be
bitten off, whatever the little wretch tastes furtively he commonly
continues to nibble in the vain hope of effacing with
each subsequent bite the prints of previous ones, until, like
Justice Monkey, he finishes the morsel, — a feat which he
longs to perform with this solid lump of ursine flesh; but
hesitates, thinking that, if the bear does not kill him, the doctor
will.

“How does doctor get a piece off?” he asks himself aloud.
“Bites it? No: cuts it.”

This suggests a knife. He knows where there is a rusty
one in the cellar. It is brought; and saw, saw, it goes, until
a little piece of the meat comes off in the grimy fingers, and
the big piece spatters back into the tub.

“I'm a 'normous eater!” chuckles Job, with a glow in
his features like fire in dull punk.

He sucks the meat a little, but not much, before he resolves
that it will be an improvement to wash off the brine as he has
seen Biddikin do. And, after all, raw bear is not his ideal.
Why not, with a little fire, endeavor to realize his aspirations?

A few coals remain after the doctor's dinner. To rake
them out of the ashes, add a few chips, and kindle a good
blaze, is pleasant work to hungry, anticipating Job. Then to
the fire goes the sputtering bit of Bruin, with a stick thrust
through it for a spit. How good it smells! It matters little
how it smokes and burns. He holds it in the blaze, and
looks at it, and turns it, until the stick resembles the Pole,
with the Bear revolving round it.

He does not stay to cook it much. One with whom meat
has always been so rare must not look to have it well done.
Night is approaching; and Biddikin may return to intercept
the banquet.

Biddikin has in fact, some time since, taken abrupt leave
of his spiritualist friends, among whom there exists, without
any kind of doubt, as he thinks, a plot to swindle him. They
will not dig unless he will sign papers. Shrewd Biddikin is
skittish of signing papers. To let them do the work, defray
all expenses, and give him the treasure when found, would
exactly suit the penniless old millionnaire. But they object to
such an arrangement: hence a rupture. And Biddikin is
hurrying alone from the mountain.

Swift and straight he goes, as if the odor of Job's cooking
had reached his nostrils. But what possesses him here to
diverge from the common path, and make a little circuit down
through the woods?

One would think he would carefully avoid that spot yonder
by the ravine. It can hardly be a comfort to go there, or

even to think of it. But who knows what fascination there
is in the crime that refuses forever to be forgotten?

Perhaps he wishes to see if every thing remains as when he
last came to look and satisfy himself that all was well. When
on the spot, the ground seems firm beneath his tread, and he
feels how foolish his fears are. His secret is safe. Out of
that little grave the dead will never rise. This is the sense
of security he likes; and for this he comes often to the lonesome
bank where the rock is and the tree.

But no sooner is he gone than the dogs snuff out his secret;
the beasts of the forest scratch it up. He imagines a thousand
mischances, and sees the dead face of the boy uncovered
in the sight of heaven and the eyes of men.

These nightmares of the brain draw him once more to the
unhallowed place this hazy afternoon.

The tremor of anxious expectation subsides as he comes in
sight of the well-known landmarks, and finds them unchanged.
Pathless and dim stretch the forest spaces. No snuffing
dogs; no group of amazed and indignant neighbors. Biddikin
smiles pallidly in the ghastliness of his wretched triumph.
The wind among the trees, the brook dashing into the ravine,
are not cheerful sounds; but then they whisper of the solitude
which he hopes will ever reign there. The interlaced
hemlocks and spruces shed a gloom which is not enlivening
to the spirit; yet they seem to screen from the blue eye of
heaven the scar in the earth's violated bosom.

But what unforeseen portent is this?

A beam of sunshine, like the finger of God, reaches down
through the sombre and shuddering leafage, and touches the
one dread spot betwixt the rock and the tree.

All around is gloom: only the little grave has the index
of light upon it, — an awful omen.

Superstition and vertigo seize the guilty man. He sinks
upon a fallen log. With shaking hands he adjusts his spectacles,
and looks again; while a freezing fear creeps swiftly
over his flesh.

The prodigy is not what it seemed. More horrible still:
the ground has been disturbed, and what appeared sunshine
is the fresh yellowish soil thrown up over the grave.

And, lo! the tombstones at the head and at the foot!

The soul of Biddikin shrivels; his flesh seems falling from
his bones. But he rallies; he recovers from his swoon of
terror, and listens, and looks all around. He has but one
hope, — that ambushed eyes are not watching him.

He will not come nearer the grave. There shall be no
proof against him. Who can affirm that he ever did Martin
any harm? “Is it indeed true that his body has been
found? Buried in the woods, do you say? Gentlemen, you
astonish me! Then he did not run away, as we supposed?
And the things that were stolen from me — alas that I ever
accused him! They were no doubt taken by thieves, who
went to the house and murdered him, and then hid him in the
woods. Yes, by all means, gentlemen, let us ferret out the
assassins, and bring them to justice.”

Thus Biddikin rehearses his part, sitting there on the log,
and watching to see if he is watched. He acquits himself
triumphantly before imaginary juries. On the whole, he
thinks he will feel better now that the grave has been discovered;
and perhaps better still if there is an investigation, and
he can air his charnel heart and its ghastly secret a little by
talking freely, and fortify himself by making his innocence
clear to the world.

His limbs gain strength each moment: he can walk now;
and he sets out homewards. The terrible pressure, which
has sometimes almost driven him to go and confess his guilt,
lets up a little. But he is still beset by superstition and
mystery. He fancies a thousand eyes following him; and
the vulture Dread will prey upon him, he foresees, until the
discovery of the grave has been explained, and he has faced
suspicion.

The sun is setting. The woods cast their vast shadows before
him as he hurries home. Twilight sits dim on the mountain;
but its coolness and quiet bring no rest to his fevered
mind. Every noise, every unusual sight, has a terror in it.
What is yonder? Smoke from his kitchen chimney: another
mystery. No doubt, even now the officers of the law are
sitting round his hearth, waiting for him with manacles and
a rope. He considers himself no better than a hanged man.
He approaches tremblingly. It is a frightened, glaring face
that appears an instant at the window. What! nobody but
little Job? All this consternation of smoke raised by him?

Biddikin sees the boy squatting on the floor there, roasting
his meat by the fire; but Job sees not Biddikin.

It is the last turn: the bear falls from the burnt stick into
the ashes. Job picks it out with his fingers, and places it on
a chip. It will do: the moment of fruition has arrived; relish
and ravishment wait upon his tongue. He opens his
mouth to admit the morsel just as the door opens to admit
the doctor. “Job! you villain! what does this mean?”
It means wrath and retribution, Job is perfectly well aware;
and the meat falls from his hand, and his nether jaw falls
from the upper, and he gasps out, —

“Hungry! — something t' eat!”

“Hungry? what business have you to be hungry?” rasps
the harsh voice of Biddikin. “Where did you get that
meat?”

The miserable child knows that he might as well be dead
as confess; and life is sweet even to those who taste only its
dregs.

“Man come along and give it to me,” says poor little
frightened Job.

There is a vagueness about the bare epithet man, which
to the doctor's scared imagination conveys much. He demands
to know what man. Job has Guy in his mind; but
thinks, if he names him, Biddikin will ask Guy if he gave
Job meat. Guy will say no: then woe to Job! So he falters,
“Don't know.”

“Which way did he come from?”

“That way;” and Job, in his bewilderment, indicates the
direction in which Guy went.

“From the woods?” demands Biddikin with chattering
teeth.

“Y-a-a-s!” drawls Job.

“How did he look?” says the doctor.

“Great big man,” says Job.

“What did he say?”

“Said I ought to have some.” And Job ventures to pick
up the meat.

“Tell me every word he said: I shall whip you if you
don't; oh, I shall whip you almost to death if you don't!”
And Biddikin adds effect to the menace by producing a strap.

“Told me not to tell,” uttered Job, sucking the meat.

Biddikin pounces upon him. Job tries to think; but
both memory and invention fail him, and he can only articulate,
—

“In the woods, — hunting for something.”

This loose allusion to the lost watch, Biddikin applies
directly to the search for Martin's grave. He sits down, his
eyes glassy, his face like ashes. Job takes advantage of the
lull to regale himself.

“Did he ask for me?”

“Y-a-a-s!” — munching.

It is at all times a grief to Biddikin to watch that boy eat;
and to see him sit there now so stoically, tearing and chewing
like a little harpy, rapt and absorbed in his viand, puts

a fury into him. Job knows what is coming. Those eyes
never glitter so but affliction is swiftly to ensue. He vacillates
between hunger and fright, but concludes to make the
most of his meat. Gratification of appetite is a rare event
with him, whereas flagellation is altogether too common. He
accordingly sticks to the meat, trying to swallow it as the
doctor strikes and beats him.

The door flew open, and Christina stood on the threshold, —
a spectre to Biddikin, but a joy to Job.

Without speaking, she stood there, with a countenance of
sorrow, regarding the miserable pair. Job made haste to
finish his banquet; whilst Biddikin rubbed his hands, and
stammered, —

“Beg your pardon, madam! I were correcting this boy.
A very bad boy; ain't you, Job?”

“Y-a-a-s, awful bad; wicked!”

“Very wicked!” said the doctor: “he knows it. Tells
lies; don't you, Job?'

“Y-a-a-s!” grinned the starveling. “Awful lies! I'm
a 'normous eater!” — smacking and licking his chaps.

“Bad, very bad! — wicked, dreadful wicked!” muttered
the doctor.

“And who is not?” said the pale prophetess at the door.
“Is there one good? Not one!”

“Ah, that indeed!” grimaced Biddikin. “But Job” —
and he shook his head at the boy's desperate case.

“It would be well for you and me, Doctor Biddikin, if we

had no greater sins on our souls than that poor child!” said
Christina.

“Very true. We are all sinners, great sinners,” — caressing
his skinny, trembling hands. “What can I do for you,
madam?” — with ghastly affability.

“Invite me in,” said Christina.

“Ah! excuse me: come in!” And he stood twisting and
simpering, in the endeavor to be civil; while he would about
as lief have seen the avenging angel enter his house as the
dangerous clairvoyant.

“Won't you ask me to sit down?” said Christina.

“Ah, yes! Pray, sit down!” And, bustling about, he
brought a broken chair, which he dusted, and placed for her.

“A chair for yourself, doctor.”

He seated himself near her, and spread his handkerchief on
his knees, and put his thumbs together over it, and smirked,
and played glad to see her.

“Some men!” said little Job, just as footsteps and a loud
knock were heard.

Biddikin gave a wild start; but Christina motioned him to
keep still. Job opened the door; and Mr. Murk, the philanthropist,
put in his nose.

“Ah, sister! Your absence has occasioned some alarm.
The friends have been looking for you.”

“Tell them to go without me. I shall spend the night
with Doctor Biddikin.”

An announcement which filled the involuntary host with
dismay.