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Ben Pepper

<h2>XXV</h2> <h3>IT WAS POLLY WHO HEARD IT FIRST</h3> "Yes," said Madam Van Ruypen, folding her long hands in her lap. She sat at one corner of her library fire, in a carved high-backed chair, and the young minister at the other end. Both were regarding the leaping flames. "It will be best for you to return home to-morrow; tell the mother all my plans for the children, and ask her permission for me to put them into school," went on the old lady, not raising her gaze from the crackling hickory logs. "Yes, Madam Van Ruypen," said the minister. "And then write me at once what she says. Meantime, I shall be consulting Mr. King as to the school. It has to be a peculiar kind, of course, none of the high-fangled ones, but a good, substantial, ordinary sort of one, dominated by a man with a conscience. And where shall we find such an one—goodness knows, I'm sure I don't," she lifted her hands in dismay. Mr. St. John, seeing that something was expected of him, volunteered the remark, "Oh, there must be such institutions; they are so much needed." "Just like a minister," retorted the old lady, who was nothing if not blunt, especially if it fell out that she took a liking to a body; so now she added, "Oh, you'll do to preach from a desk; but as to practical things, such as the selection of a school, why, what can you, in the name of sense, be expected to know, either about them or the masters who run them?" A little spot of red began to show itself on the fair cheek, and twice the young minister opened his mouth. But he thought better of it. Then he laughed. "Perhaps so," he said, with a nod, and stretched his hands to the blaze. Madam Van Ruypen laughed too. Having never meant to give offence, that danger had not occurred to her. But she had been suddenly overcome, as it were, with a mortal terror, and all on account of those mountain children. What to do with them now she had sent for them she had found herself unable to answer. She couldn't send them back home, that would be cruelty indeed; and until the plan for the school popped up she was in a miserable state enough. So it was quite cheery to hear the bright little laugh bubble out from the other end of the fireplace, and she laughed so heartily in echo, that Mr. St. John tried it again. "Well, now I feel better," she said, wiping her eyes with her lace-trimmed handkerchief. "You can't know, Mr. St. John, how very much I have been tried in this matter." "I suppose so," he said, the laugh dropping away. Really, when he came to think of it again, the wonder grew how she came to do this thing at all, and then, how she dared to keep on so bravely. And that recalled "old money-bags"; how he blamed himself now for calling her so in his thoughts on those Sundays in the little mountain parish church! Could she be the same person as this woman, wiping her eyes, so touched by the little cheer he had given to her perplexity? He cleared his throat. "It was noble of you," he said, his own eyes glistening. "Oh, now;" she turned on him a formidable face; the white puffs and Roman nose seemed to grow bigger. "You would do better to stop right there," she said, raising her forefinger, "else I shall wish you had gone home to-day," all of which made him feel decidedly like a schoolboy about to be whipped. And he sat back in his chair, quite depressed. "Let us put our minds on those children, Richard," she said at last, breaking the silence that seemed to weigh on one of them like lead. "I don't like your name, St. John; it's well enough for a grand person, but you're a minister, and probably always will be a plain man, so I am going to call you Richard." "If you only would!" he cried, the brightness coming back to eye and cheek, not caring in the least for the rest of her words. "So you like it,—eh?" "Very much. I am, as you say, a plain man." "Besides being something of a boy," she added, with a twinkle in her sharp eyes. "Besides being something of a boy," he repeated, laughing again. "Well, then, Richard it is," she declared, with great satisfaction. "Now then, the first thing is to settle those children in some good school, or rather in two good schools, as soon as can be done. It isn't good for them to be here, I see that. I don't know in the smallest degree what to do with them, at least as far as the girl is concerned, and it is bad for them to be entertained all the while." Not a word about the demoralization of her houseful of servants, whose ill-concealed wrath and dismay were smouldering over the infliction of Elvira. "And they ought to be getting some education. Well, to-morrow you must go back and straighten it all out with the mother. That's settled." Then she sat quite erect to draw a long breath of enjoyment. "Now I'll tell you a piece of news," she said; "it's a secret as yet." Richard leaned forward with great interest. He certainly was boy enough to enjoy a secret, and his eyes sparkled. "I've engaged the whole front of the mountain hotel, the floor above the office, for next summer," she said. Then she waited to see the effect of her announcement. "You're coming up?" cried Richard, in a glad voice. "It looks like it," said the old lady, grimly, but vastly pleased at his tone, "and I want you to engage the Potter Camp for me." "And you'll bring,—oh, now I know what you are going to do!" exclaimed the young minister, with great delight. "No, you don't know in the least what I am going to do, young man," she retorted. "Oh, go along with you, Richard," and she laughed again, this time as light-heartedly as if her years matched his own. "Yes, I wrote yesterday to the manager to secure the rooms. You must get the camp for me." "I surely will," promised Richard with huge satisfaction. "And tell John Bramble if he doesn't bring my boxes and express matter up to the hotel quicker this summer than he did last year, I'll—I'll—report him to the government. Dear me, I want to scold somebody. Oh, and be sure, Richard, whatever you forget,—and I suppose you'll leave out the most important things,—don't forget to tell—what's that man Handy's name?" "Shin?" "Shin! Oh, what a name!" "Well, we always call him that up in the mountains, because he can shin up the trees quicker than anybody else," said the young minister, laughing, "but his real name is—" "Oh, well, if he's been called Shin so long, why Shin let it be," said Madam Van Ruypen, composedly; "I'm sure I don't care. Well, be sure and tell him he's engaged for the summer. There will be plenty he can do when we aren't at camp." "That's fine," cried Richard, clapping his hands together smartly, "because you see Shin has so much time when he isn't hired for camping and guiding." "And don't let those other children expect to come down. Whatever you do, don't raise any such hopes." The old lady here turned such a distressed face on him that the best he could do was to laugh again. "I'll remember," he said brightly. And Madam Van Ruypen slept through the whole night, having the first good sound repose she had enjoyed since the visitors had arrived. But up at the King household—O dear me! It was Polly who heard it first. She was dreaming of the difficulty of making a little pink silk cushion out of a mussy end of flaming yellow ribbon that Candace seemed to have insisted on her using; and as she worked away, wishing it was pink, and trying to make herself believe it was pink, she saw it grow yellower and yellower, till finally she threw it down. And that twitched the needle and knotted up the silk thread, and then off her thimble flew with a little click—snip, and "O dear me!" exclaimed Polly, and opened her eyes. She was just going to say, "Oh, I'm so glad I was only dreaming, and 'tisn't that hateful yellow cushion in reality," when another little click—snip, just like the one when her thimble dropped off in her dream, struck her ear. This time it was a "really truly" noise, and no dream, and Polly flew up in her pretty bed and leaned on her elbow. Yes, and not only a click—snip, but a sh—flop! or something that sounded as much like that as anything that could be put into words. Polly flew out of bed, tossed on her pink wrapper, and only stopping to think, "I mustn't go into Mamsie's room, for that will wake King Fisher,"—Papa Doctor was away with a sick patient out of town,—she crept softly off to Ben's room, just around the angle of the hall, and, flying up to the bed, she gave him a little nip on the shoulder. "Polly!" exclaimed Ben, sitting bolt upright, and, dashing his hands across his eyes, he was wide awake in an instant. "What's the matter?" "Oh, I don't know," said Polly, huddling up to the side of the bed, "only hush, do, the door's shut, but don't speak loud. There's such a funny noise; it sounds downstairs, Ben," she said, with a little shiver. "Funny noise!" said Ben. "Well, now, you creep back to your room and lock the door, and stay in there, Polly." "Oh, Ben, don't go down," she cried, seizing his arm. "Do as I say." He never spoke in such a tone before, and Polly, who had no thought of disobeying, found herself soon in her own room, wishing that she hadn't called Ben, and longing to run out and help, and a thousand things besides. Ben meantime was out in the hall, a stout walking-stick in his hand, hanging over the banister. Yes, Polly was right, there certainly was a funny noise, and it appeared to come from downstairs, too. It wasn't just what he supposed would be raised by anybody getting in to rob the house; it was more like something dropping; and then another sound, like a flap, flap of the window shade. But it was just as well to act speedily, and yet it must be done with caution; so he crept off to the back hall, where he could press the button that gave the signal to the men in the stable. And he presently saw the lights flashing as they turned their dark lanterns a second toward the big stone mansion. Well, whatever the trouble was, they would soon find out, for Thomas had a key for just such possible emergencies, and the search would— Ben never finished it in his mind, for a sharp noise, so near him that it seemed as if the person making it must be close to his heels, sent every bit of blood away from his cheeks. He couldn't turn, for what might be back of him in the darkness? It wasn't the click of a pistol exactly,—Ben, in all his cold terror felt struck with the little resemblance to any such noise,—still, as there was nothing else so likely to be that very thing, why, it must be, he concluded. Downstairs he could hear, with senses sharpened, that Thomas had entered the house and that the search had begun in earnest. Well, somebody, whoever it was with that pistol, would probably do something more than click it before long, when another noise, this time a little farther off, a soft, pat—pat, sent his mind in another direction. Either there were two burglars who had worked their way upstairs, or the one with the pistol had heard the noise downstairs, and concluded to try for an escape. And now Ben's blood was up, and he softly followed in the direction of the sound, grasping his stick hard and setting his teeth. "It'll be easier for me than for the other fellow, as I know the way," flashed through his mind. But he didn't seem to get much nearer. Of course he would stop when there was no noise, then the soft pat—pat would begin at a further remove, and on Ben would creep after it. He must at least keep the trail till Thomas and the other serving-man could put in an appearance on that third floor. What,—ah, there he is! Again the click! And the portière twitched out by the sudden movement of a hand. Ben swung his stout stick above his head, and brought it down to hear a squeal of fright and pain, and Jocko, whose tail only had suffered, leaped into his face. Over went Ben, the stick, and monkey together, just escaping the long stairs, as Thomas and his men rushed up, turning the lanterns on every side to find the cause. Doors were thrown open and frightened faces appeared, while Polly was already down on her knees by his side. "Oh, Ben," then her fingers felt Jocko's hairy coat. "That beast!" It was all Ben could get out. Then he lay back on the floor and laughed till he was so weak he could hardly breathe. "He's a—sweet—dear—little thing—" at last he made out to say, "isn't—he—Polly?" he ended gustily. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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