The sound of sleigh-bells stopping
suddenly and a sharp knock at his own door, aroused
Ben from his mournful prayers. He got up and turned
the latch. To his astonishment, it was broad
daylight. The persons who had aroused him were
James and Ralph Harrington.
“Ben,” said Ralph, stepping
eagerly forward, “tell us repeat to
James what you refused to tell Lina. On your
life, on your honor, dear old Ben: tell him whose
child she is.”
“All that you know about her.
I am sure there is something you can explain.
If you ever loved her or care for me, speak out now.
You said that she had gone off because you refused
to tell her something.”
Ben had been praying in the presence
of death, and there were both power and pathos in
his voice as he clasped those rough hands and said:
“As the great God aloft is his
witness! Ralph Harrington, Ben Benson spoke nothing
but the truth when he said that ere.”
“But you will tell us, for her
dear sake, you will tell us.”
“Yes, Master Ralph I will.
Jist ask what you want to know, and I’ll tell
it.”
“Who was she, Ben? I’ve
asked my mother often, but she always answered, that
the child, while a mere infant, was seen one day wandering
on the banks of the river, quite alone. At night,
she came up to the house, and was found asleep on
the door-step from that day to this, she
has never been inquired after, but dropped into the
family naturally as a pet-bird. I loved her the
better for having no friends for belonging
entirely to us.”
Ben drew the back of one hand across
his eyes and dropped into his lounging attitude again.
“But, yet, she had one friend, Mister Ralph.”
“And, who was that?”
“Ben Benson as carried
her up to that ere identical door-step, and laid her
down like the babes in the woods a knowing
in his heart all the time, that Mrs. Harrington would
take her in the minute she sot her eyes on her purty
face.”
“You know who she was, then?”
“I ought to,” answered Ben, “for
she was my own sister’s child.”
“Your sister’s child!”
“You wouldn’t a belaved
it; for the mother of that gal was like a water lily,
fresh from the pond, when I run away from hum and went
to sea.”
“Well,” said Ralph, breathless.
“The old man died a little while
after I ran off, and so the poor little thing was
left alone, to fight her way through the world.
She had more larning than ever could be driv into
my brain, and went into a rich man’s family
to larn his children their letters. There was
a young feller in that house, as was likewise given
to larning, a sickly, pale chap, just a going into
consumption. This chap loved the orphan gal, and
as her hard-hearted brother had deserted the helm,
he stepped in and took the craft amost without a summons.”
“They got married somewhere
down in York, and in less ’en three months arter,
the poor, young feller died neither on ’em
had plucked up courage enough to tell the proud, old
father, and the young man was took off so suddenly
at last, that he hadn’t no chance.”
“Lizzy was obliged to speak
out arter this, but the certificate was amongst his
things, and the old folks pretended that it never could
be found. She didn’t know where to find
the minister as married ’em, and so her husband’s
own father turned her out of doors. When I came
ashore two years arter, no one could tell me where
she had gone; but a few months arter I cast anchor
in this ere land-craft, my poor sister came here one
night, leading a toddling little girl by the hand.
That gal was Lina. My sister’s face was
white as foam, when she came in. I asked her
about the child, and she told me what I have been a
telling you. In the night she went away.
I had fell asleep, leaning against the wall, and didn’t
know she was agoing. The baby was left behind
on the husk-bed.
“The next thing, my sister wandered
back to the lonesome place, where she and her baby
had lived together, and without telling any one that
she was sick, lay down and died.
“Ben Benson sat in his cabin
all that day, and the little child went out and in
like a lonesome bird, now a picking posies from the
bank and agin crying by the cabin door. That
miserable old feller never had but one guardian spirit
on arth, and that ere night he thought of her, while
the baby lay hived up in his bosom. So he took
the child up as if it had been a little helpless lamb,
and laid it down where that ere angel could find it.”
“And this was Lina!” exclaimed
Ralph, with tears in his eyes. “I thank
you, Ben.”
“You know this you
are certain of her identity?” said James Harrington.
“I am sartin that she’s
my own sister’s darter, and can swear to it
afore God and man,” was Ben’s solemn reply.
“But where is the gal? Is she found will
she come back does she know as this ere
old chap is her uncle?”
“She knows nothing,” said
Ralph, shaking the hand which Ben extended while propounding
these eager questions. “She is yonder in
the sleigh, Ben no, not yet; she is ill,
and the least excitement may do harm. Go and
find us an entrance to the house; we have tried the
doors, but no one seems astir my fa the
General, is not home, I suppose”
“No,” answered Ben, believing
what he said; “I haven’t seen the General
about these four days.”
“And my mother?” inquired Ralph.
“She’s sartain to be there,
poor lady,” answered Ben, shaking his head sorrowfully.
“Yes, yes, she’s pining
about Lina, but that will soon be over bless
the dear girl on second thought, if my mother
is ill, I had better go myself; some of the servants
must be up by this time. See, there she is, Ben,
in the sleigh, muffled up in furs, poor little birdie.
Go speak to her, but remember she is feeble as a babe,
so be very quiet.”
“You can trust old Ben Benson
for that ere,” cried the boatman, looking eagerly
towards the sleigh; but with the first glance great
tears came chasing each other down his cheeks, and
all unconsciously he held out both arms, shouting,
“my own, own little gal!”
There was a struggle in the sleigh,
and with low murmurs of delight, Lina held forth her
hand.
“Remember and keep cool,”
said Ralph; then turning towards James, he said, “drive
to the door, I will soon rouse the household.”
With these words he strode towards
the house, eager to carry glad tidings to his mother.