Ben Stone at Oakdale

by Morgan Scott

  CHAPTER III.

  ONE RAY OF LIGHT.

  As he passed, he looked up at the academy, set far back in its yard ofmany maple trees, and saw that the great white door was closed, as ifshut upon him forever. The leaden windows stared at him with silentdisapproval; a sudden wind came and swung the half-open gate to theyard, which closed with a click, making it seem that an unseen hand hadthrust it tight against him and held it barred.

  Farther along the street stood a square, old-fashioned,story-and-a-half house, with a more modern ell and shed adjoining, anda wretched sagging barn, that lurched on its foundations, and was onlykept from toppling farther, and possibly falling, by long, crude timberprops, set against its side. The front yard of the house was enclosedby a straggling picket fence. As well as the fence, the weather-washedbuildings, with loose clapboards here and there, stood greatly in wantof paint and repairs.

  This was the home of Mrs. Jones, a widow with three children tosupport, and here Ben had found a bare, scantily-furnished room thatwas within his means. The widow regarded as of material assistance inher battle against poverty the rent money of seventy-five cents a week,which her roomer had agreed to pay in advance.

  For all of her misfortune and the constant strain of her toil to keepthe wolf from the door and a roof over the heads of herself and herchildren, Mrs. Jones was singularly happy and cheerful. It is true thewounds of the battle had left scars, but they were healed or hidden bythis strong-hearted woman, who seldom referred to them save in abuoyant manner.

  Jimmy Jones, a puny, pale-faced child of eight, permanently lamed byhip disease, which made one leg shorter than the other, was hanging onthe rickety gate, as usual, and seemed to be waiting Ben’s appearance,hobbling out to meet him when he came along the road.

  “You’re awful late,” cried the lame lad, in a thin, high-pitched voice,which attested his affliction and weakness. “I’ve been watchin’. I sawlots of other fellers go by, but then I waited an’ waited, an’ youdidn’t come.”

  A lump rose in Ben’s throat, and into his chilled heart crept a faintglow. Here was some one who took an interest in him, some one who didnot regard him with aversion and scorn, even though it was only a poorlittle cripple.

  Jimmy Jones had reminded Ben of his own blind brother, Jerry, which hadled him to seek to make friends with the lame boy, and to talk with himin a manner that quickly won the confidence of the child. This was hisreward; in this time when his heart was sore and heavy with the beliefthat he was detested of all the world, Jimmy watched and waited for himat the gate, and came limping toward him with a cheery greeting.

  Ben stooped and caught up the tiny chap, who was pitifully light,swinging him to a comfortable position on his bent left arm.

  “So you were watching for me, were you, Jimmy?” he said, in awonderfully soft voice for him. “That was fine of you, and I won’tforget it.”

  “Yep, I waited. What made you so late? I wanted to tell you, I set thatbox-trap you fixed for me so it would work, an’ what do you think Iketched? Bet you can’t guess.”

  “A squirrel,” hazarded Ben.

  “Nope, a cat!” laughed the little fellow, and Ben whistled in pretendedgreat surprise. “But I let her go. We don’t want no cats; we got enoughnow. But that jest shows the trap will work all right now, an’ I’llhave a squirrel next, I bet y’u.”

  “Sure you will,” agreed Ben, as he passed through the gate and caught aglimpse of the buxom widow, who, hearing voices, had hastened from thekitchen to peer out. “You’ll be a great trapper, Jimmy; not a doubt ofit.”

  “Say, if I ketch a squirrel, will you help me make a cage for him?”asked Jimmy eagerly.

  “I don’t know,” answered Ben soberly. “If I can, I will; but——”

  “Course you ken! Didn’t you fix the trap? I expect you know how to makeev’ry kind of thing like that.”

  “If I have a chance to make it, I will,” promised Ben, as he gentlyplaced the boy on the steps and forced to his face a smile that robbedit in a remarkable way of its uncomeliness.

  “I don’t s’pose we ken begin now?”

  “It’s too late to-night, and I’m in a hurry. We’ll have to put it off,Jimmy.”

  The smile vanished from his face the moment he passed round the cornerof the house on his way to the back door. “Poor little Jimmy!” hethought. “I can’t help you make your squirrel-cage, as I’m not going tostay here long enough to do it.”

  He ascended the narrow, uncarpeted stairs to his small, uncarpeted roomover the kitchen, where a loose board rattled beneath his feet, and thedull light from a single window showed him the old-fashioned,low-posted, corded bedstead—with its straw tick, coarse sheets andpatchwork quilt—pushed back beneath the sloping rafters of the roof.

  Besides the bed, there was in the room for furniture a broken-backedrocking-chair; a small table with a split top, on which stood a commonkerosene hand-lamp; a dingy white earthen water pitcher and bowl—theformer with a circular piece broken out of its nose—sitting on awashstand, made of a long box stood on one end, with a muslin curtainhanging in front of it. His trunk was pushed into a corner of the roomopposite the bed.

  Another part of the room, which served as a wardrobe, or was intendedfor that purpose, was set off by a calico curtain. The kitchen chimneyran up through one end of the room and served to heat it a little—avery little.

  Such a room as this was the best Ben Stone could afford to pay for fromhis meager savings. He had been satisfied, and had thought it would dohim very well; for Mrs. Jones had genially assured him that on eveningswhen the weather became colder he would be welcome to sit and study bythe open fire in the sitting-room, a concession for which he had beenduly grateful.

  But now he would need it no more; his hopes, his plans, his dreams wereended. He sat down dumbly on the broken chair, his hard, square handslying helpless in his lap. The shadows of the dingy little chambercrept upon him from the corners; and the shadows of his life hoveredthick about him.

  Finally he became aware of the smell of cooking, which came to him frombelow, and slowly the consciousness that he was hungry grew upon him.It did not matter; he told himself so. There was in his heart a greaterhunger that might never be satisfied.

  It had grown quite dark and he struck a light, after which he pulledout his small battered trunk and lifted the lid. Then, in a mechanicalmanner, he began packing it with his few belongings.

  At last the craving of his stomach became so insistent that he tookdown a square tin box from a shelf behind the calico curtain and openedit on the little table. It had been full when he came on Monday, butnow there was left only the end of a stale loaf of bread and a fewcrumbs of cheese. These, however, were better than nothing, and he wasabout to make the best use of them, when there sounded a step outsidehis door, followed by a knock that gave him a start.

  Had it come so soon? Would they give him no more time? Well, then, hemust meet them; and, with his face gray and set, he opened the door.

  With a long, nicked, blue platter, that served as a tray, Mrs. Jonesstood outside and beamed upon him. On the tray were a knife, a fork,pewter spoons, and dishes of food, from one of which—a steamingbowl—came a most delightful odor.

  “Land sakes!” said the widow. “Them stairs is awful in the dark, an’ Ididn’t darst bring a lamp; I hed my han’s full. I brought y’u somethin’hot to eat; I hope y’u don’t mind. It ain’t right for a big, growin’youngster like you to be alwus a-eatin’ cold vittles, ’specially whenhe’s studyin’ hard. It’s bad f’r the dejesshun; an’ Joel—my latedeparted—he alwus had somethin’ the matter with his dejesshun. It kep’him from workin’ reg’ler an’ kinder sp’iled his prospects, poor man!an’ left me in straightened circumstances when he passed away. But Iain’t a-repinin’ or complainin’; there is lots in this world a heapwuss off’n I be, an’ I’m satisfied that I’ve got a great deal to bethankful f’r. If I’d thought, I’d a-brought up s
omethin’ f’r atablecloth, but mebbe you can git along.”

  She had entered while talking, bringing with her, besides the odor offood, another odor of soapsuds, which clung to her from her constantlabor at the washtubs, where, with hard, backaching toil, sheuncomplainingly scrubbed out a subsistence. For Mrs. Jones took inwashings, and in Oakdale there was not another whose clothes were sowhite and spotless, and whose work was done so faithfully.

  Ben was so taken aback that he stood speechless in the middle of thefloor, watching her as she arranged the dishes on the table.

  “There’s some beef stew,” she said, depositing the steaming bowl. “An’here’s hot bread an’ butter, an’ some doughnuts I fried to-day. Joelalwus uster say my doughnuts was the best he ever tasted, an’ he dideat a monst’rus pile of ’em. I don’t think they was the best thing inthe world f’r his dejesshun, either. Mis’ Collins give me some applesthis mornin’, an’ I made a new apple pie. I thought y’u might like totry it, though it ain’t very good, an’ I brought y’u up a piece. An’here’s a glass of milk. Jimmy he likes milk, an’ I hev to keep it inthe house f’r him. He don’t eat much, nohow. I saw you with Jimmy whenyou come in, an’ I noticed you looked kinder tired an’ pale, an’ I saysto myself, ‘What that boy needs is a good hot supper.’ Jimmy he’s bintalkin’ about you all day, an’ how y’u fixed his squirrel trap. Now,you jest set right up here, an’ fall to.”

  She had arranged the dishes and placed the old chair at the table,after which, as had become habitual with her on rising from thewash-tub, she wiped her hands on her apron and rested them on her hips,her arms akimbo. She was smiling at him in such a healthy, motherlymanner, that her whole face seemed to glow like the genial face of thesun when it appears after a dark and cloudy day.

  To say that Ben was touched, would be to fail utterly in expressing thesmallest degree of his feelings, yet he was a silent, undemonstrativefellow, and now he groped in vain for satisfactory words with which tothank the widow. Unattractive and uncomely he was, beyond question, butnow his unspeakable gratitude to this kind woman so softened andtransformed his face that, could they have seen him, those who fanciedthey knew him well would have been astonished at the change.

  “Mrs. Jones,” he faltered, “I—I—how can I——”

  “Now you set right down, an’ let the victuals stop y’ur mouth,” shelaughed. “You’ve bin good to my Jimmy, an’ I don’t forgit nobody who’sgood to him. I’d asked y’u down to supper with us, but you’re so kinderbackward an’ diffident, that I thought p’raps y’u wouldn’t come, an’Mamie said she knowed y’u wouldn’t.”

  Ben felt certain that back of this was Mamie’s dislike for him, whichsomething told him had developed in her the moment she first saw him.She was the older daughter, a strong, healthy girl of seventeen, whonever helped her mother about the work, who dressed in such cheapfinery as she could obtain by hook or crook, who took music lessons ona rented melodeon paid for out of her mother’s hard earnings, who feltherself to be a lady unfortunately born out of her sphere, and who wasunquestionably ashamed of her surviving parent and her brother andsister.

  “Set right down,” persisted Mrs. Jones, as she took hold of him andpushed him into the chair. “I want to see y’u eatin’. That’s Mamie!”she exclaimed, her face lighting with pride, as the sound of themelodeon came from a distant part of the house. “She’s gittin’ so shecan play real fine. She don’t seem to keer much f’r books an’ study,but I’m sartin she’ll become a great musician if she keeps on. If Sadiewas only more like her; but Sadie she keeps havin’ them chills. I thinkshe took ’em of her father, f’r when he warn’t ailin’ with hisdejesshun he was shakin’ with a chill, an’ between one thing an’t’other, he had a hard time of it. It ain’t to be wondered at that hedied with debt piled up and a mortgage on the place; but I don’t wantyou to think I’m complainin’, an’ if the good Lord lets me keep myhealth an’ strength, I’ll pay up ev’ry dollar somehow. How is the stew?”

  “It—it’s splendid!” declared Ben, who had begun to eat; and trulynothing had ever before seemed to taste so good.

  As he ate, the widow continued to talk in the same strain,strong-hearted, hopeful, cheerful, for all of the ill-fortune that hadattended her, and for all of the mighty load on her shoulders. He beganto perceive that there was something heroic in this woman, and hisadmiration for her grew, while in his heart her thoughtful kindness hadplanted the seed of affection.

  The warm bread was white and light and delicious, and somehow the smellof the melting butter upon it made him think vaguely of green fieldsand wild flowers and strawberries. Then the doughnuts—such doughnuts asthey were! Ben could well understand how the “late departed” must havefairly reveled in his wife’s doughnuts; and, if such perfectproductions of the culinary art could produce the result, it was fullycomprehensible why Mr. Jones’ “dejesshun” had been damaged.

  But the pie was the crowning triumph. The crust was so flaky that itseemed to melt in the boy’s mouth, and the apple filling had a tasteand flavor that had been imparted to it in some magical manner by thegenius of the woman who seemed to bestow something sweet and wholesomeupon the very atmosphere about her.

  With her entrance into that room, she had brought a ray of light thatwas growing stronger and stronger. He felt it shining upon him; he feltit warming his chilled soul and driving the shadows from his gloomyheart; he felt it giving him new courage to face the world and fightagainst fate—fight until he conquered.

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