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Page 19
"Ben, dear, I've something to tell you," she began, slowly, and the boy
waited with a happy face, for no one had called him so since 'Melia
died.
"The Squire has heard about your father, and this is the letter Mr.
Smithers sends."
"Hooray! where is he, please?" cried Ben, wishing she would hurry up,
for Miss Celia did not even offer him the letter, but sat looking down
at Sancho on the lower step, as if she wanted him to come and help her.
"He went after the mustangs, and sent some home, but could not come
himself."
"Went further on? I s'pose. Yes, he said he might go as far as
California, and if he did he'd send for me. I'd like to go there; it's
a real splendid place, they say."
"He has gone further away than that, to a lovelier country than
California, I hope." And Miss Celia's eyes turned to the deep sky,
where early stars were shining.
"Didn't he send for me? Where's he gone? When's he coming back?" asked
Ben, quickly, for there was a quiver in her voice, the meaning of which
he felt before he understood.
Miss Celia put her arms about him, and answered very tenderly:
"Ben, dear, if I were to tell you that he was never coming back, could
you bear it?"
"I guess I could--but you don't mean it? Oh, ma'am, he isn't dead?"
cried Ben, with a cry that made her heart ache, and Sancho leap up with
a bark.
"My poor little boy, I _wish_ I could say no."
There was no need of any more words, no need of tears or kind arms
round him. He knew he was an orphan now, and turned instinctively to
the old friend who loved him best. Throwing himself down beside his
dog, Ben clung about the curly neck, sobbing bitterly:
"Oh, Sanch, he's never coming back again; never, never any more!"
Poor Sancho could only whine and lick away the tears that wet the
half-hidden face, questioning the new friend meantime with eyes so full
of dumb love and sympathy and sorrow that they seemed almost human.
Wiping away her own tears, Miss Celia stooped to pat the white head,
and to stroke the black one lying so near it that the dog's breast was
the boy's pillow. Presently the sobbing ceased, and Ben whispered,
without looking up:
"Tell me all about it; I'll be good."
Then, as kindly as she could, Miss Celia read the brief letter which
told the hard news bluntly, for Mr. Smithers was obliged to confess
that he had known the truth months before, and never told the boy lest
he should be unfitted for the work they gave him. Of Ben Brown the
elder's death there was little to tell, except that he was killed in
some wild place at the West, and a stranger wrote the fact to the only
person whose name was found in Ben's pocket-book. Mr. Smithers offered
to take the boy back and "do well by him," averring that the father
wished his son to remain where he left him, and follow the profession
to which he was trained.
"Will you go, Ben?" asked Miss Celia, hoping to distract his mind from
his grief by speaking of other things.
"No, no; I'd rather tramp and starve. He's awful hard to me and Sanch,
and he'll be worse now father's gone. Don't send me back! Let me stay
here; folks are good to me; there's nowhere else to go." And the head
Ben had lifted up with a desperate sort of look went down again on
Sancho's breast as if there was no other refuge left.
"You _shall_ stay here, and no one shall take you away against your
will. I called you 'my boy' in play, now you shall be my boy in
earnest; this shall be your home, and Thorny your brother. We are
orphans, too, and we will stand by one another till a stronger friend
comes to help us," cried Miss Celia, with such a mixture of resolution
and tenderness in her voice that Ben felt comforted at once, and
thanked her by laying his cheek against the pretty slipper that rested
on the step beside him, as if he had no words in which to swear loyalty
to the gentle mistress whom he meant henceforth to serve with grateful
fidelity.
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