Burnham Breaker Part 41

"Thank you," he said, repressing a sob, and he went down the steps with a choking in his throat and a pain at his heart.

He turned at the gate, and looked back through the half-opened door into the rich shadows that lay beyond it, with a ray of crimson light from the stained gla.s.s window cleaving them across, and then his eyes were blinded with tears, and he could see no more. The gates of his Eden were closed behind him; he felt that he should never enter them again.

But this was no time for sorrow and regret.

He wiped the tears from his eyes and turned his face resolutely toward the heart of the city.

At the railroad station he was told that the next train would leave for Wilkesbarre at twelve o'clock.

It lacked half an hour of that time now. There was nothing to do but to wait. He began to mark out in his mind the course he should pursue on reaching Wilkesbarre. He thought he would inquire the way to Mr.

Goodlaw's office, and go directly to it and tell the whole story to him. Perhaps Mrs. Burnham would be there too, that would be better yet, more painful but better. Then he should follow their advice as to the course to be pursued. It was more than likely that they would want him to testify as a witness. That would be strange, too, that he should give such evidence voluntarily as would deprive him of a beautiful home, of a loving mother, and of an honored name. But he was ready to do it; he was ready to do anything now that seemed right and best, anything that would meet the approval of his Uncle Billy and of his own conscience.

When the train was ready he found a seat in the cars and waited impatiently for them to start. For some reason they were late in getting away, but, once started, they seemed to be going fast enough to make up for lost time.

In the seats behind Ralph was a merry party of young girls. Their incessant chatter and musical laughter came to his ears as from a long distance. At any former time he would have listened to them with great pleasure; such sounds had an unspeakable charm for him; but to-day his brain was busied with weightier matters.

He looked from the car window and saw the river glancing in the sunlight, winding under shaded banks, rippling over stony bottoms.

He saw the wooded hill-sides, with the delicate green of spring upon them fast deepening into the darker tints of summer. He saw the giant breakers looming up, black and ma.s.sive, in the foreground of almost every scene. And yet it was all scarcely more to him than a shadowy dream. The strong reality in his mind was the trying task that lay before him yet, and the bitter outcome, so soon to be, of all his hopes and fancies.

At Pittston Junction there was another long delay. Ralph grew very nervous and impatient.

If the train could have reached Wilkesbarre on time he would have had only an hour to spare before the sitting of the court. Now he could hope for only a half-hour at the best. And if anything should happen to deprive him of that time; if anything _should_ happen so that he should not get to court until after the case was closed, until after the verdict of the jury had been rendered, until after the law had declared him to be Robert Burnham's son; if anything _should_ happen!

His face flushed, his heart began to beat wildly, his breath came in gasps. If such a thing were to occur, without his fault, against his will and effort, what then? It was only for a moment that he gave way to this insidious and undermining thought. Then he fought it back, crushed it, trampled on it, and set his face again sternly to the front.

At last the train came, the impatient pa.s.sengers entered it, and they were once more on their way.

It was a relief at least to be going, and for the moment Ralph had a faint sense of enjoyment in looking out across the placid bosom of the Susquehanna, over into the tree-girt, garden-decked expanse of the valley of Wyoming. Off the nearer sh.o.r.e of a green-walled island in the river, a group of cattle stood knee-deep in the shaded water, a picture of perfect comfort and content.

Then the train swept around a curve, away from the sh.o.r.e, and back among the low hills to the east. Suddenly there was a b.u.mping together of the cars, an apparently powerful effort to check their impetus, a grinding of the brakes on the wheels, a rapid slowing of the train, and a slight shock at stopping.

The party of girls had grown silent, and their eyes were wide and their faces blanched with fear.

The men in the car arose from their seats and went out to discover the cause of the alarm. Ralph went also. The train had narrowly escaped plunging into a ma.s.s of wrecked coal cars, thrown together by a collision which had just occurred, and half buried in the scattered coal.

To make the matter still worse the collision had taken place in a deep and narrow cut, and had filled it from side to side with twisted and splintered wreckage.

What was to be done? the pa.s.sengers asked. The conductor replied that a man would be sent back to the next station, a few miles away, to telegraph for a special train from Wilkesbarre, and that the pa.s.sengers would take the train from the other side of the wreck. And how long would they be obliged to wait here?

"Well, an hour at any rate, perhaps longer."

"That means two hours," said an impatient traveller, bitterly.

Ralph heard it all. An hour would make him very late, two hours would be fatal to his mission. He went up to the conductor and asked,--

"How long'd it take to walk to Wilkesbarre?"

"That depends on how fast you can walk, sonny. Some men might do it in half or three quarters of an hour: you couldn't." And the man looked down, slightingly, on the boyish figure beside him.

Ralph turned away in deep thought. If he could walk it in three-quarters of an hour, he might yet be in time; time to do something at least. Should he try?

But this accident, this delay, might it not be providential? Must he always be striving against fate? against every circ.u.mstance that would tend to relieve him? against every obstacle thrown into his path to prevent him from bringing calamity on his own head? Must he?--but the query went no further. The angel with the flaming sword came back to guard the gates of thought, and conscience still was king. He would do all that lay in his human power, with every moment and every muscle that he had, to fulfil the stern command of duty, and then if he should fail, it would be with no shame in his heart, no blot upon his soul.

Already he was making his way through the thick underbrush along the steep hill-side above the wreck, stumbling, falling, bruising his hands and knees, and finally leaping down into the railroad track on the other side of the piled-up cars. From there he ran along smoothly on the ties, turning out once for a train of coal cars to pa.s.s him, but stopping for nothing. A man at work in a field by the track asked him what the matter was up the line; the boy answered him in as few words as possible, walking while he talked, and then ran on again.

After he had gone a mile or more he came to a wagon-road crossing, and wondered if, by following it, he would not sooner reach his journey's end. He could see, in the distance, the smoke arising from a hundred chimneys where the city lay, and the road looked as though it would take him more directly there. He did not stop long to consider. He plunged ahead down a little hill, and then along on a foot-path by the side of the wagon-track. The day had grown to be very warm, and Ralph removed his jacket and carried it on his arm or across his shoulder.

He became thirsty after a while, but he dared not stop at the houses along the way to ask for water; it would take too much time. He met many wagons coming toward him, but there seemed to be few going in to the city. He had hoped to get a ride. He had overtaken a farmer with a wagon-load of produce going to the town and had pa.s.sed him. Two or three fast teams whirled by, leaving a cloud of dust to envelop him.

Then a man, riding in a buggy, drove slowly down the road. Ralph shouted at him as he pa.s.sed:--

"Please, sir, may I have a ride? I'm in a desp'ate hurry!"

But the man looked back at him contemptuously. "I don't run a stage for the benefit of tramps," he said, and drove on.

Ralph was discouraged and did not dare to ask any one else for a ride, though there seemed to be several opportunities to get one.

But he came to a place, at last, where a little creek crossed the road, a cool spring run, and he knelt down by it and quenched his thirst, and considered that if he had been in a wagon he would have missed the drink. The road was somewhat disappointing to him, too. It seemed to turn away, after a little distance, from the direct line to the city, and to bear to the west, toward the river. He feared that he had made a mistake in leaving the railroad, but he only walked the faster. Now and then he would break into a run and keep running until his breath gave out, then he would drop back into a walk.

His feet began to hurt him. One shoe rubbed his heel until the pain became so intense that he could not bear it, and he sat down by the roadside and removed his shoes and stockings, and then ran on in his bare feet. The sunlight grew hotter; no air was stirring; the dust hung above the road in clouds. Deep thirst came back upon the boy; his limbs grew weak and tired; his bared feet were bruised upon the stones.

But he scarcely thought of these things; his only anxiety was that the moments were pa.s.sing, that the road was long, that unless he reached his journey's end in time injustice would be done and wrong prevail.

So he pressed on; abating not one jot of his swiftness, falling not one hair's breadth from his height of resolution, on and on, foot-sore, thirsty, in deep distress; but with a heart unyielding as the flint, with a purpose strong as steel, with a heroism more magnificent than that which meets the points of glittering bayonets or the mouths of belching cannon.

CHAPTER XVI.

A BLOCK IN THE WHEEL.

At half-past one o'clock people began to loiter into the court-house at Wilkesbarre; at two the court-room was full. They were there, the most of them, to hear the close of the now celebrated Burnham case.

The judge came in from a side door and took his seat on the bench.

Beneath him the prothonotary was busy writing in a big book. Down in the bar the attorneys sat chatting familiarly and pleasantly with one another. Sharpman was there, and Craft was at his elbow.

Goodlaw was there, and Mrs. Burnham sat in her accustomed place. The crier opened court in a voice that could be heard to the farthest end of the room, though few of the listeners understood what his "Oyez!

oyez! oyez!" was all about.

Some opinions of the court were read and handed down by the judge. The prothonotary called the jury list for the week. Two or three jurors presented applications for discharge which were patiently considered and acted on by the court.

The sheriff arose and acknowledged a bunch of deeds, the t.i.tle-pages of which had been read aloud by the judge.

An attorney stepped up to the railing and presented a pet.i.tion to the court; another attorney arose and objected to it, and quite a little discussion ensued over the matter. It finally ended by a rule being granted to show cause why the pet.i.tion should not be allowed. Then there were several motions made by as many lawyers. All this took much time; a good half-hour at least, perhaps longer.

Finally there was a lull. The judge was busily engaged in writing. The attorneys seemed to have exhausted their topics for conversation and to be waiting for new ones.

The jury in the Burnham case sat listlessly in their chairs, glad that their work in the matter at issue was nearly done, yet regretful that a case had not been made out which might have called for the exercise of that large intelligence, that critical ac.u.men, that capacity for close reasoning, of which the members of the average jury feel themselves to be severally and collectively possessed. As it was, there would be little for them to do. The case was extremely one-sided, "like the handle on a jug," as one of them sententiously and somewhat scornfully remarked.

The judge looked up from his writing. "Well, gentlemen," he said, "are you ready to proceed in the case of 'Craft against Burnham'?"