Under the Lilacs (32 page)

Ben paused occasionally to stroke the rusty coat sleeve with bread-and-buttery fingers to convince himself that “Daddy” had
really come, and his father disposed of various inconvenient emotions by eating as if food was unknown in California. Mrs.
Moss beamed on everyone from behind the big teapot like a mild full moon, while Bab and Betty kept interrupting one another
in their eagerness to tell something new about Ben and how Sanch lost his tail.

“Now you let Mr. Brown talk a little; we all want to hear how he ‘came alive,’ as you call it,” said Mrs. Moss, as they drew
round the fire in the “settin’ room,” leaving the tea things to take care of themselves.

It was not a long story, but a very interesting one to this circle of listeners; all about the wild life on the plains trading
for mustangs, the terrible kick from a vicious horse that nearly killed Ben, Sr., the long months of unconsciousness in the
California hospital, the slow recovery, the journey back, Mr. Smithers’s tale of the boy’s disappearance, and then the anxious
trip to find out from Squire Allen where he now was.

“I asked the hospital folks to write and tell you as soon as I knew whether I was on my head or my heels, and they promised;
but they didn’t; so I came off the minute I could,
and worked my way back, expecting to find you at the old place. I was afraid you’d have worn out your welcome here and gone
off again, for you are as fond of traveling as your father.”

“I wanted to sometimes, but the folks here were so dreadful good to me I
couldn’t,”
confessed Ben, secretly surprised to find that the prospect of going off with Daddy even cost him a pang of regret, for the
boy had taken root in the friendly soil, and was no longer a wandering thistledown, tossed about by every wind that blew.

“I know what I owe ’em, and you and I will work out that debt before we die, or our name isn’t B.B.,” said Mr. Brown, with
an emphatic slap on his knee, which Ben imitated half unconsciously as he exclaimed heartily —

“That’s
so
!” adding, more quietly, “What are you going to do now? Go back to Smithers and the old business?”

“Not likely, after the way he treated you, Sonny. I’ve had it out with him, and he won’t want to see
me
again in a hurry,” answered Mr. Brown, with a sudden kindling of the eye that reminded Bab of Ben’s face when he shook her
after losing Sancho.

“There’s more circuses than his in the world; but I’ll have to limber out ever so much before I’m good for much in that line,”
said the boy, stretching his stout arms and legs with a curious mixture of satisfaction and regret.

“You’ve been living in clover and got fat, you rascal,” and his father gave him a poke here and there, as Mr. Squeers did
the plump Wackford, when displaying him as a specimen of the fine diet at Do-the-Boys Hall. “Don’t believe I could put you
up now if I tried, for I haven’t got my strength back yet, and we are both out of practice. It’s just as well, for I’ve about
made up my mind to quit the business and settle down somewhere for a spell, if I can get anything
to do,” continued the rider, folding his arms and gazing thoughtfully into the fire.

“I shouldn’t wonder a mite if you could right here, for Mr. Towne has a great boarding-stable over yonder, and he’s always
wanting men,” said Mrs. Moss eagerly, for she dreaded to have Ben go, and no one could forbid it if his father chose to take
him away.

“That sounds likely. Thank y’, ma’am. I’ll look up the concern and try my chance. Would you call it too great a comedown to
have father an ‘ostler after being first rider in the ‘Great Golden Menagerie, Circus, and Colosseum,’ hey, Ben?” asked Mr.
Brown, quoting the well-remembered show bill with a laugh.

“No, I shouldn’t; it’s real jolly up there when the big barn is full and eighty horses have to be taken care of. I love to
go and see ’em. Mr. Towne asked me to come and be stable boy when I rode the kicking gray the rest were afraid of. I hankered
to go, but Miss Celia had just got my new books, and I knew she’d feel bad if I gave up going to school. Now I’m glad I didn’t,
for I get on first-rate and like it.”

“You done right, boy, and I’m pleased with you. Don’t you ever be ungrateful to them that befriended you, if you want to prosper.
I’ll tackle the stable business a-Monday and see what’s to be done. Now I ought to be walking, but I’ll be round in the morning,
ma’am, if you can spare Ben for a spell tomorrow. We’d like to have a good Sunday tramp and talk; wouldn’t we, Sonny?” and
Mr. Brown rose to go with his hand on Ben’s shoulder, as if loath to leave him even for the night.

Mrs. Moss saw the longing in his face, and forgetting that he was an utter stranger, spoke right out of her hospitable heart.

“It’s a long piece to the tavern, and my little back bedroom is always ready. It won’t make a mite of trouble if you don’t
mind a plain place, and you are heartily welcome.”

Mr. Brown looked pleased, but hesitated to accept any further favor from the good soul who had already done so much for him
and his. Ben gave him no time to speak, however, for running to a door he flung it open and beckoned, saying, eagerly —

“Do stay, father; it will be so nice to have you. This is a tip-top room; I slept here the night I came, and that bed was
just splendid after bare ground for a fortnight.”

“I’ll stop, and as I’m pretty well done up, I guess we may as well turn in now,” answered the new guest; then, as if the memory
of that homeless little lad so kindly cherished made his heart overflow in spite of him, Mr. Brown paused at the door to say
hastily, with a hand on Bab and Betty’s heads, as if his promise was a very earnest one —

“I don’t forget, ma’am, these children shall never want a friend while Ben Brown’s alive”; then he shut the door so quickly
that the other Ben’s prompt “Hear, hear!” was cut short in the middle.

“I s’pose he means that we shall have a piece of Ben’s father, because we gave Ben a piece of our mother,” said Betty, softly.

“Of course he does, and it’s all fair,” answered Bab, decidedly. “Isn’t he a nice man, Ma?”

“Go to bed, children,” was all the answer she got; but when they were gone, Mrs. Moss, as she washed up her dishes, more than
once glanced at a certain nail where a man’s hat had not hung for five years, and thought with a sigh what a natural, protecting
air that slouched felt had.

If one wedding were not quite enough for a child’s story, we might here hint what no one dreamed of then, that before
the year came round again Ben had found a mother, Bab and Betty a father, and Mr. Brown’s hat was quite at home behind the
kitchen door. But, on the whole, it is best not to say a word about it.

C
HAPTER
24

T
he Browns were up and out so early next morning that Bab and Betty were sure they had run away in the night. But on looking
for them, they were discovered in the coach house criticizing Lita, both with their hands in their pockets, both chewing straws,
and looking as much alike as a big elephant and a small one.

“That’s as pretty a little span as I’ve seen for a long time,” said the elder Ben, as the children came trotting down the
path hand in hand, with the four blue bows at the ends of their braids bobbing briskly up and down.

“The nigh one is my favorite, but the off one is the best goer, though she’s dreadfully hard bitted,” answered Ben the younger,
with such a comical assumption of a jockey’s important air that his father laughed as he said in an undertone —

“Come, boy, we must drop the old slang since we’ve given up the old business. These good folks are making a gentleman of you,
and I won’t be the one to spoil their work. Hold on, my dears, and I’ll show you how they say good morning in California,”
he added, beckoning to the little girls, who now came up rosy and smiling.

“Breakfast is ready, sir,” said Betty, looking much relieved to find them.

“We thought you’d run away from us,” explained Bab, as both put out their hands to shake those extended to them.

“That would be a mean trick. But I’m going to run away
with
you,” and Mr. Brown whisked a little girl to either shoulder before they knew what had happened, while Ben, remembering the
day, with difficulty restrained himself from turning a series of triumphant somersaults before them all the way to the door,
where Mrs. Moss stood waiting for them.

After breakfast Ben disappeared for a short time, and returned in his Sunday suit, looking so neat and fresh that his father
surveyed him with surprise and pride as he came in full of boyish satisfaction in his trim array.

“Here’s a smart young chap! Did you take all that trouble just to go to walk with old Daddy?” asked Mr. Brown, stroking the
smooth head, for they were alone just then, Mrs. Moss and the children being upstairs preparing for church.

“I thought maybe you’d like to go to meeting first,” answered Ben, looking up at him with such a happy face that it was hard
to refuse anything.

“I’m too shabby, Sonny, else I’d go in a minute to please you.”

“Miss Celia said God didn’t mind poor clothes, and she took me when I looked worse than you do. I always go in the morning;
she likes to have me,” said Ben, turning his hat about as if not quite sure what he ought to do.

“Do you want to go?” asked his father in a tone of surprise.

“I want to please her, if you don’t mind. We could have our tramp this afternoon.”

“I haven’t been to meeting since mother died, and it don’t seem to come easy, though I know I ought to, seeing I’m alive and
here,” and Mr. Brown looked soberly out at the lovely autumn world as if glad to be in it after his late danger and pain.

“Miss Celia said church was a good place to take our
troubles, and to be thankful in. I went when I thought you were dead, and now I’d love to go when I’ve got my Daddy safe again.”

No one saw him, so Ben could not resist giving his father a sudden hug, which was warmly returned as the man said earnestly
—

“I’ll go, and thank the Lord hearty for giving me back my boy better ‘n I left him!”

For a minute nothing was heard but the loud tick of the old clock and a mournful whine from Sancho, shut up in the shed lest
he should go to church without an invitation.

Then, as steps were heard on the stairs, Mr. Brown caught up his hat, saying hastily —

“I ain’t fit to go with them, you tell ’em, and I’ll slip into a back seat after folks are in. I know the way.” And, before
Ben could reply, he was gone.

Nothing was seen of him along the way, but he saw the little party, and rejoiced again over his boy, changed in so many ways
for the better; for Ben was the one thing which had kept his heart soft through all the trials and temptations of a rough
life.

“I promised Mary I’d do my best for the poor baby she had to leave, and I tried; but I guess a better friend than I am has
been raised up for him when he needed her most. It won’t hurt me to follow him in this road,” thought Mr. Brown, as he came
out into the highway from his stroll “across lots,” feeling that it would be good for him to stay in this quiet place, for
his own as well as his son’s sake.

The bell had done ringing when he reached the green, but a single boy sat on the steps and ran to meet him, saying, with a
reproachful look —

“I wasn’t going to let you be alone, and have folks think I was ashamed of my father. Come, Daddy, we’ll sit together.”

So Ben led his father straight to the Squire’s pew, and sat beside him with a face so full of innocent pride and joy, that
people would have suspected the truth if he had not already told many of them. Mr. Brown, painfully conscious of his shabby
coat, was rather “taken aback,” as he expressed it; but the Squire’s shake of the hand, and Mrs. Allen’s gracious nod enabled
him to face the eyes of the interested congregation, the younger portion of which stared steadily at him all sermon time,
in spite of paternal frowns and maternal tweakings in the rear.

But the crowning glory of the day came after church, when the Squire said to Ben, and Sam heard him —

“I’ve got a letter for you from Miss Celia. Come home with me, and bring your father. I want to talk to him.”

The boy proudly escorted his parent to the old carryall, and, tucking himself in behind with Mrs. Allen, had the satisfaction
of seeing the slouched felt hat side by side with the Squire’s Sunday beaver in front, as they drove off at such an unusually
smart pace, it was evident that Duke knew there was a critical eye upon him. The interest taken in the father was owing to
the son at first; but, by the time the story was told, old Ben had won friends for himself not only because of the misfortunes
which he had evidently borne in a manly way, but because of his delight in the boy’s improvement, and the desire he felt to
turn his hand to any honest work, that he might keep Ben happy and contented in this good home.

“I’ll give you a line to Towne. Smithers spoke well of you, and your own ability will be the best recommendation,” said the
Squire, as he parted from them at his door, having given Ben the letter.