University of Virginia Library

29. CHAPTER XXIX.
BEN.

Ben sat among his boxes and barrels cracking hickory
nuts and carrying on a one sided conversation with
the well fed cat and six beautiful kittens, which were
gamboling over the floor, the terror of rats and mice
and the pride of their owner, who found his heart altogether
too tender to destroy any one of them by the
usual means of drowning or decapitation. So he was
literally killing them with kindness, and with his seven
cats and odd ways was the wonder and favorite of the
entire village.

The night was dark and stormy, and fancying he
had dismissed his last customer he had settled himself
before the glowing stove with nearly half a peck of
nuts at his side, when the door opened, and a little boy
came in, his light hair covered with snow, which had
also settled upon other portions of his person.

“Good evenin', Sandy,” was Ben's salutation.

“What brung you here to-night?”

“Got you a letter,” returned Sandy, who was the
chore boy of the Post Master. “It's been a good
while coming, too, for all it says `in haste,”' and passing
the note to Ben, he caught up five or six of the
kittens, while Ben, tearing open the envelope and
snuffing a tallow candle with his fingers read:

“I 'most wish she'd left off that last, and that
about his kissin' her,” said Ben, when, after the boy
Sandy departed he was alone. “It makes me feel so
streaked like. Guy, wouldn't I give all my groceries,
and the six cats into the bargain, to be in Fred Raymond's
boots;” and, taking up the kitten he called
“Marian Grey,” he fondled it tenderly, for the sake
of her whose name it bore. “I shall go to this party,”
he continued, as his mind reverted again to the letter,
“though I'll be as much out of place as a toad in a
sugar bowl; but I can see Marian, and that little
blind girl, and Josh. Wa'n't he a case, though?”
And leaning back in his chair, Ben mentally made the
necessary arrangements for leaving.

These arrangements were next day carried into effect,
and as he must start at once if he would be there
in time for the party, he took the night express for
Albany, having left his feline family to the care of
the boy Sandy. The second night found him on the
train between Buffalo and Cleveland, and as the weather
was very cold and the seat near the stove unoccupied,
he appropriated it to himself, and was just falling
away to sleep, when a lady, wrapped in velvet
and furs, with a thickly dotted vail over her face,
came up to him, and said, rather haughtily:

“Can I have this seat, sir? I prefer it to any other.”

“So do I,” returned Ben; “but bein' you're a woman,
I'll give it up, I guess.”

And he sought another, of which there were plenty,
for it was the last car, and not one-third full.

“Considerable kind o' toppin',” was his mental
comment, as he coiled himself in his shaggy overcoat
for a second time, sleeping ere long so soundly that
nothing disturbed him, until at last, as they turned a
short curve, the car was detached from the others,
and, leaving the track, was precipitated down an embankment,
which, fortunately, was not very steep,
so that none were killed, although several were
wounded, and among them the lady who had so unceremoniously
taken possession of Ben's comfortable
seat.

“Wall, now,” said Ben, crawling out of a window,
and holding fast to his hat, which being new, was his
special care, “if this ain't a little the imperlitest way
of wakin' a feller out of a sound sleep, to pitch him
head over heels in among these blackb'ry bushes and
stuns; but who the plague is that a screechin' so?—a
woman's voice, too!”

And with all his gallantry aroused, Ben went to
the rescue, feeling his way through briars and
grass and broken pieces of the car, until he reached
the human form struggling beneath the ruins, in close
proximity to the hissing stove.

“Easy, now, my gal,” he said, lifting her up. “Haul
your foot out, can't you?”

“No, no, it's crushed;” and Ben's knees shook beneath
him at the cry of pain.

Relief soon came from other sources, and as this
lady seemed more seriously injured than either of the
other passengers, she was carried carefully to a dwelling
near by, and laid upon a bed, before Ben had a
chance to see her features distinctly.

“Pretty well jammed,” said he, examining the bonnet,
which the women of the farm-house had removed.

Supposing he meant herself, the lady moaned,

“Oh, sir, is my face entirely crushed?”

“I meant your bonnet,” returned Ben, “though if I
was to pass judgment on you, I should say some of your
feathers was crumpled a little; but law, beauty ain't

but skin deep. It's good, honest actions that makes
folks liked.”

And taking the lamp, he bent to investigate, discovering
to his utter amazement, that the lady was none
other than Isabel Huntington!

Some weeks before, and ere Marian's identity with
Frederic's wife had heen made known, Mrs. Rivers had
invited her to visit Kentucky, and as there was now
nothing in Yonkers to interest her she had accepted,
with the forlorn hope that spite of Frederic's improbable
story about a living wife, he might eventually be
won back to his old allegiance. Accordingly she had
taken the same train and car with Ben, and by rather
rudely depriving him of his seat near the stove had
been considerably injured, receiving several flesh
wounds, besides breaking her ankle. For this last,
however, she did not care; that would get well again;
but her face—was it so disfigured as to spoil her
boasted beauty? This was her constant thought as she
lay moaning upon her pillows, and when for a few moments
she was alone with Ben, whom she knew to be
the Yankee peddler, and who considered it his duty to
stay with her, she said to him:

“Please, Mr. Butterworth, tell me just how much I
am bruised, and whether I shall probably be a fright
the rest of my days.”

“Wall, now,” returned Ben, taking the lamp a second
time and coming nearer to her, “there's no knowin'
how you will look hereafter, but the fact is you
ain't none too han'some now, with your face swelled
as big as two, and all scratched up with them pesky
briars.”

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Isabel, “but the swelling
will go down and the scratches will get well. That
isn't all.”

“You're right,” said Ben, peering curiously at her;
“that ain't all. You know, I 'spose, that six of your
front teeth are knocked out.”

“Yes, but false ones will remedy that. I'll have

them made a little uneven so as to look natural; go
on.”

“Wall,” continued Ben, “you've fixed your teeth,
but what are you goin' to do with your broke nose?”

`,Oh!” screamed Isabel, clasping her hand to that
organ, which, from its classic shape had been her special
pride. “Not broken—is it broken, true?”

“Looks mighty like it,” answered Ben, “but law!
doctors can do anything. They'll tinker it up so it
will answer to sneeze out of and smell with as good as
ever; and they'll sew up that ugly gash, too, that runs
like a Virginny fence from your ear up onto your forehead
and part of your cheek. Looks as though there'd
been a scar of some kind there before,” and looking
closer, Ben saw the mark which the hot iron had made
that night when the proud Isabel had given the cruel
blow to the blind girl.

This she had heretofore managed to conceal by combing
over it her hair, but nothing could hide the seam
she knew would always be upon her forehead and
cheek.

“Oh, I wish I could die,” she groaned, “if I must
be so mutilated.”

“Pshaw! no you don't,” returned Ben, now acting
the part of a consoler. “Your eyes ain't damaged,
nor your hair neither, only singed a little with the
stove. There's some white ones, I see, but they must
have been there before. Never used Wood's brimstony
stuff, did you? That'll keep it from turnin.' I
knew a chap once with a broke nose that looked like
the notch in the White Mountains, and nobody thought
of it, he was so good. Maybe your'n ain't so bad.
Perhaps it's only out of jint. The doctor'll know—
here he comes,” and Ben stood back respectfully, while
the physician examined the nature and extent of Isabel's
injuries.

There was nothing serious, he said; nothing from
which she would not recover. She was only stunned
and bruised, besides having a broken ancle. The cut

on the face would probably leave a scar, and the nose
never be straight again, otherwise she would ere long
be as well as ever, but she must of course remain
where she was for two or three weeks, and he asked if
she had friends with her.

“No,” she said, while Ben said: “Yes, I'm her
friend, and though I want to go on the wust way, I'll
stay till her mother comes. We'd better telegraph, I
guess.”

This brought the tears from the heartless Isabel, for
she appreciated Ben's kindness in not deserting her,
and when again they were alone, she thanked him for
so generously staying with her when she heard him say
he wished to go on.

“Were you going to Kentucky?” she asked, and Ben
replied: “Yes, goin' to see how Miss Raymond looks
at the head of a family. You've heard, I s'pose, that
Marian Grey was Fred's run-away wife, and that they
are as happy now as two clams.”

Unmindful of the fierce twinges of pain it gave her
to move, Isabel started up exclaiming, “No, no, how
can that be?”

“Just as easy,” said Ben, proceeding to narrate a
few particulars to his astonished listener, who, when
he had finished, lay back again upon her pillow, weeping
bitterly.

This, then, was the end of all her secret hopes.
Frederic was surely lost to her; the beautiful Marian
Grey was his wife, and what was worse than all, her
treachery was undoubtedly suspected, and what must
they think of her? Poor Isabel, she was in a measure
suffering for her sins, and she continued to weep while
Ben tried in vain to sooth her, talking to her upon
the subject uppermost in his mind, namely, Marian's
happiness and his own joy that it had all come right at
lasi. Isabel would rather have heard of anything else,
but when she saw how kind Ben was, she compelled
herself to listen, even though every word he said of

Marian and Frederic pierced her with a keener pain
than even her bruises produced.

“I shan't be in time for the doin's any way,” thought
Ben, when Mrs. Huntington did not come at the expected
time, and as he fancied it his duty to let Marian
know why he was not there, he telegraphed to
her, “We've had a break down, and Isabel is knocked
into a cocked hat.”

This telegram, which created no little sensation at
the office, was copied verbatim and sent to Frederic,
who read it, while Marian, in her chamber, was dressing
for the party. He could not forbear laughing
heartily, it sounded so much like Ben, but he wisely
determined to keep it from his wife and Alice, as it
might cause them unnecessary anxiety. He accordingly
thrust it in his pocket, and then, when it was
time, went up for Marian, who, in her bridal dress of
satin and lace, with pearls and diamonds woven among
her shining hair, and flashing from her neck and arms,
looked wondrously beautiful to him, and received
many words of commendation from the guests, who
soon began to appear, and who felt that the bride of
Redstone Hall well became her high position. Many
were the pleasant jokes passed at Frederic's expense,
and the clergyman who had officiated at his wedding
more than six years before, laughingly offered to repeat
the ceremony. But Frederic shook his head, saying,
he was satisfied if Marian was, while the look the
beautiful, blushing bride gave to him, was quite as expressive
of her answer as words would have been.
And so, amid smiles and congratulations, the song and
the dance moved on, and all went merry as a marriage
bell, until at last, as the clock told the hour of midnight,
the last guest had departed, and Frederic, with
his arm round Marian, was calling her Mrs. Raymond,
on purpose to see her blush, when there came up the
avenue the sound of rapid wheels, followed by a bound
on the piazza, and the next moment Ben burst into the

room, holding up both hands, as he caught sight of
Marian in her bridal robes.

“My goodness!” he exclaimed. “Ain't she pretty,
though. It's curis how clothes will fix up a woman,”
and the tears came to Ben's eyes in his delight at seeing
Marian so resplendent in jewels and costly lace.

The meeting between Frederic and Ben was like
brother greeting brother, for the former felt that he
almost owed his life to the great-hearted Yankee, and
he grasped his hand warmly, bidding him welcome to
Redstone Hall, and, by his kind, familiar manner,
putting him at once at his ease. Alice, too, did her
part well, and, pressing Ben's hand to her lips, she
said:

“I love you, Ben Burt; love you a heap, for being
so good to Marian.”

“Don't now,” said Ben, whiningly. “Don't set me
to bellerin' the fust thing. I only did what anybody
would have done, unless the milk of human kindness
was all turned to bonny clabber!” Then, as he thought
of Isabel, he continued, “I tried to get here sooner,
but Miss Huntington didn't come till the last minute,
and I couldn't leave Isabel. How she does take on
about her sp'ilt beauty.”

“What do you mean?” asked Marian. “Where is
Isabel?” and as Frederic then passed her the telegram,
she continued to ask questions, until she had learned
the whole.

“Poor girl!” she sighed; “I pity her, and if she
were here, I would so gladly take care of her.”

Instantly there flashed upon Alice's mind an idea
every way worthy of her, but she would not suggest it
then, as it was growing late, and when she heard ere
long a loud yawn from Ben, she thoughtfully rang the
bell, bidding the servant who came “show Mr. Burt
to his room;” then, kissing Frederic and Marian good-night,
she, too, departed, leaving them alone.

Next morning, at the breakfast-table, she said to
Frederic:

“Don't folks most always take a bridal tour?”

“Sometimes, when they can't be happy at home,”
returned Frederic. “Where does my blind birdie wish
to go?”

“I don't really wish to go,” answered Alice; “but
wouldn't it be nice to surprise poor Isabel, lying so
bruised and sick in that old farm-house in Ohio?
Maybe she wants money? I heard them say at Yonkers
that she had spent all Mr. Rivers left her, except
the house, and that was mortgaged. I've got ten dollars
that I'll give her.”

“Blessed baby!” said Ben, bringing out his pocket-handkerchief,
which he was pretty sure to need.

This suggestion was warmly seconded by Marian,
and after a little further consultation, it was decided
that they should start the next day for the place where
Isabel lay sick.

“She may confess about the letters,” said Marian,
“and that will make me like her so much better.”

This being settled, Alice's next inquiry was for her
cat, and her brown eyes opened wide with wonder
when told of the six young kittens which had a home
in Ben Burt's grocery, and one of which was called
for her.

“It ought to be blind,” said the little girl, and, with
a quivering chin, Ben answered:

“That's it, though I shouldn't have told you for fear
of hurtin' your feelin's. The little cat is blind, and
when Sandy—that's a boy who lives there—said how
he would kill it for me, it struck to my stomick to
once, for that little critter lies even nigher to my heart
than the handsomest, sleekest one, which I call `Marian
Grey,' and 'tis grey, too, with mottled spots all
over its back, while Alice is white as milk!”

The cat story being satisfactorily concluded, Ben
went out to renew his acquaintance with the negroes,
who vied with each other in paying him marked attention.
Though they did not quite understand it,
they knew that he was in some way connected with

the return of their young mistress, and neither Dinah
nor Hetty made the least objection when, before night,
they saw the two black babies which had usurped the
rights of Dud and Victory, seated upon his lap and
“riding to Boston to buy penny cakes,” at a rate
which bade fair to throw them to the top of the ceiling
at least, if not to land them somewhere in the vicinity
of the bay state capital.

The next morning, Frederic, Marian and Alice started
for Ohio, leaving Ben in charge at Redstone Hall.

“He'd tend to the niggers,” he said, and he bade
the “Square,” as he persisted in calling Frederic,
“not to worry at all about things to hum.”

The family had scarcely been gone an hour when
Dinah came in quest of Ben, whom she found in the
parlor drumming Yankee Doodle upon the piano with
one hand and whistling by way of accompaniment.

“Thar was the queerest actin' man in the dinin'
room,” she said, “and he done ax for marster, and
when I tole him he had gone to the 'Hio with his wife,
he laughed so hateful, and say how't she isn't his wife,
that I come for you, 'case thar's a look in his eye I
don't like.”

“Catch him tellin' me Marian ain't a lawful wife,”
said Ben, starting from the stool and hurrying to the
dining-room, where very much intoxicated, Rudolph
McVicar was sitting.

He had landed not long before at New Orleans, and
coming up the river as far as Louisville had stopped
in that city, where he accidentally heard a young man
speak of Frederic's wedding party, which had taken
place the previous night.

“Who is the bride?” he asked eagerly. “Is it
Miss Huntington?” and the young man who knew
none of the particulars, and who had once heard that
Frederic was to marry a lady of that name, replied:
“Yes, I believe it is, or at all events she was his governess.”

Rudolph waited for no more, but started at once for

Redstone Hall, chuckling with delight as he thought
of the consternation his visit would create. He did
not at first recognize Ben, neither did Ben know him,
so bloated had he become with drink, and so rough
and red with exposure upon the sea.

“Where is the woman they call Mrs. Raymond?”
he asked with a sneer; and Ben replied: “Gone with
her husband to Ohio.”

“Her husband!” repeated Rudolph. “He isn't her
husband. She has no right to be his wife, and I have
come to tell her so.”

“You say that again if you dare!” said Ben, bristling
up in Marian's defense. “You say that Marian
ain't Frederic's lawful wife, and I'll show you the door,
plaguy quick. I'm boss here now.”

As Ben was speaking, Rudolph remembered that
they had met before, but he scarcely heeded that, so
intent was he upon the name which Ben had uttered.

“Marian!” he repeated, a light breaking over him;
“Is not Isabel Huntington the bride?”

“No, sir,” answered Ben, snapping his fingers almost
in the stranger's face. “She didn't come that
game, though she tried it hard enough. But what do
you know about it, any way?”

“I know I've been a fool,” answered Rudolph, explaining,
in a few words, what he once had done.

“So you wrote that letter, you scullion,” returned
Ben. “But it didn't do no good; and the smartest
trick you ever done was to sign yourself green. Ugh!
and Ben's voice was quite expressive of his contempt.
“I don't blame you so much though,” he continued,
“for wantin' to pester that Isabel, but you'd better let
the Lord 'tend to such critters in his own way. He
can fix 'em better'n we can,” and Ben proceeded to
give an account of the accident in which Isabel's
beauty had been seriously impaired.

“I am so glad,” was Rudolph's exclamation, and he
was proceeding further to express his malicious joy,
when Ben cut him short by saying:

“It don't look well to rejoice over anybody's downfall,
though I'm none too friendly to the gal, I shan't
hear her berated, and you may as well quit.”

On ordinary occasions, Rudolph would have resented
any attempt at restraint, but he was too much intoxicated
now fully to realize anything, and staring
vacantly at Ben, he made no reply, but ere long fell
asleep, dozing in his chair for several hours. Then,
with faculties somewhat brightened, he announced his
intention of leaving. With an immense degree of satisfaction
Ben watched him as he went slowly down
the avenue, saying to himself:

“Poor drunken critter, he's disappointed, I s'pose,
in not gettin' revenge his own way; but I don't blame
her much for givin' him the mitten. Wouldn't they
have scratched each other's eyes out, if they'd come
together! Better be as 'tis—she a nervous old maid,
and he in a drunkard's grave, where he will be mighty
soon—the bloat!” and having finished his soliloquy,
Ben returned again to his music.

Meantime, in a most unenviable frame of mind,
Isabel was chiding her mother for doing everything
wrong, and bewailing her own sad fate:

“Oh, why didn't I stay at home,” she said; “and
so not have become the fright I know I am?”

It was in vain that her mother made her feel thankful
that her life was spared. Isabel did not care for
that. She thought only of her lost teeth, her disjointed
nose, and ugly scar, and turning her face to the
wall she was wishing she could die, when the woman
of the house came in, telling her “some friends were
there from Kentucky.”

“Who are they?” she asked; but ere the woman
could reply, a sweet voice said:

“It's me, and all of us;” and Alice's little hands
were tenderly pressed to Isabel's feverish brow.

Then, indeed, the haughty girl wept aloud, for she
knew she did not deserve this kindness either from
Alice or Marian, the latter of whom soon came in,

greeting her as pleasantly as if she had never received
an injury from her hands. Frederic, too, was perfectly
self-possessed, expressing his sympathy for her
misfortune, and with these kind friends to cheer her
sick room, Isabel recovered in a measure her former
cheerfulness. But there was evidently something resting
heavily upon her mind, and that night, when alone
with Frederic and Marian, she confessed to them her
wickedness in opening the letter, and sending it back
with so cruel a message.

“We knew you must have done it,” said Frederic,
at the same time assuring her of his own and Marian's
forgiveness. “It kept us apart for many years,” he
continued, “but I have found her at last, and love her
all the more for what I suffered.”

And Isabel, when she saw the look of deep affection
he gave to his young wife, covered her face with her
hands, and wept silently, until Marian asked “if she
knew aught of the letter from Sarah Green?”

“No, no,” she answered; “I am surely innocent of
that,” and they believed her, wondering all the more
whence it could have come or why it had been sent.

Toward the close of the next day, they took their
leave, cordially inviting Isabel to visit them at Redstone
Hall, should she ever feel inclined so to do.

“We will let bygones be bygones,” said Frederic,
taking her hand at parting. “You and I have both
learned that to deal fairly and openly is the best policy,
and it is to be hoped we will profit by the experience.”

Isabel did not answer, but she pressed his hand, and
returned warmly the kiss which both Marian and Alice
gave to her. As the latter was turning away she
detained her a moment while she whispered in her
ear, “Will you forgive me for that blow I gave you
when I thought I was about to be exposed?”

“Yes, willingly,” was the answer, and thrusting the
golden eagle under the pillow. Alice hurried away.
They found it after she was gone, and when at last

Isabel was able to go home, they found their bills
paid, too, and were at no loss to know to whom they
were indebted for the generous act. “I do not deserve
this from him of all others,” said Isabel, and
drawing her thick, green veil close over her marred
face she entered the carriage which had come to take
them to the depot.

Not once during the journey home did she remove
the veil, but in an obscure corner of the car she sat,
a forlorn, wretched woman, brooding drearily over
the past, and seeing in the future no star to cheer her
pathway. Frederic lost, Redstone Hall lost, her little
fortune wasted,—and worse than all, her boasted beauty
gone forever. Poor, poor Isabel!