Under the Lilacs (11 page)

Sancho felt that he must follow suit; and gravely put his paw upon her knee, with a low whine, as if he said, “Count me in,
and let me help to pay my master’s debt if I can.”

Miss Celia shook the offered paw cordially, and the good creature crouched at her feet like a small lion, bound to guard her
and her house forevermore.

“Don’t lie on that cold stone, Ben; come here and let me try to comfort you,” she said, stooping to wipe away the great drops
that kept rolling down the brown cheek half hidden in her dress.

But Ben put his arm over his face, and sobbed out with a fresh burst of grief—

“You can’t — you didn’t know him! Oh, Daddy! Daddy! if I’d only seen you jest once more!”

No one could grant that wish; but Miss Celia did comfort him, for presently the sound of music floated out from the parlor
— music so soft, so sweet, that involuntarily the boy stopped his crying to listen; then quieter tears dropped slowly, seeming
to soothe his pain as they fell, while the sense of loneliness passed away, and it grew possible to wait till it was time
to go to father in that far-off country lovelier than golden California.

How long she played Miss Celia never minded; but, when she stole out to see if Ben had gone, she found that other friends,
even kinder than herself, had taken the boy into their gentle keeping. The wind had sung a lullaby among the rustling lilacs,
the moon’s mild face looked through the leafy arch to kiss the heavy eyelids, and faithful Sancho still kept guard beside
his little master, who, with his head pillowed on his arm, lay fast asleep, dreaming, happily, that “Daddy had come home again.”

C
HAPTER
11

M
rs. Moss woke Ben with a kiss next morning, for her heart yearned over the fatherless lad as if he had been her own, and she
had no other way of showing her sympathy. Ben had forgotten his troubles in sleep; but the memory of them returned as soon
as he opened his eyes, heavy with the tears they had shed. He did not cry anymore, but felt strange and lonely till he called
Sancho and told him all about it, for he was shy even with kind Mrs. Moss, and glad when she went away.

Sancho seemed to understand that his master was in trouble, and listened to the sad little story with gurgles of interest,
whines of condolence, and intelligent barks whenever the word “Daddy” was uttered. He was only a brute, but his dumb affection
comforted the boy more than any words; for Sanch had known and loved “father” almost as long and well as his son, and that
seemed to draw them closely together, now they were left alone.

“We must put on mourning, old feller. It’s the proper thing, and there’s nobody else to do it now,” said Ben, as he dressed,
remembering how all the company wore bits of crepe somewhere about them at ‘Melia’s funeral.

It was a real sacrifice of boyish vanity to take the blue ribbon with its silver anchors off the new hat, and replace it with
the dingy black band from the old one; but Ben was quite sincere in doing this, though doubtless his theatrical
life made him think of the effect more than other lads would have done. He could find nothing in his limited wardrobe with
which to decorate Sanch except a black cambric pocket. It was already half torn out of his trousers with the weight of nails,
pebbles, and other light trifles; so he gave it a final wrench and tied it into the dog’s collar, saying to himself, as he
put away his treasures, with a sigh—

“One pocket is enough; I sha’n’t want anything but a han ‘k’ chi’f today.”

Fortunately, that article of dress was clean, for he had but one; and, with this somewhat ostentatiously drooping from the
solitary pocket, the serious hat upon his head, the new shoes creaking mournfully, and Sanch gravely following, much impressed
with his black bow, the chief mourner descended, feeling that he had done his best to show respect to the dead.

Mrs. Moss’s eyes filled as she saw the rusty band, and guessed why it was there; but she found it difficult to repress a smile
when she beheld the cambric symbol of woe on the dog’s neck. Not a word was said to disturb the boy’s comfort in these poor
attempts, however; and he went out to do his chores, conscious that he was an object of interest to his friends, especially
so to Bab and Betty, who, having been told of Ben’s loss, now regarded him with a sort of pitying awe very grateful to his
feelings.

“I want you to drive me to church by and by. It is going to be pretty warm, and Thorny is hardly strong enough to venture
yet,” said Miss Celia, when Ben ran over after breakfast to see if she had anything for him to do; for he considered her his
mistress now, though he was not to take possession of his new quarters till the morrow.

“Yes, ’m, I’d like to, if I look well enough,” answered
Ben, pleased to be asked, but impressed with the idea that people had to be very fine on such occasions.

“You will do very well when I have given you a touch. God doesn’t mind our clothes, Ben, and the poor are as welcome as the
rich to him. You have not been much, have you?” asked Miss Celia, anxious to help the boy, and not quite sure how to begin.

“No, ‘m; our folks didn’t hardly ever go, and father was so tired he used to rest Sundays, or go off in the woods with me.”

A little quaver came into Ben’s voice as he spoke, and a sudden motion made his hat brim hide his eyes, for the thought of
the happy times that would never come anymore was almost too much for him.

“That was a pleasant way to rest. I often do so, and we will go to the grove this afternoon and try it. But I love to go to
church in the morning; it seems to start me right for the week; and if one has a sorrow that is the place where one can always
find comfort. Will you come and try it, Ben, dear?”

“I’d do anything to please you,” muttered Ben, without looking up; for, though he felt her kindness to the bottom of his heart,
he did wish that no one would talk about father for a little while; it was so hard to keep from crying, and he hated to be
a baby.

Miss Celia seemed to understand, for the next thing she said, in a very cheerful tone, was, “See what a pretty sight that
is. When I was a little girl I used to think spiders spun cloth for the fairies, and spread it on the grass to bleach.”

Ben stopped digging a hole in the ground with his toe, and looked up, to see a lovely cobweb like a wheel, circle within circle,
spun across a corner of the arch over the gate. Tiny drops glittered on every thread as the light shone
through the gossamer curtain, and a soft breath of air made it tremble as if about to blow it away.

“It’s mighty pretty, but it will fly off, just as the others did. I never saw such a chap as that spider is. He keeps on spinning
a new one every day, for they always get broke, and he don’t seem to be discouraged a mite,” said Ben, glad to change the
subject, as she knew he would be.

“That is the way he gets his living. He spins his web and waits for his daily bread — or fly, rather; and it always comes,
I fancy. By and by you will see that pretty trap full of insects, and Mr. Spider will lay up his provisions for the day. After
that he doesn’t care how soon his fine web blows away.”

“I know him; he’s a handsome feller, all black and yellow, and lives up in that corner where the shiny sort of hole is. He
dives down the minute I touch the gate, but comes up after I’ve kept still a minute. I like to watch him. But he must hate
me, for I took away a nice green fly and some little millers one day.”

“Did you ever hear the story of Bruce and his spider? Most children know and like that,” said Miss Celia, seeing that he seemed
interested.

“No, ‘m; I don’t know ever so many things most children do,” answered Ben, soberly; for, since he had been among his new friends,
he had often felt his own deficiencies.

“Ah, but you also know many things which they do not. Half the boys in town would give a great deal to be able to ride and
run and leap as you do; and even the oldest are not as capable of taking care of themselves as you are. Your active life has
done much in some ways to make a man of you; but in other ways it was bad, as I think you begin to see. Now, suppose you try
to forget the harmful part, and remember
only the good, while learning to be more like our boys, who go to school and church, and fit themselves to become industrious,
honest men.”

Ben had been looking straight up in Miss Celia’s face as she spoke, feeling that every word was true, though he could not
have expressed it if he had tried; and, when she paused, with her bright eyes inquiringly fixed on his, he answered heartily—

“I’d like to stay here and be respectable; for, since I came, I’ve found out that folks don’t think much of circus riders,
though they like to go and see ’em. I didn’t use to care about school and such things, but I do now; and I guess
he’d
like it better than to have me knockin’ round that way without him to look after me.”

“I know he would; so we will try, Benny. I daresay it will seem dull and hard at first, after the gay sort of life you have
led, and you will miss the excitement. But it was not good for you, and we will do our best to find something safer. Don’t
be discouraged; and, when things trouble you, come to me as Thorny does, and I’ll try to straighten them out for you. I’ve
got two boys now, and I want to do my duty by both.”

Before Ben had time for more than a grateful look, a tumbled head appeared at an upper window, and a sleepy voice drawled
out—

“Celia! I can’t find a bit of a shoestring, and I wish you’d come and do my necktie.”

“Lazy boy, come down here, and bring one of your black ties with you. Shoestrings are in the little brown bag on my bureau,”
called back Miss Celia; adding, with a laugh, as the tumbled head disappeared mumbling something about “bothering old bags”—

“Thorny has been half spoiled since he was ill. You
mustn’t mind his fidgets and dawdling ways. He’ll get over them soon, and then I know you two will be good friends.”

Ben had his doubts about that, but resolved to do his best for her sake; so, when Master Thorny presently appeared, with a
careless “How are you, Ben?” that young person answered respectfully—

“Very well, thank you,” though his nod was as condescending as his new master’s; because he felt that a boy who could ride
bareback and turn a double somersault in the air ought not to “knuckle under” to a fellow who had not the strength of a pussycat.

“Sailor’s knot, please; keeps better so,” said Thorny, holding up his chin to have a blue silk scarf tied to suit him, for
he was already beginning to be something of a dandy.

“You ought to wear red till you get more color, dear”; and his sister rubbed her blooming cheek against his pale one, as if
to lend him some of her own roses.

“Men don’t care how they look,” said Thorny, squirming out of her hold, for he hated to be “cuddled” before people.

“Oh, don’t they? Here’s a vain boy who brushes his hair a dozen times a day, and quiddles over his collar till he is so tired
he can hardly stand,” laughed Miss Celia, with a little tweak of his ear.

“I should like to know what this is for,” demanded Thorny, in a dignified tone, presenting a black tie.

“For my other boy. He is going to church with me,” and Miss Celia tied a second knot for this young gentleman, with a smile
that seemed to brighten up even the rusty hatband.

“Well, I like that—” began Thorny, in a tone that contradicted his words.

A look from his sister reminded him of what she had told
him half an hour ago, and he stopped short, understanding now why she was “extra good to the little tramp.”

“So do I, for you are of no use as a driver yet, and I don’t like to fasten Lita when I have my best gloves on,” said Miss
Celia, in a tone that rather nettled Master Thorny.

“Is Ben going to black my boots before he goes?” with a glance at the new shoes which caused them to creak uneasily.

“No; he is going to black
mine,
if he will be so kind. You won’t need boots for a week yet, so we won’t waste any time over them. You will find everything
in the shed, Ben; and at ten you may go for Lita.”

With that, Miss Celia walked her brother off to the dining room, and Ben retired to vent his ire in such energetic demonstrations
with the blacking brush that the little boots shone splendidly.

He thought he had never seen anything as pretty as his mistress when, an hour later, she came out of the house in her white
shawl and bonnet, holding a book and a late lily of the valley in the pearl-colored gloves, which he hardly dared to touch
as he helped her into the carriage. He had seen a good many fine ladies in his life; and those he had known had been very
gay in the colors of their hats and gowns, very fond of cheap jewelry, and much given to feathers, lace, and furbelows; so
it rather puzzled him to discover why Miss Celia looked so sweet and elegant in such a simple suit. He did not then know that
the charm was in the woman, not the clothes; or that merely living near such a person would do more to give him gentle manners,
good principles, and pure thoughts, than almost any other training he could have had. But he
was
conscious that it was pleasant to be there, neatly dressed, in good company,
and going to church like a respectable boy. Somehow, the lonely feeling got better as he rolled along between green fields,
with the June sunshine brightening everything, a restful quiet in the air, and a friend beside him who sat silently looking
out at the lovely world with what he afterward learned to call her “Sunday face”— a soft, happy look, as if all the work and
weariness of the past week were forgotten, and she was ready to begin afresh when this blessed day was over.