Burnham Breaker Part 40

He seized his hat and started up the village street and across the hill to Burnham Breaker There was no lagging now, no indecision in his step, no doubt within his mind.

He was once more brave, hopeful, free-hearted, ready to do anything or all things, that justice might be done and truth become established.

The sun shone down upon him tenderly, the birds sang carols to him on the way, the blossoming trees cast white flowers at his feet; but he never stayed his steps nor turned his thought until the black heights of Burnham Breaker threw their shadows on his head.

CHAPTER XV.

AN EVENTFUL JOURNEY.

The shaft-tower of Burnham Breaker reached up so high from the surface of the earth that it seemed, sometimes, as if the low-hanging clouds were only a foot or two above its head. In the winter time the wind swept wildly against it, the flying snow drifted in through the wide cracks and broken windows, and the men who worked there suffered from the piercing cold. But when summer came, and the cool breeze floated across through the open places at the head, and one could look down always on the green fields far below, and the blossoming gardens, and the gray-roofed city, and the s.h.i.+ning waters of the Lackawanna, winding southward, and the wooded hills rising like green waves to touch the far blue line of mountain peaks, ah, then it was a pleasant place to work in. So Bachelor Billy thought, these warm spring days, as he pushed the dripping cars from the carriage, and dumped each load of coal into the slide, to be carried down between the iron-teethed rollers, to be crushed and divided and screened and re-screened, till it should pa.s.s beneath the sharp eyes and nimble fingers of the boys who cleansed it from its slate and stone.

Billy often thought, as he dumped a carload into the slide, and saw a huge lump of coal that glistened brightly, or glowed with iridescent tints, or was veined with fossil-marked or twisted slate, that perhaps, down below in the screen-room, Ralph's eyes would see the brightness of the broken lump, or Ralph's fingers pick the curious bits of slate from out the moving ma.s.s. And as he fastened up the swing-board and pushed the empty car to the carriage, he imagined how the boy's face would light up with pleasure, or his brown eyes gleam with wonder and delight in looking on these strange specimens of nature's handiwork.

But to-day Ralph was not there. In all probability he would never be there again to work. Another boy was sitting on his bench in the screen-room, another boy was watching rainbow coal and fern-marked slate. This thought in Bachelor Billy's mind was a sad one. He pushed the empty car on the carriage, and sat down on a bench by the window to consider the subject of Ralph's absence.

Something had gone wrong at the foot of the shaft. There were no cars ready for hoisting, and Billy and his co-laborer, Andy Gilgallon, were able to rest for many minutes from their toil.

As they sat looking down upon the green landscape below them, Bachelor Billy's attention was attracted to a boy who was hurrying along the turnpike road a quarter of a mile away. He came to the foot of the hill and turned up the path to the breaker, looking up to the men in the shaft-tower as he hastened on, and waving his hand to them.

"I believe it's Ralph," said Billy, "it surely is. An ye'll mind both carriages for a bit when they start up, Andy, I'll go t' the lad," and he hurried across the tracks and down the dark and devious way that led to the surface of the earth.

At the door of the pump-room he met Ralph. "Uncle Billy!" shouted the boy, "I want to see you; I've got sumpthin' to tell you."

Two or three men were standing by, watching the pair curiously, and Ralph continued: "Come up to the tree where they ain't so much noise; 'twon't take long."

He led the way across the level s.p.a.ce, up the bank, and into the shadow of the tree beneath which the breaker boys had gathered a year before to pa.s.s resolutions of sympathy for Robert Burnham's widow;

They were no sooner seated on the rude bench than Ralph began:--

"I ought to 'a' told you before, I done very wrong not to tell you, but I couldn't raise the courage to do it till this mornin'. Here's what I want you to know."

Then Ralph told, with full detail, of his visit to Sharpman's office on Sunday evening, of what he had heard there, of his subsequent journey through the streets of the city, of his night of agony, of his morning of shame, of his final victory over himself.

Bachelor Billy listened with intense interest, and when he had heard the boy's story to the end he dashed the tears from his eyes and said: "Gie's your han' Ralph; gie's your twa han's! Ye're a braw lad. Son or no son o' Robert Burnham, ye're fit to stan' ony day in his shoes!"

He was looking down with strong admiration into the boy's pale face, holding the small hands affectionately in both of his.

"I come just as quick as I could," continued the boy, "after I got over thinkin' I'd keep still about it, just as quick as I could, to tell you an' ask you what to do. I'll do anything 'at you tell me it's right to do, Uncle Billy, anything. If you'll only say I must do it, I will. But it's awful hard to do it all alone, to let 'em know who I am, to give up everything so, an' not to have any mother any more, nor no sister, nor no home, nor no learnin', nor nothing; not anything at all, never, any more; it's terrible! Oh, Uncle Billy, it's terrible!"

Then, for the first time since the dreadful words of Rhyming Joe fell on his ears in the darkness of Sharpman's office, Ralph gave way to tears. He wept till his whole frame shook with the deep force of his sobs.

Bachelor Billy put his arm around the boy and drew him to his side. He smoothed back the tangled hair from the child's hot forehead and spoke rude words of comfort into his ears, and after a time Ralph grew quiet.

"Do you think, Uncle Billy," asked Ralph, "'at Rhymin' Joe was a-tellin' the truth? He used to lie, I know he did, I've heard 'im lie myself."

"It looks verra like, Ralph, as though he might 'a' been a-tellin' o'

the truth; he must 'a' been knowin' to it all, or he could na tell it so plain."

"Oh! he was; he knew all about it. I remember him about the first thing. He was there most all the time. But I didn't know but he might just 'a' been lyin' to get that money."

"It's no' unlikely. But atween the twa, I'd sooner think it was the auld mon was a-tellin' o' the lee. He has more to make out o' it, do ye see?"

"Well, there's the evidence in court."

"True, but Lawyer Sharpman kens the worth o' that as well as ony o'

us. An he was na fearfu' that the truth would owerbalance it, he wadna gi' a mon a hunderd an' fifty dollars to hold his tongue. I'm doubtfu'

for ye, Ralph, I'm verra doubtfu'."

Ralph had believed Rhyming Joe's story from the beginning, but he felt that this belief must be confirmed by Uncle Billy in order to put it beyond question. Now he was satisfied. It only remained to act.

"It's all true," he said; "I know it's all true, an' sumpthin's got to be done. What shall I do, Uncle Billy?"

The troubled look deepened on the man's face.

"Whether it's fause or true," he replied, "ye s'ould na keep it to yoursel'. She ought to know. It's only fair to go an' tell the tale to her an' let her do what she thenks bes'."

"Must I tell Mrs. Burnham? Must I go an' tell her 'at I ain't her son, an' 'at I can't live with her, an' 'at we can't never be happy together the way we talked? Oh, Uncle Billy, I can't do that, I can't!"

He looked up beseechingly into the man's face. Something that he saw there--pain, disappointment, affection, something, inspired him with fresh courage, and he started to his feet and dashed the tears from his eyes.

"Yes, I can do it too!" he exclaimed. "I can do anything 'at's right, an' that's right. I won't wait; I'll go now."

"Don't haste, lad; wait a bit; listen! If the lady should be gone to court ye mus' gae there too. If ye canna find her, ye mus' find her lawyer. One or the ither ye s'ould tell, afoor the verdict comes; afterwards it might be too late."

"Yes, I'll do it, I'll do it just like that."

"Mos' like ye'll have to go to Wilkesbarre. An ye do I'll go mysel'.

But dinna wait for me. I'll coom when I can get awa'. Ye s'ould go on the first train that leaves."

"Yes, I unnerstan'. I'll go now."

"Wait a bit! Keep up your courage, Ralph. Ye've done a braw thing, an'

ye're through the worst o' it; but ye'll find a hard path yet, an'

ye'll need a stout hert. Ralph," he had taken both the boy's hands into his again, and was looking tenderly into his haggard face and bloodshot eyes; the traces of the struggle were so very plain--"Ralph, I fear I'd cry ower ye a bit an we had the time, ye've sufferit so.

An' it's gude for ye, I'm thinkin', that ye mus' go quick. I'd make ye weak, an' ye need to be strang. I canna fear for ye, laddie; ye ken the right an' ye'll do it. Good-by till ye; it'll not be lang till I s'all go to ye; good-by!"

He bent down and kissed the boy's forehead and turned him to face toward the city; and when Ralph had disappeared below the brow of the hill, the rough-handed, warm-hearted toiler of the breaker's head wiped the tears from his face, and climbed back up the steep steps, and the long walks of cleated plank, to engage in his accustomed task.

There was no shrinking on Ralph's part now. He was on fire with the determination to do the duty that lay so plainly in his sight. He did not stop to argue with himself, he scarcely saw a person or a thing along his path; he never rested from his rapid journey till he reached the door of Mrs. Burnham's house.

A servant came in answer to his ring at the bell, and gave him pleasant greeting. She said that Mrs. Burnham had gone to Wilkesbarre, that she had started an hour before, that she had said she would come back in the early evening and would doubtless bring her son with her.

Ralph looked up into the woman's face, and his eyes grew dim.