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Doctor BEN 
 
 AN 
 
 EPISODE IN THE LIFE OF A FORTUNATE 
 UNFORTUNATE 
 
 BY 
 
 ORLANDO WITHERSPOON 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 TICKNOR AND COMPANY 
 24) Gremont Dtreet 
 Tc LIBRARY 
 IMIVERSITY OF ELL image 
 
CopyRIGHT, 1882, 
 
 By JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY. 
 
 All rights reserved. ae 
 
 PRrEss OF 
 S. J. PARKHILL & COL 
 Boston. F as 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 PROLOGUE—Docror BEN TO THE READER . ili 
 
 I. A Farr BEGINNING 4 a . : : I 
 
 II. Dies JucuNDUS ~. .« .« oo e« -« 17 
 III. DrEs HORRENDUS . ° e ° ° —et 
 IV. A RE-ADJUSTMENT . +© «© © -» 36 
 V. SuBTILTIES, GooD, BAD, AND INDIFFERENT, 47 
 Mis THOMASEMACKAR® (son). =. 57 
 VII. ‘TEMPTATIONS . . ° . : : Age h 52. 
 VIII. THe TEMPTED TURNED TEMPTER . . 82 
 
 IX. Sr KIMBER’s PLACE ° ° ° ‘ ec LOE 
 X. AN UNHOLY COMPACT . = ‘ : 104 
 XI. a. INTO DarKNEss. 8. INTO LIGHT 118 
 Dereon. BUSHWICK =. se e. - 2 «+. ESE 
 XIII. Hickory HALL . y ° : 5 : 141 
 XIV. New PaTIENTs AND OLD . «Oe esCS'S2 
 XV. BETHLEHEM—BEDLAM  . ‘ - . 164 
 XVI. Docror BEN . ° ° e ° ° 175 
 XVII. Carney DuGAN. «© © «© « - 185 
 moViIL AT ELMSWOODS . « .o « el 
 XIX. THE ALDERNEY . ° ° e ° ‘ 210 
 . CHANGES. . Hit godine: (ice doaette. Mehraee 
 
 701498 
 
 aoe > 7 190 ser I 
 ms 
 “a 
 
vi 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 XXI. 
 XXII. 
 XXIII. 
 XXIV. 
 
 XXV. 
 XXVI. 
 
 XXVII. 
 XXVIII. 
 
 XXIX. 
 XXX. 
 XXXI. 
 XXXII. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 BROUGHT TO Bay . 7 . 5 
 ALMOST . é A . . ° . * 
 SYMPOSIA . 
 A MERE PEEP AT DR. PETERSON’S PHILOS- 
 OPHY 2 : “ : * 5 
 BLy FOo.Ltiss’s PARLORS . . . ° 
 SEVERAL STORIES IN ONE Z : ° 
 A CLASHING OF CONTRARY WILLS . . 
 CONFESSIONS H : ‘ ° ° ° 
 ANOTHER Day, THOMAS! . : : 3 
 A RACE ° . ° 
 
 THE FIRST ARRIVAL . ° ° > : 
 THE GORGE ‘ ‘ 5 ‘ Fy . 
 THE BREAK . ; a . “ ; > 
 
 CoMFORT LODGE AT LAST. : : 4 
 
 EPILOGUE— THE AUTHOR TO THE READER . a 
 
“ DOCTOR BEN” TO THE READER. 
 
 Hy ENTLE reader, I presume thou wilt be very in- 
 quisitive to know what antic or personate actor 
 this is, that so insolently intrudes upon this common 
 theatre, . . . arrogating another man’s name; whence 
 he is, why he doth it, and what he hath to say.... 
 If I be urged, I will as readily reply as that 
 Egyptian in Plutarch, when a curious fellow would 
 needs know what he had in his basket: ‘Quem vides 
 velatam, quid inquiris in rem absconditam ?’ 
 Seek not after that which is hid; ... suppose the 
 Man in the Moon, or whom thou wilt... .” 
 
 DEMOCRITUS JUNIOR. 
 
DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 A FAIR BEGINNING. 
 
 V HEN you have reached the western end of 
 
 Barony Street, in the town of Millington, 
 Province of Ontario, take the road to the right, fol- 
 low it a little less than a mile up the hill, and, the 
 moment you reach the table-land above, you will find 
 spread out before you an extensive enclosure of min- 
 gled lawn, woodland, and farm. From the unoffen- 
 sively architectural entrance to this enclosure, 2 long 
 winding avenue will bring you, first, to a great circle 
 of greensward ; then, by one of its now two branches, 
 to an imposing but not over-large dwelling, known far 
 and wide as Elmswoods House. The other fork of 
 this avenue leads you to the upper, or northern, por- 
 tion of the enclosure, narrowing gradually, and at last, 
 just before taking a final sweep around a bed of flow- 
 ers and returning to itself, passes at a carriage-breadth 
 the steps of a less elaborate structure, equally well 
 known as Comfort Lodge. 
 
 In Elmswoods House dwell two aged persons, man 
 I 
 
2 : DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 and wife, with a widowed friend whose blood is not 
 akin to theirs, but with whom, in all that goes to make 
 up perfect unity, they maintain a brotherly and sisterly 
 relation. 
 
 In Comfort Lodge live a couple whose two chil- 
 dren bear witness to some years of wedded life. But 
 the dew of youth is still upon this couple, —a grave, 
 sobered youth. Something in their carriage, their 
 manner, their speech, gives you to understand that 
 these two have not had the ordinary and common 
 experience of men and women. They laugh as gayly, 
 chat as earnestly, entertain as handsomely, as other 
 people. You have no constraint in their presence, no 
 fear. No uneasy apprehensions make you regret your 
 coming to Comfort Lodge. You will take away with 
 you many pleasant impressions, chiefest of all a sweet 
 and inspiring memory of the never-flickering love of 
 this man and wife. 
 
 What is it, then, that spreads around Comfort Lodge 
 such a strange perfume? What is it that makes Com- 
 fort. Lodge so different from other young people’s 
 homes ? 
 
 Of one thing you may be sure. Bring Ephraim 
 Hollins and his wife and Mrs. Hartley over from the 
 great House to dine, or to pass an evening, with the 
 Lodge family, and you might search the whole earth 
 without finding a happier company. 
 
 And of this, also. Go down into Millington, and 
 make inquiry about Mr. and Mrs. Ben Hollins of 
 Comfort Lodge, and you will see your listener’s eye — 
 be he rich or poor — brighten as he opens his lips to 
 
A FAIR BEGINNING. 3 
 
 utter praises which have fallen from those lips a hun- 
 dred times before. 
 
 Perhaps at last you will manage to condense the 
 indefinite feeling and the unshaped thought, to catch 
 a drop of the strange perfume; and you hold these 
 up to view, and ask, What is it, then? And some 
 one —almost any one in Millington — will answer, 
 There was something in their young life, up there, 
 sir, that was worse than death, — harder to bear than 
 any trial you or I have ever had; an episode, sir, of 
 four years’ duration, with sorrow enough for a lifetime 
 crowded into that small space. 
 
 There have been visitors at Millington whose curi- 
 osity was so aroused by such replies that they set out 
 at once to seek for more information; and we all 
 know how, in the lapse of time, a true tale becomes 
 literally covered with barnacles, — not necessarily of 
 falsehood, for no one in Millington would willingly 
 tell a falsehood about Ben Hollins, but barnacles of 
 imagination. Already there have come into the pop- 
 ular accounts of Ben’s troubles a half-dozen inter- 
 loping stories, all greatly to Ben’s credit, to be sure, 
 but none of them exactly true. 
 
 The growing propensity of well-meaning people tu 
 unconsciously enlarge Ben Hollins’s history eventually 
 led to the gathering of several manuscripts, cover- 
 ing various periods of his life. These are preserved 
 with great care, and are duly labelled and numbered, 
 thus : — 
 
 I. Ephraim Hollins’s Account. 
 
 II. Mr. Bly Folliss’s Recollections. 
 
4 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 III. Dr. Peterson’s Record. 
 IV. Betty Hartley’s Diary. 
 V. Ben’s own Papers. 
 
 This narrative of ours will be largely made up of 
 selections from all these. The first one in order is 
 the one written by Ben’s father. It is voluminous; 
 and, if Ben should ever become a great man, it would 
 be of inestimable value to his biographer. For our 
 purpose it is better to condense its many pages con- 
 cerning Ben’s childhood and early youth into as small 
 a space as shall suffice to convey some idea of the 
 man with whom we are dealing. 
 
 Having married rather late in life, Ephraim Hollins 
 found himself, at the age of forty, the father of a son, 
 and, as if some good angel’was appointed to provide 
 for the child, the custodian of a rapidly increasing 
 fortune. 
 
 For a number of years Ephraim Hollins had been 
 proprietor of the mills which gave a name to the 
 town. He had seen days of prosperity and days of 
 tribulation. At times he was thought to be sufficiently 
 well off; again, he was known to be struggling against 
 adverse influences. But about the time of Ben’s birth 
 he entered upon an unruffled career of success. New 
 ambitions and projects came into his view, all having 
 reference to Ben. The snug little nest by the river- 
 bank began to look small and paltry; and the Elms- 
 woods property was bought, and the house planned 
 and built. 
 
 Here Ben grew up, a boy in whom sturdiness and 
 refinement mingled together in such a fashion as to 
 
4A FAIR BEGINNING. 5 
 
 finally produce a notable youth. I say finally, for 
 Ben did not become president of the boy-republic in 
 Millington until after a lengthy canvass. There were 
 other rich men and rich men’s sons in and about Mill- 
 ington ; there were poor men’s sons, too, whose mus- 
 cle was as good as Ben’s, and whose brains were not 
 to be sneered at; and the Hon. Simon Budger’s boys 
 plumed themselves greatly on the almost baronial style 
 which their father maintained in his grand home out 
 on the Clare road, and upon the fact that he had been 
 in Parliament, and even in the ministry. 
 
 But eventually Ben outstripped the Budger boys, 
 and achieved first place. For manliness, for diligence 
 in all he undertook, above all for his uniform courtesy 
 and helpfulness to rich and poor alike, Ben became 
 something more than Jopfular. The people loved him, 
 not less in Dublin Lane than in Victoria Square and 
 Barony Street. 
 
 Of course there were prophets in Millington, — 
 what small town was ever without them?—and they 
 mapped out Ben’s future as only prophets can. Old 
 Sandy Dart, who had been at the mills ever since the 
 first spade was put into the ground, worked his vati- 
 cinations up from point:to point, as Ben’s excellences 
 increased ; and at last, one evening at the “ Falmouth 
 Castle,” bringing his fist down upon the table in a 
 way to make the other men’s teeth chatter, exclaimed, 
 with a stammer, “ Ah-h-ll b’b’bat ye, anny o’ ye or all 
 o’ ye, thut that b’b’b’y’ll be goovnor gin’l o’ Can’da; 
 now J wud/,—ah’ll I’'l’lay a t’t’tan-pun noat on it.” 
 
 At seventeen Ben was ready for college, but to col- 
 
6 - DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 lege he was not destined to go; for of a sudden his 
 father awoke to the knowledge that Ben was not far 
 off from manhood, and he, too, took to prophesying, 
 —not to betting ten-pound notes on glaring impossi- 
 bilities, not to feeding his imagination with pictures 
 of his beloved son in the character of a modern Alad-— 
 din, but to the more practical work of building up an 
 intelligent prophasis based upon facts. | 
 
 Mr. Hollins had sometimes thought of Ben as a 
 lawyer, a clergyman, a physician ; but the little courts 
 and churches and hospitals wherein he placed his son 
 all fell to pieces, and it was Ben himself who knocked 
 them over. 
 
 “Father,” he said, “‘ why can’t I go into the mills?” 
 
 “You shall,” replied the elder one. “You shall if 
 you wish to. But, if business is to be your career, 
 then I say let the colleges alone.”’ 
 
 “So do I,” said Ben. “The office will be the best 
 college for me.” 
 
 “Not so fast, not so fast, my son,” interposed Mr. 
 Hollins. ‘There is a college, after all, where a three- 
 years course will give you the best education for a 
 business man.” 
 
 “Where is that?’’ asked Ben. 
 
 “All over the civilized world,” was the reply. “Go 
 to every great commercial city in England and through- 
 out Europe ; visit the States, see the great cities there, 
 the manufacturing towns of New England and New 
 York especially. Ben, there is study enough before 
 you for years; and for the first one we will travel to- 
 gether.” 
 
A FAIR BEGINNING. fe 
 
 Instantly the whole household at Elmswoods felt 
 that a crisis had been arrived at; and the word was 
 passed from tongue to tongue that “ Master Ben is 
 going abroad!” “Ben Hollins is to travel for three 
 years !” 
 
 It was, on the whole, a grand college —rather an uni- 
 versity — that Ben spent his three years in. Whether 
 he graduated “primus,” “cum honore,” or not, the 
 records are silent; but at all events he returned to 
 Millington quite a bachelor of arts, and was received 
 by his old friends and fellow-citizens as enthusiasti- 
 cally as if he had brought off all the prizes. 
 
 And now, at the age of twenty, Ben’s only thought 
 was to settle down to business. He not only did his 
 portion of work in the office, but he ferreted out the 
 secrets of the engine-room, he established himself on 
 a familiar footing with every loom, he knew the con- 
 tents of the storerooms and the methods pursued in 
 the packing room, —in a word, he mastered all the 
 details of a great business. 
 
 Not a thought came to Ben, as yet, of elbowing 
 his father out; not a suspicion that the older man 
 was ever to retire, and leave him to be the head of 
 all this industrial hive. But the elder one had this 
 very end in view, and deliberately planned it all. The 
 sixties tell upon a man who has been long engaged in 
 active and widely extended business ; and as Ephraim 
 Hollins compared his own gray hairs and wrinkled 
 hands with Ben’s young, stalwart form, and with his 
 fresh, bright face, he smiled, and said with satisfaction, 
 “The business of ‘ Hollins’ will go on.” 
 
8 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 Lightly we pass over this year of Ben’s final prepa- 
 ration for the grave duties of business. As we are 
 speaking of facts, however, there remaips one which 
 it is necessary to mention. 
 
 Among Ben’s playmates in childhood was one with 
 whom he had always maintained a relation which 
 indeed neither he nor his mate had ever defined in 
 language, but which nevertheless bound them together 
 very closely. In his travelling days, also, Ben had 
 considered it as natural a proceeding to run over from 
 the Isle of Wight to Southampton, and thence to Chis- 
 tow, to see Betty Hartley and her mother, as to enter 
 Mrs. Hartley’s door in Millington: for you must know 
 that the death of Col. Hartley, shortly after Ben set 
 out upon his travels, rendered it necessary that his 
 widow should visit England for a time ; and, when she 
 determined to give Betty the benefit of a tour upon 
 the Continent, Ben went with them as far as Munich. 
 
 Now, there was not a word of love between these 
 two. The elders looked on and smiled sometimes, 
 being conscious, no doubt, of a great superiority over 
 their fledglings, but there was no utterance on the 
 subject even by them; for there were other comely 
 bees flying about the flower in Mrs. Hartley’s cottage, 
 humming their sweetest songs, looking their best, — 
 yes, and one of them stung at the last 3 stung Ben, 
 stung Betty, stung the elder people, and was himself 
 crushed to death. ": 
 
 At last came the greatest day ever seen in Milling- 
 ton, — Ben’s twenty-first birthday. If you should ever 
 go to Millington (you can easily do so by taking the 
 
A FAIR BEGINNING. 9 
 
 nine-ten train v/a Patton Junction), you will hear the 
 people talking of it yet. 
 
 All Millington was out on that day. By eleven 
 _o’clock the north road swarmed with carriages and 
 _ foot-passengers. At the house and in the grounds all 
 ordinary rules of dress were set at defiance. Black 
 dress-coats mingled with gray coats and brown, silks 
 and satins with plain stuff gowns, white gloves and 
 lavenders with bare brown hands. 
 
 The social law of uniformity was, however, fully sat- 
 isfied ; for every one was brim-full of enjoyment and 
 good humor, and that was uniformity enough for such 
 a day. Hard work some of these laboring people 
 found it to get on through life, but now all that was 
 overlooked. Some who had almost forgotten how to 
 smile laughed outright to-day at every little sally of 
 wit or good humor. 
 
 “Thou’s gotten more tail t’ thy coat as th’ law 
 allows of, Potreek,” cried a son of “merrie Eng- 
 . Jand.” 
 
 “ An’ isn’t this the long-tailed day ?” replied Pat. 
 
 Perhaps there was some hidden wit in this; may- 
 hap it was only the cut of Pat’s coat, or the fun that 
 shone in his face: whatever the cause was, the com- 
 pany roared. So do denizens of drawing-rooms laugh 
 immoderately over sayings whose wit is utterly blotted 
 out with a little printer’s ink; and so did even the 
 dignified Mr. Dives of Hamilton, who happened to be 
 passing when Pat stood in the path arrayed in a coat 
 which possibly Goliath of Gath might have worn with 
 grace. 
 
Io DOCTOR BEN 
 
 Sandy Dart was present in all his glory, going hither 
 and yon, stammering out the compliments of the day 
 with as much importance of manner and speech as if 
 the firm had been Hollins and Dart, and offering to 
 lay “t’t’tan-pun noats” on the “goovnor gin’Iship ”’ 
 with a profusion which would have been seriously felt 
 in the Bank of England had there been takers. 
 
 In the house, where “the quality” gathered, the 
 good feeling and merriment were quite as great as 
 outside ; and what Sandy Dart was to the work-people, 
 Mr. Alexander McKechnie, Q. C., of Montreal, was to 
 the guests within. Mr. McKechnie has never been . 
 known to pass two minutes without rubbing his hands 
 together ; and when he speaks, his words seem to rub 
 together. His sentences have neither beginning nor 
 ending, save such as the imagination of his hearers 
 can supply. In his jerky way Mr. McKechnie darted 
 about the rooms, exclaiming, with infinite rubbing, 
 “Madam —ah— most remarkable traits — quite singu- 
 lar — ah — suaviter in modo — Sortiter in re—ah— 
 strongly combined — astonishing !” 
 
 In all that great company there was but one per- 
 son who failed to dwell upon Ben’s excellences, and 
 who saw, or pretended to see, any cloud in his future. 
 Poor old Mother Ballam! she had given up all her 
 dear ones — husband, daughters, sons —to that other 
 and greater mother, whose nurses we are, — Mother 
 Earth. She had seen her little stock of earthly goods 
 waste away. She had been too proud to ask for help ; 
 and yet, if he had known her necessity, Ben Hollins 
 would have compelled her to be comfortable, pride 
 
A FAIR BEGINNING. Il 
 
 or no pride. In brief, Mother Ballam was sick and 
 weary ; and, like some stronger and better-equipped 
 people, she rather enjoyed her woes. She even de- 
 rived a sad sort of comfort out of the last cackle of 
 her hens as a crusty sheriff’s officer drove those only 
 relics of her better days around the corner to sell 
 them for payment of a little debt. 
 
 The hilarity at Elmswoods Mother Ballam endured 
 as long as her infirmities would permit; but, at last, 
 joining a company by whom Ben’s praises were being 
 both sweetly and vigorously sung, she was moved to 
 speak her mind. 
 
 “Fine doin’s, does onybody doubt?” she cried. 
 “Yes, a fine thing to be corrosin’ a young mon’s soul 
 wi’ flottery! But wait — wait till the han’ 0’ God lays 
 heavy on yon Jad! It’s the han’ o’ man that thinks 
 to do these great an’ joyous things. So me an’ my 
 Dannel thought, twenty-five an’ thirty year agone, afore 
 the fever come, an’ the money went. I don’t say but 
 he’s a fine young man, is Mister Benjamin. So was 
 _ my Enoch, an’ my Tummas, an’ my David. W’ere be 
 they now?” — 
 
 The listeners were silenced for the moment, some 
 of them inclined even to weep with Mother Ballam. 
 But the presage of sorrow was quickly swept away 
 and drowned in a blast of music from a military 
 band; and now the air rang with the familiar strains 
 of “Britons, strike home,” “ Jock o’ Hazeldean,” 
 “Togie o’ Buchan,” and “Tight little island,” and 
 Mother Ballam was left alone. 
 
 All this time, too, pleasant sounds and odors gave 
 
12 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 warning of that without which such occasions would 
 be dull indeed, —the feast. May this never cease 
 to be the custom, a part of the morals, of mankind ! 
 How pleasant it is to see even the philosophers forget- 
 ting their ‘‘ eadtmus vivere” theories for the moment, 
 and showing that there is something to be said on the 
 other side as well! But the feast and all its glories 
 we must pass in silence. 
 
 It was three o’clock when the strongest appetite 
 was appeased ; and, exactly as the hour sounded, the 
 band struck up “Hail to the chief.” Mr. Hollins 
 made his appearance upon the wide veranda, with 
 Ben leaning upon his arm. The visitors followed in 
 an irregular fashion, and the crowds outside surged up 
 towards the house. 
 
 Mr. Alexander McKechnie, Q.C., was in a terrible 
 state of fluster. He held a roll of papers in one hand, 
 and a pen in the other. Twice he bolted suddenly: 
 from his post at a small table near Mr. Hollins, and 
 made a rush for the house-door, as if he had forgotten 
 something. Both times, stopping as suddenly, he felt. 
 in several of his pockets, said, ‘““ Ah —bless me! to be 
 sure !”’ and sat down again. 
 
 Finally, all this pantomimic preparation ceased, and 
 Mr. Hollins advanced to the balcony rail. It was 
 plain to be seen that he intended to make a speech; 
 and any remaining doubt upon the subject was dis- 
 pelled by his opening his mouth, looking quite help- 
 less, and putting both hands into his pantaloons-pock- 
 ets, — unfailing signs, throughout the Province, that 
 all the water in the Atlantic Ocean cannot extinguish 
 
4 FAIR BEGINNING. 13 
 
 the celebrated “yearning of the British heart to ex- 
 press itself without fear or favor.” 
 
 Mr. Hollins’s speech was a good one, but too long 
 to be reported here. It was affectionate in its allu- 
 sions to the many years the speaker had spent in 
 building up the business of Millington; and many 
 were the cries of “ Brayvoo!” and “ H’yar, h’yar!” 
 which went up from hundreds of workingmen’s throats 
 as Mr. Hollins made his points. When he spoke of 
 his own decline in strength and vigor, there was a 
 mighty hush, and tears stole out from many an eye. 
 This was wholly unpremeditated on Mr. Hollins’s part, 
 but it lent a peculiar solemnity to his finishing words. 
 
 “T am about to take my son, therefore, into part- 
 _ nership,” said Ephraim Hollins ; “and I have invited 
 you all here to-day to witness this new step in my 
 business life, and that I might bespeak your interest 
 in my son’s well-being, as I have educated him to 
 care for yours.” | 
 
 There was a brief ceremony of reading and sign- 
 ing papers; and now Mr. McKechnie, Q. C., alter- 
 nate:y taking off and putting on his gold-rimmed eye- 
 glasses, fidgeted along to the place lately occupied by 
 Mr. Hollins. 
 
 “ Gentlemen and ladies,” said he in a very finicky 
 voice, “at least, if the ladies will excuse me: I should 
 have put them first —ah—TI have the honor —ah— 
 to introduce you, that is — ah — to — ah — introduce 
 to you Messieurs Hollins and” — 
 
 “Ah!” said irreverent Carlyle Budger, quite au- 
 dibly. 
 
I4 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 ““T’xactly —to be sure,” added Mr. McKechnie, 
 half turning upon Carlyle. 
 
 Collecting himself quickly, as a Q.C. ought always 
 to have the ability to do, Mr. McKechnie lifted his 
 right hand, and waved it vigorously in the direction 
 of the town. ‘Thither all eyes were dirécted at once. 
 The afternoon sun was shining warmly down upon the 
 town, which lay some distance below them; and from 
 the cupola of the central mill floated a banner of 
 white, with the legend “ Hollins & Son.” 
 
 ‘““Wot be you a-booin’ at, Missus Ballam?” asked 
 Sandy Dart of that poor old dame. 
 
 “My Dannel an’ my Tummas.”’ 
 
 And of all that assemblage none but Mrs. Ballam 
 refused to join in the shouts, and waving of kerchiefs, 
 shawls, and bonnets, with which the popular joy of 
 the moment was attested. 
 
 Cheer upon cheer now rent the air; while in one 
 little lull there came from the town a subdued, dis- 
 tant murmur. 
 
 “The railroad-men are cheering,” said some one; 
 and there went back a roar as of a triumphant army. 
 
 For an hour after this the rich and poor mingled 
 together in the grounds. What a sight it was to see 
 the good old bishop moving about among “all sorts 
 and conditions of men,” his black silk stockings cover- 
 ing legs so slight and thin that you could not help 
 thinking that it was a mercy his body was cut upon so 
 small a pattern also! and how a little knot of “the 
 quality ” enjoyed it when he told them of his first visit 
 to “the: States!” 
 
A FAIR BEGINNING. 15 
 
 “And how did the ’Mericans treat you, me Lord?” 
 asked one. 
 
 “Treatment! Oh! the visiting was gude eneuch, 
 and the eating. But they tritted us like harses: they 
 gev us naething but wather to drink.” 
 
 And the venerable archdeacon, too, how he towered 
 up by the side of the little bishop, his face one vast 
 smile, his tongue supplied with pleasant words, and 
 one for every comer! 
 
 At four o’clock carriages began to rattle down the 
 avenue with guests from abroad, who desired to catch 
 the afternoon-express westward ; and, with that pro- 
 pensity to ‘follow the leader” which is characteristic 
 of humanity, a tide of men and women set in toward 
 -the gates. By five the grounds were cleared, Ben 
 and his father free from the squeezing and shaking 
 by which well-intending people half kill those whom 
 they congratulate ; and Elmswoods resumed its wonted 
 quiet, save for the more subdued clamor of the thirty 
 especial guests, who had been invited to celebrate 
 Ben’s majority over a grand dinner. 
 
 It was a notable company that was gathered at this 
 dinner, — some of the foremost men of the day from 
 both provinces, an ex-president of the United States, 
 several officers, lawyers, physicians, merchants, gentle- 
 men of leisure, and a refit of ladies, including some 
 of the brightest girls and the most dignified dames 
 known in alkthat country. 
 
 The manuscript from which these facts are drawn 
 is silent respecting the details of this dinner, — its 
 menu, its conversations, its toasts, — and the thread 
 
16 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 of narrative takes up Ben on the stroke of eight, just 
 as he is taking advantage of the hum of conversation 
 in the drawing-room to steal away for a little respite 
 
 and reflection. 
 
DIES JUCUNDUS. 17 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 DIES JUCUNDUS. 
 
 EAVING the house by one of its more private 
 
 exits, Ben went deliberately down a winding path 
 towards a clump of Norway pines, where he thought 
 to find seclusion in a rustic summer-house. Arriving 
 there in the semi-darkness, and occupied as he was 
 with his own thoughts, Ben did not at once perceive 
 a figure which arose from one of the benches in a 
 quick, startled way; but a sound, which might have 
 been either a sigh, a sob, or merely an exclamation, 
 aroused him. He peered into the gloom doubtfully, 
 made a quick movement towards the figure, and cried, 
 “Why, Betty! you here?— and alone?”’ 
 
 “Yes, sir,” replied a trembling voice. 
 
 “What’s the matter, Betty? and why do you say 
 ‘sir? to me? What has happened to drive you away 
 off here? Has any one disturbed you up at the 
 house ?”’ 
 
 “Ves,—no, I mean. I don’t know what is the 
 matter; and you need not have come here after 
 me; 
 
 Ben had this sentence all framed for a reply, — 
 “T did not come here after you,’’ — but thought bet- 
 ter of it, threw the sentence away, and substituted, — 
 
18 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 “TI am very glad I did come, Betty ; and now shall | 
 go to the house and send your mother to you?” 
 
 “Mercy on us!” thought Betty Hartley. “If 
 mamma comes, what shall I do then?’ But she 
 only said, “No, please, Mr. Benjamin. I don’t want 
 mamma, Or—or any one else. I shall go up to the 
 house now.” 
 
 Poor Ben began to feel very miserable, as we all 
 do at times when we have not philosophy enough to 
 fathom the cause of our misery. 
 
 “Let me go and get you some cologne,” he said, 
 “or some salts, or something.” 
 
 The possibility of a fainting scene dawned upon 
 Ben, but his ideas of restoratives were very limited, 
 
 “Mayn’t I get you a cup of tea?” he asked, in a 
 burst of inspiration. “There’s some splendid coffee 
 too; and you took none after dinner, —I know you 
 didn’t, for I was watching. How would you like a 
 glass of sherry, or port, or some muscatel ? Oh, good 
 gracious !” 
 
 This exclamation, being translated from thought- 
 language into full grammatical form, meant, “ What 
 am I going to do now?” for Betty had given way 
 under Ben’s profuse hospitality, and had burst into 
 tears. 
 
 And the simple truth was, that the girl was wrought 
 up to a high pitch of nervousness, and had come out 
 of doors to overcome it. By one of those accidents 
 which the most modest of maidens cannot foresee or 
 avoid, Ben had pounced upon her at her weakest, and 
 she was “as a bird in the hands of the fowler.” 
 
DIES JUCUNDTUS. ge) 
 
 Could she help it? Could she help acknowledging 
 to herself, all this happy day, that Ben Hollins was 
 more to her than all the world beside? No,—and 
 would not try to; would have scorned her best friend 
 if that friend had uttered one word against Ben 
 Hollins. She was proud of Ben, and dared not man- 
 ifest her pride. She recalled a thousand tendernesses 
 of Ben’s, and they all went to substantiate a claim on 
 her own part to some share in the glories of the day ; 
 but how people would laugh if they should hear her 
 say so! Ben himself would turn against her for it! 
 This young and tender creature, therefore, was rent 
 and torn. Her nerve-centres were all disordered, and 
 strings of those sensitive feelers which run hither and 
 yon through our bodies were hanging and fluttering 
 in her flesh like a mass of tangled telegraph-wires after 
 a storm. 
 
 Tea! coffee! sherry! sal-ammonia! Fiddlesticks ! 
 what Betty needed was the very strongest drink man 
 ever takes, — nectar, made of heart’s blood, mingled 
 with tears and sweet protestations, brewed for weeks 
 and weeks, and at last, as the recipes say, brought to 
 a boil for just one instant, and then quaffed at once, 
 before one atom or sparkle of its ethereal zs is gone. 
 That is the elixir of love. 
 
 Between these two the brewing had been going on 
 _longenough. Let us see how they managed the boiling. 
 
 The first thing was, of course, to put fuel on the 
 fire, which Ben did very happily. 
 
 “T shall go for Mary Armstrong, then, Betty, and 
 some of the other girls,” he said. 
 
20 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 “Of all things under the sun!” thought Betty. 
 Why, those girls would read her inmost soul in one 
 second. ‘They would delight in taking hold of those 
 poor dangling nerves, and pulling and twisting upon 
 them. Mary Armstrong, indeed! with her way of 
 jumping at conclusions! And Betty knew, moreover, 
 that Mary Armstrong herself was looking Ben’s way, 
 and was already evil-disposed towards all rivals; and 
 therefore a series of dissolving views passed before 
 her, representing all sorts of explosions, feminine tan- 
 trums, jealousies, gossipings, and all the other impish 
 things which follow in the wake of true love discoy- 
 ered. She cried out eagerly, therefore, “No, Mr. Hol- 
 lins, please let me go away. I can go around by the 
 garden-gate, and go home.” _ 
 
 “Can you, indeed?” said Ben. “Not at this time 
 of night.” 
 
 Perhaps Ben was predestined to be a lunatic; for 
 by this time the moon was up, high in the sky, and 
 _ very near the full. Luna happened to have been hid- 
 den behind a great cloud which stretched along the 
 eastern sky ; but now, just as they were speaking, out 
 she popped into clear space, flooding these two babes 
 with light. And what a picture they presented ! — 
 Betty Hartley, with her face all bedaubed with tears, 
 and Ben Hollins, stricken dumb, to all appearance. 
 
 Of a sudden he chose to be angry with this poor, 
 trembling girl. 
 
 “I won't be called Mr. Hollins, —at least not by | 
 
 you, Betty,’”’ he blurted out. 
 “Please, Mr. Benjamin”? — 
 
DIES JUCUNDUS. 21 
 
 “No, nor Mr. Benjamin either. Why can’t you call 
 me Ben, as you always have? I wish they had let me 
 alone, with all their gimcracks about my being a man.” 
 
 Then came an awful silence,—the man in the 
 moon grinning at them from ear to ear; and that 
 flood of light set Ben to thinking, — thinking of moon- 
 light walks, moonlight rides, moonlight sails upon the 
 river, all with Betty ; of many a romp and play, when 
 they were children ; of day-thoughts and night-dreams 
 in which she was his queen; of the many times he 
 had asked himself, in amusement and in work, whether 
 his occupation would stand the test of Betty Hartley’s 
 judgment. 
 
 He had often taken a peep at a remote future, and 
 wondered if he and Betty would ever be like his father 
 and mother, sitting together of an evening just as if 
 they had always lived under the same roof. He had 
 laughed aloud once at the thought of a house in which 
 he should be master, and a certain lady with a fair, 
 bright face should come to him wreathed in smiles, 
 and — oh, reddening impossibility !—kiss him as he 
 came in at the door, as he had seen his mother kiss 
 Ephraim Hollins; but he had never come to the 
 framing of all this in words. 
 
 Once, indeed, he had risen in the night with a great 
 purpose in his mind, and was half-inclined to sit up 
 until daylight should give him the opportunity to carry 
 it out. It was, to go down to Mrs. Hartley’s, and say, 
 “TY have come for Betty, Mrs. Hartley. We will step 
 up to Golder’s to buy a ring, and stop at Gant’s for 
 some new gloves ; and, if you could meet us at the 
 
22 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 church at half-past ten, Dr. Dick will get through the 
 ceremony in no time.” But Ben grew sleepy in a few 
 minutes, and went back to bed and to dreamless slum- 
 bers. ‘ 
 
 All these things, the earnest and the absurd alike, 
 he conned over again now; and at the very end of 
 his reflections the man in the moon, or some zolian 
 aid, separating two vine-branches, let in upon Betty’s 
 face another covering of light, as if to say, “Now 
 look at her! See what you have done to the pret- 
 tiest face in all the world!” 
 
 Selfish boy-man! Much he cared for Betty’s facial 
 disorder! If any thing, he rather gloried in it; and, 
 much as she needed comforting, he deliberately pro- 
 posed that she should comfort him. 
 
 “Why, Betty,” said he piteously, “you are not 
 going to be the first to desert me, are you? Just as 
 I have attained my majority, and mean to try to make 
 every one happy, you are not going to make me mis- 
 erable, ave you ?” 
 
 Too much for Betty. She stood irresolute, picking 
 at her handkerchief, eyes and chest swelling with the 
 on-coming flood. Ben, too, had mounted a whirl- 
 wind, thinking, possibly, that it was only an innocent 
 hobby-horse, and he was in a region of romance and 
 glory before he knew it ; and, as he felt himself going, 
 he reached out for Betty’s hand, seized it firmly, and 
 dragged her up with him. 
 
 There ! it was all over. Neither of them had said 
 a word about love, or any silly stuff of that sort; but 
 here they were, loving each other, —what extrava- 
 
DIES JUCUNDUS. 23 
 
 gant phrase can be employed to tell how deeply, how 
 earnestly, how solemnly? 
 
 Blessed be woman! How easy it is for her, with 
 a wave of the hand, with the shedding of a tear, with 
 a smile or a word, to solve the perplexities of stupid, 
 clumsy man! An unfortunate at my side exclaims, 
 “Cursed be woman! How easy it is for woman, with 
 a wave of the hand and all the rest of it, to drive per- 
 plexed man into deeper perplexity and to utter ruin!” 
 
 Perhaps so, friend. And practically, now that you 
 have overthrown my enthusiasm, very likely the truth 
 does lie somewhere between the blessing and the 
 curse; but in Betty Hartley’s case it was solely a 
 blessing that Ben Hollins fell into her hands. 
 
 “Listen, Ben,” said Betty. 
 
 Strains of music were floating indistinctly down to 
 them from the most distant part of the house. Ben de- 
 clared that it was “The Wedding March,” and clapped 
 his hands gently at the good omen. But Betty upset 
 this little piece of superstition very speedily, insisting 
 that the band was only playing “The Blue Bells of 
 Scotland.” And yet Ben was not altogether to blame. 
 The chord-notes were strongest to his ear, and re- 
 minded him of “The Wedding March,” while Betty’s 
 hearing took in the melody from cornet and piccolo. 
 
 Oh that these two might go through life something 
 after this same fashion! Ben grasping and holding 
 the chords, the strong foundations upon which life’s 
 harmonies are built up, Betty making them tuneful and 
 precious with wifely melody ! | 
 
 God bless these two! God pity these two! 
 
24 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 DIES HORRENDUS. 
 
 i Pe very night the elders were taken into Ben’s 
 and Betty’s confidence ; and before another sun- 
 set, the terms of a life-long alliance were settled. 
 
 But there were beatings of heart in some other 
 quarters. Poor Rosie Montrose! Her widow’s weeds 
 seemed to be blacker than ever. Poor Mary Arm- 
 strong! Poor Joe Craughton! Poor Cleve Maitland ! 
 Poor —all the rest of the disappointed ones ! 
 
 There is but one of all that company of aspirants 
 who needs particular mention here. He was the in- 
 strument of so much evil, —and of some good too, as it 
 happened, — that a bit of his history must here be given, 
 and more hereafter. Thomas Macrae was a young law- 
 student of brilliant parts, with something of a fortune, 
 thoroughly well-educated, of polished manners, a gen- 
 ial companion, and withal Ben’s most intimate friend. 
 But he had been utterly blind to the possibility of such 
 an event as Betty Hartley’s becoming Mrs. Hollins, — 
 blind with that cupidic cataract which is no uncom- 
 mon disease. He had been patiently waiting for his 
 own time to say the one sweet thing to Betty, and 
 dreamed and thought of her answer as an ultimate 
 “yes.” He could feel, and see, that the day had not 
 
DIES HORRENDUS. 25 
 
 yet come; but he would wait. A chance word here 
 and there, a misinterpreted look, an exaggerated ex- 
 pression, gave him courage, just so surely as Betty’s 
 coldness daunted him. For a whole year and more 
 he had kept up this quiet pursuit of his one great ob- 
 ject. And now that object was gone! 
 
 But this was no boy, —no simpleton, no weeping, 
 sentimental youth. He shouldered his load of vexa- 
 tion like a man, and tried to live it down. 
 
 Ben and Betty now settled into a quiet, orderly 
 course of loving and waiting, — waiting for the lapse 
 of a year, which had been agreed upon by all con- 
 cerned as a sufficient and necessary time for Ben to 
 _ become thoroughly habituated to his responsibilities in 
 the business of “ Hollins and Son,” and for Betty to 
 make preparations for her wifehood. And, as matters 
 were to be in the near future, it was well for these two 
 that they had so much in common, similar tastes, 
 similar ideas of life. For a time was rapidly approach- 
 ing when it would have been an awful retrospect for 
 Betty, if she had been compelled to dwell upon a 
 ghastly procession of quarrels and disagreements. In- 
 stead of such torment, she had the sweet recollection 
 of a year of perfect peace. 
 
 On Ben’s part, it was a year of simple fidelity to the 
 trusts reposed in him, a year during which he and his 
 father were gradually changing places. 
 
 In the early autumn, the sound of axes and hare- 
 mers began to be heard at Elmswoods. Wagon-loads 
 of earth were removed, and other wagon-loads of 
 
29 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 stone and bricks and timber and other paraphernalia 
 of building were brought in. Foot upon foot there 
 arose to view the walls of a new dwelling. It was not 
 to be so imposing as the great house, but took to itself, 
 from the start, an air of comfort, and seemed to bear 
 on every one of its four walls the announcement, 
 “Good living here, for two young married people — 
 and friends.” Thither Ben and Betty would go to- 
 gether towards evening, Bé& always carrying a tape-line 
 long enough to measure the Vatican. No end of feet 
 and inches were marked off and noted down by Ben ; 
 while Betty, sitting demurely upon a saw-horse, smiled 
 in a satisfied way, or said, ‘‘ Now, Ben, if this were 
 to be my house, you know, I should do so and so.” 
 Drawing-room, dining, breakfast, and sleeping rooms, 
 and even kitchen and store-rooms, were all measured 
 and re-measured, with never-ending satisfaction. Oc- 
 casionally there was just a suspicion of disagreement, 
 a difference of opinion, to the extent perhaps of an 
 eighth of an inch, as to whether it would be “the 
 thing” to drape this or that window in blue or white, 
 or whether the buffet would really go into such a space 
 comfortably or not. On such occasions, the war was 
 a brief and gentle one, and the guns were hardly 
 loaded before the two-mouthed trumpet sounded the 
 declaration of peace. 
 
 (Ben had a way of provoking these little disturb- 
 ances merely, it is supposed, for the sake of hearing 
 peace declared, until one day a carpenter, looking for 
 his hammer, came suddenly upon them; whereupon 
 Betty bridled up and said, — 
 
DIES HORRENDUS. af 
 
 “There, Ben, you were just caught making a goose 
 of yourself, and I’m glad of it.” Of course she was.) 
 
 Thus they went on, saying and doing any number 
 of these childish things, as any other young couple 
 would, — except, indeed, your hard-fisted people, who 
 marry for commercial reasons ; and those excessively 
 “cultivated”’ ones, who regard marriage as merely one 
 of the “ convenances.” 
 
 Winter, spring, summer, —one by one the seasons 
 took their several places, to do their several works in 
 the grand round of life. The spring-time set many 
 minds to thinking, and many tongues to talking, of the 
 coming event. It was not to be an affair for Ben’s 
 and Betty’s interest only, but all Millington was con- 
 ~ cerned. | 
 
 In a few weeks, thought the two B’s, we shall be 
 man and wife. We are sailing out of the barely ruffled 
 bay of youth into the broad, open sea of life, as we 
 sailed out of the placid river of childhood. The im- 
 mensity of it caused Betty to tremble sometimes; but 
 she remembered that Ben was to be captain of the 
 ship, and took courage. 
 
 In the town also, both in Victoria Square and in 
 Dublin Lane, the wedding-day grew to be the chief 
 topic of conversation. Many were the prophesyings, 
 many the anticipations, many the jokes cracked, more 
 and more intense the eagerness of one and all to hear 
 the church-bell ring, the organ peal out its wedding 
 harmonies. 
 
 And no ear was acute enough to hear the nearing 
 rumble of the wheelS of the car of fate. Rolling on 
 
28 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 and on it came, in its relentless progress. Wounded, 
 crushed, and dying men were named, from distant 
 places, and Ben and Betty pitied them,— but never 
 dreamed of the hideous wheels flying from those far- 
 off places to strike shem. They had come to look 
 upon their little castle in the woods as impregnable. 
 Was it not guarded by lock and bolt, by any number 
 of devices for comfort and security? Was not Love to 
 be their warder? Was it possible for any enemy to 
 come in and extinguish the bright new fires in “ Com- 
 fort Lodge,” as they had playfully, and then seriously, 
 named the new home ? 
 
 It was the first day of June. Comfort Lodge was 
 all in readiness. ‘The last carpet was laid, the last 
 article of furniture, Betty’s old writing-desk with “ B. 
 H.” in monogram stamped upon the cover, had been 
 moved in, and “B.” was lovingly saying to “ H.,” 
 “Good! you and I have become inseparable. We 
 will admire the good taste of these young people in 
 not disturbing our harmonious relations.” The ven- 
 erable archdeacon had promised to come over to 
 perform the ceremony, and had even written out the 
 ‘marriage - lines,” all but signing his own name. 
 Betty’s dresses, jewels, and a hundred little flim-flams 
 of feminine taste, every one of them “ ab-so-lute-ly ne- 
 cessary, you know,” had passed judgment. Good 
 wishes of friends were pouring in, youths and maidens 
 anticipating the round of dinners, receptions, garden- 
 parties, and what not, which were to make the sum- 
 mer memorable. The mill-hands were full of the 
 
DIES HORRENDUS. 29 
 
 subject too, and many a sly rub was administered to 
 « Muster Bunjamun,” as he made the rounds. 
 
 “Two days more !” 
 
 “ Day after to-morrow !” 
 
 “To-morrow !” 
 
 This last word was uttered, no one can tell how 
 many times, on the morning of that first day of June. 
 In remote corners, where the news was slow in coming, 
 you might have heard it up to one o’clock; but for 
 the most part it was said no more after noon. The 
 town was hushed ; its eager, joyous anticipations dead 
 and buried. 
 
 “They that go down to the sea in ships ”’ may seek 
 their rest at night only to be awaked by the sum- 
 mons to eternity as the iron giant of the ocean, wielded 
 by careless hands or by men shamefully ignorant of 
 seacraft, comes crashing into the sides of the frailer 
 wooden bark. The Switzer saéger may taste of bitter 
 sorrow as he returns from the hunt to find that wife, 
 children, house, and all his worldly wealth have been 
 swallowed up by the resistless avalanche. Sorrow may 
 come in any of her myriad shapes, enticing in her 
 gentleness, horrifying in her malignity. But in what 
 one of them is she so strong and awful as when she 
 touches her victim with the finger which distorts and 
 confuses the brain, and makes of him either a mad- 
 man or an imbecile ?. Then does she call Violence her 
 brother, and Fear her sister. Then does she make a 
 horrid feast upon living victims, gorging herself with 
 life-blood, drinking it cup by cup, or even drop by 
 drop, waxing fat upon helpless misery. 
 
30. DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 There ! that is written as an old Roman or Greek, to 
 whom Dolor or Algos has become an impersonation, 
 might have written. But it is a straining exercise to 
 write of such griefs as Ben’s and Betty’s, and it re- 
 quires deliberation to come back to the calmer Chris- 
 tian standpoint. We make the effort: we reach that 
 standpoint. We ask why it is that the sweetness of 
 human love should thus turn to sorrow? How grand 
 the answer that comes back to us from Calvary! Was 
 ever love sweeter than that of the Man of Nazareth? 
 And yet he was emphatically “a man of sorrows, and 
 acquainted with grief.” We are in the presence of a 
 great mystery. 
 
 These were the considerations which prevailed at 
 Elmswoods and all over Millington on that lamentable 
 day. But for them, that day would have been not 
 only a des horrendus, but a day so deeply, desper- 
 ately horrible as to uproot more minds than one, and 
 to change the course of more lives than one forever. 
 An irreligious father—one of your gentry who talk 
 glibly of liberality, and in the same breath fling sneers 
 at the faith which underlies all that is glorious in this 
 age and country — would have thrown himself into an 
 impotent, silly rage, and blasphemed. Not so, how- 
 ever, that stalwart man, Ben Hollins’s father. 
 
 One of your fine ladies, who laugh so enchantingly 
 at all that is serious and heavenly here on earth, and 
 who stand with such graceful zaive/é on the very edge 
 of danger and death, would have wrung her hands in 
 selfish terror, shed a little torrent of selfish tears, and 
 —fled from the man to whom she had promised her 
 
 € 
 
DIES HORRENDUS. 31 
 
 hand and life. Not so dear Betty Hartley, wno had 
 been at a Queen’s drawing-room, mind you, and had 
 been spoken to most kindly by that gracious lady, and 
 whosé mother ranked with right honorable ladies of 
 England, and who yet was not ashamed to bear her 
 share in Ben’s calamity as a Christian woman ought. 
 
 The mill-bells had rung out the noon signal, when 
 a messenger was seen running up the avenue at 
 Elmswoods. Ephraim Hollins was overlooking some 
 garden-work near the house, and saw such urgency 
 stamped upon the messenger’s whole figure that he 
 hastened to meet him. 
 
 ‘‘ Muster Ban’s broat down in storehouse wi’ a knock 
 on’s had ; dawcter says as you’s to coom straightfor’a’d, 
 Muster ’Ollins.”’- 
 
 One instant of reflection, and they set off together 
 for Millington. On their way the messenger told all 
 that was known. Ben had been making some experi- 
 ments in the dye-house, and had gone in person to 
 one of the storerooms to procure a certain chemical. 
 The men who were assisting him at the dye-house 
 waited a full half-hour, and then made inquiry fo1 
 him. No one had seen him. The storerooms were 
 visited, and Ben was found lying upon the floor sense- 
 less, with a great heap of iron weights, and odds and 
 ends, such as will accumulate in these places, scat 
 tered around him. 
 
 One of the porters testified that, not more than an 
 hour before, he had seen these weights lying upon 
 an upper shelf. A package which Ben had evidently 
 
a2 DOCTOR BEN 
 
 intended to carry away with him was found a: his 
 side ; and its fellows were ranged in order on the sec- 
 ond shelf from the top, immediately underneath the 
 one upon which the porter had seen the weights. 
 Doubtless, in reaching up to take this package, Ben 
 had in some way loosened the unstable pile above, — 
 how, no one would ever know, — and the weights had 
 fallen upon him. ‘That was all there was of the mat- 
 ter, and very little good it did to know it. 
 
 The news spread, as such news always does, and a 
 score of men were on the spot at once. One was 
 despatched for a surgeon, another for Mr. Hollins. 
 By the time the latter arrived, the former had made 
 a close examination. Not a bone was broken, not 
 a drop of blood shed. Restoratives had been admin- 
 istered, but without effect. A proposal from some of 
 the men to carry Ben home was vetoed by the sur- 
 geon emphatically. A bed was quickly brought over 
 from “the Royal,” therefore, and Ben placed upon it: 
 the room was cleared of all but four or five quiet, 
 sensible fellows, and surgeon Braddock sat down to 
 wait and watch. Again and again he arose to follow 
 up the leading of some suggestion which came from 
 his medical knowledge and experience; again and 
 again he retreated, baffled and anxious. 
 
 Messages went from time to time to Elmswoods 
 and to Mrs. Hartley’s, such as, “Two o’clock,—no 
 change.” “Three o’clock,—just the same.” “No, 
 you need not come: nothing can be done.” 
 
 Four — five — and six o’clock came, and melted 
 into the past. Surgeon Braddock’s face remained 
 
DIES HORRENDUS. 33 
 
 sphinx-like: his tongue uttered now and then an 
 encouraging word to the suffering father ; but his mind 
 was shaping more and more clearly an apprehension 
 of evil which had, in fact, inspired all his experi- 
 ments and efforts. As evening drew on, that appre- 
 hension settled into something so like certainty, that 
 he dreaded putting it into words; and being neither 
 a butcher nor a quack, and loving Ben as the apple 
 of his eye, he went out upon the landing, and shed 
 tears of manly sorrow. 
 
 A little after six, slight muscular action set in: 
 Ben’s fingers clutched at the wrappings which had 
 been spread over him; soon the flexors responded ; 
 the movement went on up the arm, gradually near- 
 _ ing the centres of life. At last Ben began to mutter: 
 
 Sin ns s!." 
 
 Te: rt” 
 
 SP Sh 1 
 
 This was all that could be made of what he at- 
 tempted to say; and the closed eyes, the limp form, 
 —motionless save for the occasional half-convulsive 
 movements we have already noted, — gave these mut- 
 terings an unhappy significance to the surgeon, while 
 the unskilled, on the contrary, derived hope from 
 them. 
 
 The medical man must sometimes assume the un- 
 welcome office of announcing evil tidings, and he is 
 generally the better medical man who has the cour- 
 age to do this at exactly the proper time. Dr. Brad- 
 dock perceived early in the evening that the time had 
 come. It was only a question of words. But he was 
 
34 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 no believer in the infallibility of the faculty, — that 
 fatal rock upon which so many young doctors, by the 
 way, split and go to pieces. He knew that Nature 
 sometimes laughs the schools in the face by perform- 
 ing one of her stupendous miracles. So he reasoned, 
 rightly enough, that it would be wiser, just now, to lay 
 Mr. Hollins gently in the dust, and let him rise after- 
 wards, than to set him up on a lofty pinnacle of hope, 
 at the risk of being finally dashed to pieces. With 
 almost womanly gentleness, therefore, he took his old 
 friend aside, and said, “ My dear friend, I think you 
 must prepare yourself and others for the worst. You 
 know how to be strong.” 
 
 Mr. Hollins thought that the surgeon was speak- 
 ing of death; and as they carried Ben up to Elms- 
 woods, shortly after, he imagined, in his grief, that 
 they were actually following him to his grave. It was 
 an unspeakable relief to him, therefore, to look upon 
 the calm, dignified face of the mother, and to see that 
 his son still breathed. 
 
 Together Ephraim Hollins and his wife watched 
 over Ben that night, with all the ardor of parental love ; 
 and this and medical skill labored as one, to bring 
 back from the land of silence the object of their mutual 
 solicitude. 
 
 In the morning, telegrams went abroad, calling in 
 the aid of Dr. McCaller of Toronto, and the great Dr. 
 Brown of “the States,” and half a score of medical 
 men within easier reach. It was now the wedding- 
 day,—June 2; and Friday, the 3d, was appointed 
 for the momentous consultation. At eleven o’clock 
 
DIES HORRENDUS. 35 
 
 the conclave assembled. Its deliberations are of no 
 particular consequence to us. Its conclusion is; and 
 yet it was conveyed to Mr. Hollins in a few platitudes, 
 which threw little light upon the darkness which he 
 could feel, so thick and close was it. 
 
 Well! the doctors ate and drank at Mrs. Hollins’s 
 bountiful lunch-table, talked before her with a deal of 
 very impassable Latin, a trifle of unrecognizable Greek, 
 and enough of English to reduce the rest to something 
 like shape and intelligibility, dispersed, and sent in 
 their bills. And that was the last of the greatest medi- 
 cal consultation ever held in Millington. 
 
36 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 A RE-ADJUSTMENT,. 
 
 N Sunday morning, the 5th of June, there came 
 a change in Ben’s condition. The functions of 
 muscular life, released from the temporary lethargy 
 induced by shock, resumed something of their former 
 state. Ben lifted his head from the pillow, and gazed 
 about the room with an air of one looking for familiar 
 faces in a foreign land. One long stare he gave, be- 
 ginning with his mother’s portrait opposite the foot of 
 his bed, then to the left, across the window that looked 
 out over the rose-house roof, then along the wall to 
 the fireplace ; and there the angle of vision came to 
 an end. 
 
 What a look! In it not a sign of recognition of 
 any one in the room, not a smile, not a token that Ben 
 was passing the crisis safely and coming back to the 
 world awaiting him. 
 
 Dr. Braddock came in shortly after, and was told 
 every minute particular, down to the shuddering sigh 
 with which Ben sank back upon his pillow. The shad- 
 ing off of possibility into probability, and at last into 
 certainty, was completed in this good surgeon’s mind ; 
 and he firmly took Mr. Hollins away to the library, 
 and said, — 
 
A RE-ADJUSTMENT. a 
 
 “My dear friend, it is just as I feared it might be. 
 I was willing to let you remain in suspense for a time, 
 hoping, almost against hope to be sure, that Nature 
 would step in to our aid,’and do what we doctors may 
 as well confess we cannot do.” 
 
 “This is fatal, then, Braddock ?”’ asked the sufferer. 
 
 “No: Ben is not going to die. In fact, I wish he 
 was a little nearer to that; for then a struggle would 
 take place within him, out of which I should have infi- 
 nitely more hopes of his restoration. Ben will not die, 
 but there is very little left of that bright intellect from 
 which we all hoped such great and good achievements. 
 What the future may do, all the doctors in creation 
 cannot foretell; but for the present you must be con- 
 - tent to care for Ben, much as you did in his child- 
 hood.” 
 
 Dr. Braddock left it to Ephraim Hollins to break 
 this bitter bread to his wife, and, as he left the house, 
 said, “And, by the way, Hollins, that little girl down 
 at Mrs. Hartley’s must not feed herself upon false 
 hopes. Will you tell her, or shall I?” 
 
 False hopes! that is what we men always say, when 
 we are angry, or crushed with certainties. As if hope 
 could ever be false! The very quintessence of hope 
 is truth. Founded upon facts, it looks forward to 
 other facts. And such hope as Betty Hartley had 
 schooled herself in since Wednesday is so firm that 
 all the wise saws of all the wise men cannot turn it or 
 shake it. 
 
 When they came to tell her, — Mr. Hollins and her 
 mother, — of the awful catastrophe of darkness which 
 
38 DLcCTOR BEN. 
 
 had enveloped her lover's life, they were surprised to 
 see her even smile. Evidently she was holding her- 
 self with a firm hand, and was aware of her feminine 
 weakness. But there was feminine strength in her too, 
 —-a soldierly discipline such as Col. Hartley’s daughter 
 ought to have, seeing that he left no son to inherit it : 
 and, long before they ceased saying the little nothings 
 of such occasions, Betty was looking far away into the 
 future. 
 
 Calmly, quietly, but with irresistible firmness, she 
 took her stand. Every one wondered, —those who 
 loved her, at her courage ; those who are ever ready to 
 hiss and cast venom at their neighbors, at her “ fool- 
 ishness.”” 
 
 “Two days more,” said Betty to her elders, “and I - 
 should have sworn at the altar to take Ben ‘for better 
 * for worse, for richer for poorer, to keep him in sick- 
 ness and in health.’ If this had occurred two days 
 after marriage, would not the world have scorned me, 
 had I turned my back upon my stricken husband, and 
 left him in his darkness? Let me be his nurse, his 
 guide, his companion, so much as I may. And if our 
 sorrow should be removed, and Ben recover from this 
 sickness” (she merely happened to say “ sickness,” 
 this girl, ignorant of all Aisculapian definitions of 
 words), “what joy will it be to see him growing day 
 by day nearer to that end! What happiness to hear 
 his first inquiry forme! But what misery to know of 
 his awaking, and calling for me, only to learn that I 
 had weakly and heartlessly deserted him !” 
 
 Thus reasoned this devoted girl, grown now in the 
 
A RE-ADJUSTMENT. 39 
 
 space of five days to a robust womanhood. And the 
 old man listened, and took her to his breast with grati- 
 tude which was speechless for a time; until at last 
 he said, — 
 
 ‘Dear daughter, you had our love without reserva- 
 tion: now you have something more. - You shall help 
 us to care. for Ben. Perhaps he will hear your voice, 
 and be brought back by it to life. Who knows but 
 that his love for you may be the keynote to his recov- 
 ery? If so, you are certainly the one to strike it.” 
 
 On his return to Elmswoods that evening, a purpose, 
 born of this interview with Betty, came to full being in 
 Mr. Hollins’s mind ; and he lost no time in unfolding 
 it to his wife. Nothing less than that Betty and her 
 mother should give up the house down by the river- 
 bank, and migrate to Elmswoods. 
 
 ‘“‘For Ben’s comfort?” asked the mother tearfully. 
 “‘T think it will be to the comfort of us all.” 
 
 By what process of argument and persuasion this 
 project was brought to an issue, and Mrs. Hartley and 
 Betty installed, not in Comfort Lodge indeed, but at 
 Elmswoods house, it is unnecessary to inquire. But 
 there were people in Millington who were not half so 
 modest as we propose to be. Notably Miss Blandly, 
 gossip-queen of the town. Having no occupation, 
 Miss Blandly was always ready to interfere with those 
 of other persgns. Having no matrimonial prospects, 
 it was her delight to mar and scarify those of younger 
 and more attractive ladies. And in one word, and 
 that a charitable one, having poor health, bad diges- 
 tion, and many megrims, poor Miss Blandly “ gave it” 
 
4O DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 to any and all who were healthier, stronger, and hap 
 pier than herself. She and Mrs. Capt. Thurston, the 
 wife of a resigned ex-artillerist who kept his rations in 
 a gin-bottle, and his ammunition in a clay-pipe, rang 
 the changes upon Betty’s foolishness, day after day. 
 And the best of it was, that Betty never heard one word 
 of it. 
 
 Not a syllable of criticism came to this dear girl’s 
 ears, for the reason that she had already quite with- 
 drawn herself from the every-day Millington life. She 
 had entered upon a new and busy existence. The 
 care of Ben Hollins had become her one thought. 
 For a limited time each day, she was Ben’s guide and 
 companion, his instructress. 
 
 The task was indeed no easy one. It required all 
 her strength, but love stripped it of many of its diffi- 
 culties. At first it was a tearful business, and the 
 overcharged heart sometimes sought vent for its ful- 
 ness in bitter wailings. Then a ray of sunshine would 
 fall upon it. The memory of better days, the recol- 
 lection of hours which she and Ben had passed to- 
 gether reading or singing, the remembrance of subjects 
 they had discussed, of conclusions reached, of mutual 
 delights, —all came crowding in upon her ; and out of 
 them Betty built up a sort of pharmacopeia, from 
 which she undertook to draw prescriptions for Ben’s 
 benefit, she to do the compounding and the adminis- 
 tering. 
 
 For Betty had, without knowing, quite drifted into 
 a professional attitude. She happened, as has been 
 said, to say “sickness,” in speaking of Ben’s trouble. 
 
A RE-ADJUSTMENT. 41 
 
 Now, when a woman says a thing, she generally means 
 it; and, if not before, then certainly after she has said 
 it. Andso Betty thought and thought of that word, 
 “sickness ;’’ and, the more she dwelt upon it, the more 
 persistently she looked upon Ben as only szcz. 
 
 Poor little girl! she had discovered, or almost dis- 
 covered, what it has taken the whole human race six 
 thousand years ¢o define. Yes, the whole known 
 period of man’s life upon the earth may be covered 
 advisedly. For it is easily proved, that, if Adam and 
 Eve were not absolutely insane, they at least behaved 
 very queerly. 
 
 Now, if any philosopher or theologian is in want of 
 a new theory of that much-vexed subject, “the origin 
 of evil,’’ let him follow this out. Possibly the Dar- 
 winians could make a strong philosophical point upon 
 this theory, in the nervous agitation which must have 
 been suffered by the first human beings in consequence 
 of the sudden, or even gradual, loss of those append- 
 ages which distinguished their ancestors before the 
 metamorphosis. 
 
 Whatever ground there may be for such a. theory, 
 man is at last waking up to study and know himself ; 
 and the wise ones, doctors, psychologists, specialists, 
 pliysicians, and metaphysicians, are going full tilt to- 
 wards a land of paradise unveiled by the doctrine that 
 insanity ts sickness. 
 
 The efforts of our own specialist, Miss Betty Hart- 
 ley, are now notably in our sight; and we may ask, 
 Were they successful? Frankly, they were not. Ben 
 grew fond of his doctress, but even that was not suffi- 
 
42 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 cient to cure him of his malady. Nor was the docility 
 he manifested in her company much like the old love. 
 Alas! at times he was even irreverent. As, for in- 
 stance, on one occasion when Betty and Ben were 
 sitting together in the garden; she thinking and sew- 
 ing, he trifling with blades of grass. Of a sudden a 
 tear fell, glided down Betty’s needle, and was lost in 
 the stitch. She must needs save herself from giving 
 way ; and her voice broke out in subdued tones, and in 
 a melody of her own making. It was Heine’s “Und 
 wussten’s die Blumen” that she sang; Theodore 
 Martin’s translation of which is so full of the native 
 beauty of the verses, that it may serve here, instead of 
 the German : — 
 
 “Tf the little flowers knew how deep 
 
 Is the wound that is in my heart, 
 
 Their tears with mine they’d weep, 
 For a balm to ease its smart. 
 
 “Tf the nightingales knew how ill 
 And worn with woe I be, 
 They would cheerily carol and trill, 
 And all to bring joy to me. 
 
 “Tf they knew, every golden star, 
 The anguish that racks me here, 
 They would come from their heights afar, 
 To speak to me words of cheer.” 
 
 Would you believe it? At the finishing of the song, 
 Ben stood up before Betty, made a half-turn upon one 
 heel, and, with one of those displacements of thought 
 which are so painfully common in such cases, ex- 
 
A RE-ADJUSTMENT. . 43 
 
 claimed, “Oh, yes! ha, ha! good cheer — Blue Bells 
 of Scotland, I should say.” 
 
 A very few words will suffice to define Ben’s general 
 condition at this period. Not many hours after his 
 first awaking on the Sunday of which mention has 
 been made, he arose from his bed, not voluntarily, but 
 because he was bidden to do so by surgeon Braddock. 
 And as he stood in the midst of the room, purposeless 
 and vacant, the good surgeon applied test after test to 
 ascertain what he might concerning his patient. Every 
 sense, sight, hearing, smell, touch, and taste, was per- 
 fect. Speech was as clear as ever ; but it was distress- 
 ing to listen to Ben, because the glory of speech, its 
 logical naturalness, that invisible chord which binds it 
 to reason, was gone, shattered. His movements, at 
 first, were never voluntary. Direction was necessary 
 in even the minutest detail of daily life. To sum it all 
 up, in words which still are inadequate, but which 
 must serve the purpose here, Ben’s will was crushed, 
 reduced to a dormant condition. 
 
 One or two physicians who visited Elmswoods dur- 
 ing the first half-year of Ben’s trouble talked a deal 
 _ about “unconscious cerebration.” Perhaps they ex- 
 pected this wise dictum to set Ben right again; but, 
 if so, they failed. 
 
 Said Betty Hartley, “I don’t believe in all that, 
 nor in any theory which makes a living man no better 
 than a dead one.” 
 
 Said surgeon Braddock, “It makes little difference 
 whether the cerebration may be conscious or uncon- 
 scious: the life is suspended. Our Ben is wrecked. 
 
44 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 Nothing but some hidden force of Nature can ever 
 pull him off the rocks.” 
 
 Now, surgeon Braddock was an admirable family 
 physician. He was a learned man, after his fashion. 
 He had the one misfortune, idiosyncrasy, or whatever 
 it is best to call it,—that he was a pessimist. He 
 looked upon Ben’s case always and undeviatingly with 
 no hope, but such as might be contained in the two 
 words, “If— Nature.” Living as he had for many 
 years, in a steady round of family practice, Dr. Brad- 
 dock was not wide awake to all that was going on 
 in the outer world. He knew the asylums, but for 
 such cases as Ben’s he had a wholesome dread of 
 them. He believed Ben to be better off at Elms- 
 woods than in any asylum he had ever seen or heard 
 of. 
 
 And now when Ben began to develop, to show little 
 signs of returning will, what wonder that the good sur- 
 geon smiled, and said again. and again, “If— Na- 
 eure 77 
 
 And, in very truth, Nature was doing her best. And 
 so were the anxious watchers at Elmswoods. 
 
 The. house at this time wore the appearance of a 
 school, and Ben that of a prince royal who was re- 
 ceiving the exclusive attention of a staff of four pro- 
 fessors. Betty Hartley was particularly assiduous in 
 her efforts to educate Ben, to strengthen his will, to 
 set his thoughts in reasonable channels. It was hard 
 work, discouraging work for the most. 
 
 And sometimes there were notable changes, glim- 
 merings of the past, sudden inspirations of purpose, 
 
A RE-ADJUSTMEN?7. 45 
 
 which lighted up Ben’s face, and brought momentary 
 manliness into his carriage,—but only to die out 
 again. ‘The sight of Comfort Lodge, all locked and 
 barred as it was, caused him even to speak of some 
 detail of carpentering or furnishing ; but the next hour 
 he had forgotten the matter. Again he would recall 
 some old affair of business, or some detail of the jour- 
 ney he and Betty were to have made. And in the 
 midst of a sentence, as a sequence to this serious talk, 
 Ben would break out in some fancy so distorted, so 
 absurd and even ludicrous, that with the heart-ache 
 sorely pressing them his friends would be compelled to 
 laugh. 
 
 To a psychological student, Ben would have pre- 
 sented at this period an interesting study. But there 
 were no psychological students at Elmswoods, — only 
 four loving friends who longed and waited for some- 
 thing which was too distant to come at their beck. 
 
 It would serve no purpose to lengthen the record 
 of this portion of Ben’s life; and the reader must be 
 _ left, therefore, to picture to himself a couple of years 
 passed in the merest flickering of lights and shadows, — 
 the lights growing a little brighter, but the shadows 
 somehow deepening at the same time. Ben was 
 gentle under all circumstances, never manifesting any 
 tendency to those outbreaks of violent passion which 
 _ sometimes turn the loveliest child into a demon; full 
 of playful humor at times, at others silent and ab- 
 stracted. 
 
 Of only one thing did he seem to have any fear. 
 No inducement was strong enough, during these two 
 
46 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 years, to lead him beyond the gates of Elmswoods 
 grounds. Time and again, with the sudden flash of 
 purpose which has been spoken of, did he take hat 
 and stick after breakfast, and, with a cheery “ good- 
 by,” set off briskly as if to go down to the mills, to 
 the daily round of business. Arrived at the gates, 
 however, he would stop, gaze about in a dazed fash- 
 ion, turn back again, and be lost in a maze of silent, 
 never-uttered thoughts. At first, on these and others 
 of his rambles, they followed him, fearing. But re- 
 peated security relaxes vigilance, and for a long time 
 Ben went and came as he listed. 
 
SUBLILTIES. 4? 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 SUBTILTIES. 
 
 T was not until Ben had passed two years in a 
 state sufficiently indicated in the last chapter that 
 there entered into his life the elements of romance, 
 —nay, of stern fact, which have made this tale of 
 ours possible. Of a sudden Ben was plunged into 
 a very whirlpool of events. As in a drama, charac- 
 ters ranged themselves around him for good and ill. 
 There was a stirring of the elements. Nature and 
 Ben’s fellow-men began to move; and a fierce battle 
 was waged, of which Ben — poor, half-conscious crea- 
 ture that he was !— was the centre. The attack was 
 a mighty one, a subtle one: the defence silent, deter- 
 mined, holy. 
 
 Now let us remark, by way of introducing what is 
 to come, that the brain of man never remains abso- 
 lutely stationary. It thinks, it grows in scope, even 
 when sleep is holding the body in silence. Under 
 all circumstances save one —that is, death — there is 
 motion in the brain,— development of some sort. 
 And, if the Church is right, even in this excepted case 
 the soul — that living mystery which only employs the 
 brain here as it employs the tongue, the stomach, the 
 eye, and all our members —still keeps up some sim- 
 
48 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 ilar process of action. Even in that long sleep which 
 we are told by some endures between the setting ot 
 this life’s sun and the rising of the one which is to 
 usher in the glorious day of eternity, there is still 
 mental action, a vivification of sleep with dreams of 
 bliss, or a horror of thick darkness made more awful 
 by visions and forebodings born of a guilty conscience. 
 
 Always the mind of man is a panorama of wonders. 
 All discussion of it is more or less superficial. It may 
 be viewed from a multitude of points, and always it 
 presents itself in a new aspect. From our present 
 point of view, we look out upon a strange procession. 
 In the line are minds strong and minds weak; minds 
 that grasp wide ranges of thought, and grasp them 
 clearly, others which seize only to lose hold of the 
 idea or the purpose conceived ; minds that sweep the 
 whole horizon of human deeds, others which must be 
 content to concentrate upon some one little duty or 
 purpose. | 
 
 And in that procession are some whom we denomi- 
 nate zdiotic, melancholy, mad, insane. But even these 
 are in motion: even the idiotic are thinking. Accord- 
 ing to their thoughts, at least their limbs move, their 
 eyes roll, their tongues speak. So, in intercourse with 
 any of these, we must always be prepared for —at 
 least, not be taken by surprise at — any sudden, subtle 
 change. 
 
 It would be something grand—a great step in 
 science — to find out the causes of all such changes. 
 But, alas! science has not progressed so far, as yet. 
 
 No one, then, can explain why, on an unhappy day 
 
SUBTILTIES. 49 
 
 in September, early in the third year of Ben’s lunacy, 
 he should suddenly overcome or lose his fear of pass- 
 ing the gates of Elmswoods. Lose it he did, how- 
 ever, and with momentous consequences to himself 
 and others. 
 
 At luncheon that day, when the three ladies at 
 Elmswoods came together, the question was asked 
 by all, simultaneously, ‘Where is Ben?” 
 
 The inquiry was quickly extended to servants, gar- 
 deners, stable-men, and even the more distant farmers 
 on the place ; but Ben was not to be found. 
 
 Betty Hartley had been walking with him at eleven 
 o’clock, and at that hour was summoned to the house 
 to see Thomas Macrae, who had come, as he often did, 
 .to make a familiar, welcome morning call. Familiar, 
 because Macrae was on a very good footing at Elms- 
 woods ; welcome, because of his uniform kindness to 
 the one object of solicitude. Betty had left Ben with 
 the gardeners: he had strolled away from them tow- 
 ards the house, a quarter of an hour after, and there 
 intelligible facts ceased. All that followed was a jar- 
 gon of theory, and this culminated in alarm. Word 
 was sent to Mr. Hollins, who was down at the mills. 
 Then the news went abroad, “ Ben Hollins is lost!” 
 “Poor Ben has wandered off!” 
 
 Twenty men were sent from the offices and looms 
 to scour the town and the surrounding country. Every 
 train that had passed Millington since noon was tele- 
 graphed : station-masters within fifty miles were asked 
 to keep a lookout for the wanderer. ‘The open fields, 
 the woods, the roads, the river-banks, where was many 
 
50 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 a nook in which Ben might have sat unseen within a 
 few feet of passers-by, all were searched. The after- 
 noon hours passed ; and not a sign or sound of Ben’s 
 return came with them, with one exception. 
 
 A boy came to the office at six with a well-known 
 cuff-button, an onyx with Ben’s initials cut in its face. 
 With the logic which generally prevails among men, 
 it seemed to be taken for granted that finding Ben’s 
 cuff-button was the same as finding Ben himself; and 
 the men were actually called in by the ringing of the 
 mill-bell, and the search languished, — languished for 
 a whole hour, while Thomas Harper, superintendent 
 of a department at the mills, went with the boy to 
 Bridge Hill, simply to look at a stick of timber upon 
 which the cuff-button had been found. 
 
 Bridge Hill was an abrupt rise of ground directly 
 west of Millington, upon one side of which lay the 
 river, sixty feet below; on the other side, a sloping 
 road ran down to Millington, while other roads led off 
 to the north and west over a country which lay level 
 with the top of the hill, Elmswoods crowning the top 
 of another hill two miles to the north-east. Bridge Hill 
 was partially covered with timbers and irons, prepara- 
 tions having been made to throw a structure across the 
 stream to the low land on the opposite bank. Stand- 
 ing upon its summit, you could look over an extended 
 landscape, the river flowing eastwardly in quiet fulness 
 for two miles or more, and finally disappearing as it 
 rounded the base of a bluff, whence it kept its course 
 south-eastwardly until it reached the great Ontario ; in 
 the valley below and on your left, Millington ; north- 
 
SOUBTILTIES. 51 
 
 ward and westward, a rich expanse of farming- 
 lands. 
 
 Along the river-front, in the town, the eye lights 
 first upon several rows of cottages, some bright and 
 tidy in new paint and with well-kept premises, others 
 dingy and dull, probably like their occupants. Then 
 come the mills, and the docks with a few schoon- 
 ers lazily rocking in the stream. ‘Two squares away, 
 Barony Street, the main business street, stretches its 
 devious way along, with here and there an odd twist 
 in it. One square more, and amid dwellings and trees 
 three church-spires lift themselves into the air, while 
 the square stone tower of St. Peter’s seems to stand 
 out as the presiding, harmonizing, patriarchal princeps 
 of the place. 
 
 To Bridge Hill, Harper and two or three mill-men 
 followed the rather garrulous and imaginative boy. 
 Anent the cuff-button, Matthew Bryan finally asked, 
 “Were it wet, Will?” 
 
 “Yes: it were a-layin’ in this hole, in a puddle.” 
 
 “Then,” said Matthew, “’tain’t no use a-stayin’ 
 here. He put that there button into the hole afore 
 four o’clock, when it begun to rain; an’ my opinion 
 is, some one below has took him in for shelter. They 
 be queer folk, some on ’em, down there. They mought 
 take him in an’ leave him stay all night, an’ never sig- 
 nify.”” 
 
 To the cottages the party went, and lost another 
 hour, — an hour in which some of tne principal char- 
 acters in the coming drama were dressing and other- 
 wise preparing for a second act. 
 
52 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 The hour passed, and Harper returned to the miil- 
 offices, baffled and disconcerted. Here he found an 
 anxious consultation going on between Mr. Hollins 
 and some of his personal friends. 
 
 “News, Harper?” asked the feverish father. 
 
 ‘None, sir,’”’ replied Harper; “and I don’t know 
 what to make of it.” 
 
 Harper walked up and down the room for a minute 
 or two, and said, “I’m almost ashamed to mention it, 
 Mr. Hollins ; but Mr. Benjamin had some trouble once 
 with that old woman who hangs around here with bag 
 and hook. She is always to be seen hereabouts in the 
 afternoon, but no one has laid eyes on her to-day. 
 I’m going to find her.” 
 
 It was certainly a slender thread upon which to 
 hang hopes which were growing so leaden as Ephraim 
 Hollins’s. But what will we not build upon, ia an 
 exigency? So Mr. Hollins said, “Go, Harper, and 
 probe that matter to the bottom.” And the words 
 were hardly out of his mouth before he dropped Har- 
 per’s suspicion as unworthy of another thought. 
 
 Harper and his companions made but a three- 
 minute walk of it to a hut which had been originally 
 used as a shelter for the laborers and a lock-up for 
 their tools, when the mills were built, and which Car- 
 ney Dugan, the old woman of bag and hook, had con- 
 verted with her own hands, and by the application of 
 bits of old mortar and bricks and handfuls of mud 
 into a half-savage semblance of home. 
 
 Knocking at the rickety collection of boards which 
 served for a door, Harper was greeted with the shrill, 
 
SUBTILTIES. 53 
 
 quavering cry, “Hev ye come? I knowed ye would. 
 Push yerself in, Thomas.” 
 
 Harper “ pushed himself in ;”’ and Carney, looking 
 at him in the dim light of a greasy candle, took her 
 elbows from her knees, lifted herself up in a startled 
 way, and exclaimed, “Oh, murther ! what is dhis?”’ 
 
 Harper was alert to every movement and every 
 word. Without giving the woman a moment to col- 
 lect herself, he asked, “What did you expect, Car- 
 ney? Were you expecting to see mer” 
 
 “Sure, I was not, Misther Hairper.”’ 
 
 “Didn’t you say, ‘Come in, Thomas’?” 
 
 An’ isn’t yure name Thomas? an’ didn’t I see 
 you t’rough dhim holes?” 
 
 A little frame-work of suspicion which had hardly 
 taken shape in Harper’s mind fell to pieces at this ; 
 but he rallied, and threw another shot at Carney. 
 
 “Carney, have you seen Mr. Benjamin?” 
 
 “Will, an’ shposin’ I hev,—what dhin?” 
 
 “Tf you have, Carney, you ought to tell us. Come,’ 
 old woman, be good now, and tell us all about it.” 
 
 Was Harper conning over the tales he had read of 
 dark deeds of revenge, which such creatures as this 
 woman had been known to commit? Was he think- 
 ing that he stood upon the verge of a discovery which 
 would make Millington tremble with horror? He never 
 could be brought to acknowledge it, but he was under 
 the influence of just such thoughts ; and he determined 
 to be crafty, and to drag the secret out of this defence- 
 less and solitary cld woman, and — met his match. 
 “Don’t be in sich haste, Misther Hairper,” said 
 
54 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 Camey. “It’s not for dhe likes 0’ you to say ‘ole 
 woman’ to me, whin ye’re axin’ favors.” 
 
 “No offence, Carney.” 
 
 “Offince or no offince, Misther Hairper, carry civil 
 wurruds in yer mouth whin ye’re visitin’ dhe ladies, an’ 
 don’t be so familiar wid me Christen name, aither,” 
 
 “Well, then, Mrs. Dugan’? — 
 
 “‘Dhat’s dhe crame o’ politeness.” 
 
 “Come, Mrs. Dugan, tell us where you saw Mr. 
 Benjamin: that’s a good girl.” 
 
 “How polite ye’re growin’, Misther Hairper! I 
 seen him on dhe Bridge Hill.” 
 
 “When?” 
 
 “Qh-h-h-h, — sich a power of axin’ questions! 
 They should make a cinsus-taker uv ye, or an ixcise- 
 man: ye’re as glib as e’er a lawyer in Dublin. It’s 
 first, ‘Did ye see Misther Benjamin?’ an’ dhin it’s 
 ‘Where did ye see him?’ an’ now it’s ‘Whin did ye 
 see him?’ Maybe ye’d like to know wAy I seen him, 
 and how I seen him. So I tells ye, wanc’t for all, 
 Misther Hairper, I seen him on dhe Bridge Hill, be- 
 yant, at t'ree o’clock, an’ I was on me ways to Widdy 
 Cormick’s, she that aftherwards married my Con Cor- 
 mick, an’ me a-takin’ up wid Barney Dugan, an’ dhey 
 drugged me, dhey did, an’ dhe praste he niver knowed 
 it, an’ now dhey’re all gone dhe ways uv dhis wicked 
 wurruld, — ohoo! ohoo !—yis-sir, an’ I was on me 
 ways, I was, to Widdy Cormick’s, to hilp her count 
 her pinnies, — she couldn’t rise ’em higher nor twilve 
 makes a shillin’, an’? — “ 
 
 “Never mind that now, Carney,” broke in Harper ; 
 
SUBTILTIES. es 
 
 “but tell us about Mr. Benjamin. What was he do- 
 ing?” 
 
 ‘‘ A sittin’ dhere, to be sure, on wan o’ dhim shticks. 
 An’ what else would he be doin’, wid dhe sinses all 
 druv out uv his poor head — dhe poor craythur?”’ 
 
 “Did you not have trouble with Mr. Benjamin 
 once?” asked Harper. As foolish a question this as 
 Harper could possibly have asked. Nevertheless, it 
 brought matters to a focus. Carney Durgan did know 
 much more about Ben than she had yet revealed, and 
 more than she meant to reveal, more than the prover- 
 bial wild horse could have dragged out of her just 
 then. But she scented danger in Harper’s question, 
 and proceeded to fortify herself. So she blurted out, 
 with perfect ease and naturalness, — 
 
 “Upon me hopes of glory, Misther Hairper, I seen 
 him twice’t— an’ I was coming to it, but ye stopped 
 me wid yer quistions. Wanc’t on dhe Bridge Hill, at 
 t’ree o’clock ; an’ afther, down be Thompson’s, at half- 
 past sivin,—only half an hour ago,” said Carney, 
 throwing into her last phrase an emphasis which she 
 intended to produce an effect. 
 
 “Only half an hour ago!” repeated Harper, in- 
 stantly making a movement towards the door ; while a 
 gleam of cunning triumph barely touched the woman’s 
 face, darting then into the darker corners of her soul 
 to revel there. 
 
 They took their departure, Harper and his followers ; 
 and, not a hundred yards away, the figure of a man 
 crouched unseen in the black shadows while they 
 passed. 
 
56 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 As Carney closed her battered, creaking door, she 
 flung her hands wildly over her head, and presently sat 
 down by her empty fireplace, and rocked herself to 
 and fro, wailing and muttering by turns. She rose at 
 last, and paced the shaking floor, exclaiming, “Oh, 
 will it niver lave me! Is dhe blood of murdhered 
 men to be always flowin’ by me, an’ me niver guilty uv 
 wan single dhrop? O Mother uv Hiven, it’s haird 
 to be dhe victim uv other men’s sins. O Mary, an’ 
 Pether, an’ James, an’ John, purtict me wid yer wings 
 uv glory! O Barney, Barney, ’twas you did the foul 
 deed, an’ me dhat suffered all dhese years by it! An’ 
 now, maybe, innocent blood’ll flow again, an’ I’m in 
 it. Oh, let me lave dhis murdherin’ country, an’ go 
 over dhe say to me own land and me own payple!” 
 
 Such powers of mind and body as are brought into 
 full and passionate play, on such an occasion, are soon 
 exhausted, particularly in the aged and volatile. Sug- 
 gestion, too, is a powerful lever in the changes that 
 come to men’s thoughts ; and the mention of her wish 
 to go over the sea led this woman to cease her wail- 
 ings at once. Going to a corner of her cabin, candle 
 in hand, she ‘urust her fingers into a hole in the floor- 
 ing, and drew out two old pocket-books, whose con- 
 tents she -pioceeded to pour into her lap. 
 
THOMAS MACRAE. 57 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 THOMAS MACRAE. 
 
 OR the completeness of the story, it is now requi- 
 
 site that the history of Thomas Macrae should 
 
 be unfolded more at length. Place upon the easel the 
 portrait of a tall, well-made man of five and twenty, 
 dark almost to swarthiness, of fine figure, with an edu- 
 cated air, in scrupulously careful but not dandified 
 toilet, quite the Lomme des affaires, — and you have a 
 tolerable eye-likeness of Thomas Macrae. The mind- 
 likeness, that mental image which is, like the photo- 
 graphic busts taken at Paris, made up of many 
 pictures taken at all angles, you will have to build up 
 from the pages which follow. As you looked at Mac- 
 rae for the first time, he would make so vivid an im- 
 pression upon you, that you would say almost at once, 
 “YT like this man intensely,” or, “I hate this fellow 
 without thinking twice of him.” Precisely his way of 
 judging you too. If he was vivid in giving, he was 
 equally so in receiving, personal impressions. He 
 would look at you just once, and his mind was made 
 up. If you attracted his good-will at first sight, you 
 might count upon him as a friend, and a warm one, 
 unless in after-times your course ran too strongly 
 counter to his. If he neglected you on first acquaint- 
 
58 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 ance, the chances were, that he would never take the 
 trouble to fish you up out of the pool of indifference. 
 
 Macrae’s father was one of those Scotch-Irishmen 
 who are to b@ found in the northern counties of Ire- 
 land, especially in Londonderry ; the descendants of 
 Scotch Presbyterians, who left their homes and crossed 
 the Channel in persecuting times. His mother was 
 one of those Srscayinas whom travellers from other 
 countries sometimes marry because of the glamour 
 which their dark beauty casts over the stranger. 
 
 To the family-seat at Briartop in Derry, Thomas 
 Macrae the elder brought this foreign wife. She en- 
 dured a short, fierce fight with new and strange cus- 
 toms and manners, — of both men and nature, —and 
 finally succumbed, and died of hemorrhage. But the 
 Biscayan woman was kept in memory by the likeness 
 to herself of a six-year-old son whom she left behind 
 her, a boy whose physical being was a mixture of 
 Northern sturdiness and Southern fire, and whose 
 speech was a jargon of English, Gaelic, Irish, and 
 Labortan. 
 
 At the age of ten the boy had become the terror 
 and the pride, at once, of all that country. His rest- 
 less and not over-thoughtful father awoke then to the 
 fact that his son needed an education ; and, on one 
 of his periodical flights to the more congenial atmos- 
 phere of the South, took the lad away from Briar- 
 top, and deposited him at Mons. Dideron’s school, in 
 Geneva. 
 
 For two years the father wandered, and the son 
 studied. The summer heat suggested a flight north- 
 
THOMAS MACRAE. 50 
 
 ward then, and the two Thomases again joined old 
 Adam Macrae at Briartop. All the way homeward 
 the elder traveller coughed and sighed. The old 
 home stretched out its welcoming arms to him, drew 
 him gently to its embrace, and, without a murmur, 
 the exhausted man closed”all his earthly accounts, 
 said “ Farewell’ to his son, and in one short month 
 was gone forever. 
 
 Old Adam seemed not to know of the existence, 
 even, of the young nephew thus left upon his hands. 
 For four years the boy roamed the country or staid 
 at home, at his own will, working with hands or brain 
 as the fancy took him, familiarizing himself with every 
 trade and occupation known to the men of that re- 
 gion. He was every one’s admiration, and in some 
 respects everybody’s bane. 
 
 At last an exploit on Neagh—the saving of an 
 almost drowned woman’s life—made him a hero. 
 His uncle actually heard of him, and for. the first 
 time took notice of him. He set to work to exam- 
 ine the lad, — “ metapheesically,”’ as he expressed it ; 
 and within a week sent for his lawyer, and informed 
 ‘Thomas outright that he had adopted him, and made 
 him heir to Briartop. In the same breath he added, 
 “ Didymus,” — the old man loved Scriptural names, 
 and looked upon his nephew as fairly entitled to any 
 appellation borne by the scriptural Thomas, — “ Didy- 
 mus, ye maun gae to bukes !”’ 
 
 “Where?’’ asked young Macrae. 
 
 “ Onywheer ye like,” was the old man’s reply. 
 
 Thomas decided upon Geneva. Mons. Dideron’s 
 
60 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 was the only school he knew. ‘To Mons. Dideron he 
 went, therefore ; and in one year and eight months 
 he suddenly finished his studies in a violent fit of 
 wrath at poor old Monsieur, delivered a startling val- 
 edictory from the walk in front of the “Gymnase,” 
 and went to register himself at the Hotel Anglais. 
 
 That very day he telegraphed to his uncle to ad- 
 dress him at Paris, Brussels, Amsterdam, ef ce‘era, 
 with dates ; and the day following, with two hundred 
 francs in his pocket, set out upon his travels, as self- 
 possessed at eighteen as most men at thirty. 
 
 The news of this proceeding was received by old 
 Adam Macrae at first with indifference ; but on sec-- 
 ond thought, and after receiving a little “ metaphees- 
 ical” light upon the subject, he found his nephew’s 
 conduct to be quite business-like and admirable. 
 With new-born respect for the young man, therefore, 
 Adam wrote him a letter full of worldly advice, with 
 an occasional bit of spiritual as well; and, doubtless 
 for the purpose of securing attention to his counsels, 
 added a letter of credit for four thousand francs. 
 
 Strange to say, Thomas Macrae was not ruined by 
 this affair: on the contrary, it was the making of him. 
 A very unusual occurrence, certainly, and not to be 
 taken as a model by other youths ; for not all youths 
 have Scotch fathers and Basque mothers, nor have 
 many such uncles as Adam Macrae. 
 
 The great trouble with the lad was that he was 
 burning to do something. He was on fire, and could 
 not brook the slow process of learning a language 
 verb by verb, or a science fact by fact. ~No school- 
 
THOMAS MACRAE. , 61 
 
 building was large enough to hold him; so he took 
 the whole world for his school, and almost every man 
 he met for his temporary schoolmaster. He had the 
 instinct of a bee: he sucked nectar from every thing 
 he touched,—not mere nectar of pleasure, but of 
 knowledge. He went to Paris, and in two weeks 
 knew that city thoroughly. Its art-treasures pleased 
 him for a day, its shops for another ; its myriad labors 
 on behalf of the palates and stomachs of men set him 
 to laughing outright; and lastly he took a look at 
 the dissipations of the capital, its painted women, its 
 costly amusements, its vile debaucheries, pronounced 
 the whole thing Jéé#se, and flew away over the rails 
 to Brussels. He followed up his original itinerary, 
 receiving everywhere kind letters from his uncle, 
 always advising him to be a gentleman. “Be a gen- 
 tleman, be a gentleman,” — always this, and little else. 
 Apparently his uncle cared nothing whether he ever . 
 learned to conjugate a Latin verb or to even name 
 the sciences. : | 
 
 Macrae made short work of those Northern cities. 
 The fit seized him, and he turned southward. Across 
 country he travelled to Nice, to Marseilles, to the 
 Pyrenees ; then westwards till he drove into Fonta- 
 rabia one evening, and asked for the name of Labo- 
 zique. 
 
 “Labozique, my lord?” and the inn-keeper of 
 whom Macrae was making inquiry at once became 
 obsequious. ‘The Laboziques are all nobles, my 
 lord, grand people. The Laboziques are Euskald- 
 ‘nac. Monsieur—is he a Labozique?” 
 
62 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 No, but his mother was. 
 
 “Ah! signor, my lord, monsieur, he has the Labo- 
 zique eye, very true.” 
 
 Out upon one of the mountain-roads Macrae found 
 next morning a whole colony of his mother’s relatives, 
 all Laboziques, all “nobles,” and all driving mules, 
 mending ploughs, cutting poles for new pruning-hooks, 
 two of the women doing a week’s washing. 
 
 Away went Macrae again to the northward, and 
 suddenly knocked at the library-door at Briartop, and 
 went into his uncle’s arms amid a polyglottal roaring 
 of Adam Macrae and half a dozen servants of divers 
 dialects. Here Macrae staid for a fortnight, drank. 
 hot Scotch whiskey with his uncle, smoked a pipe, 
 awoke one morning with a sensation as of death grip- 
 ping him here and there, went down stairs, and quietly 
 said “ Good-by ” to Adam, and was off again. 
 
 The whole secret of all this restlessness was that this 
 young man simply needed something to do, something 
 which would engross him. But what did he know of 
 professions or occupations? 
 
 About this time he took to reading. He would pick 
 up any thing, —a grammar, a history, a biography, a 
 geometry, — devour it in a few days on the railway or 
 in his room, and toss it out of window. It was a 
 strange way to get an education, but he was getting it. 
 
 He went to Monaco, and thinking that where men 
 and women looked so fiercely in earnest there must 
 be something to do, sat down to rouge e¢ noir. “ Fa’ 
 vo’ jeu, m’sieurs,” cried the croupier; and, just to 
 see what it was like, Macrae put some silver-pieces 
 
THOMAS MACRAE. 63 
 
 on the table. The croupier presently raked a corre- 
 sponding number of napoleons dexterously in front 
 of him. Macrae was struck with the absurdity of the 
 whole proceeding, arose, and left his napoleons lying 
 there, twenty tongues calling after him, “ Monsieur ! 
 monsieur ! ” 
 “ Aux pauvres,” he replied, and went out, ignorant 
 that those pieces went to the poor — ruler of Monaco. 
 Again he went up to Geneva, possibly with half a 
 mind to go to M. Dideron, pay for the windows he 
 had broken, and ask M. Dideron to help him digest 
 the great mass of knowledge he had literally been gulp- 
 ing down, and become a schoolboy again at twenty, 
 But M. Dideron was dead, and M. Fideron reigned 
 in his stead. Macrae did not know M. Fideron, and 
 retired from the door of the “ Gymnase’”’ disappointed. 
 Something drove him now to the mountains. He 
 had always hitherto clung to humanity. This time he 
 would try Nature. He went into the forest, took up 
 a wood-cutter’s axe, and worked till his arms ached. 
 He was dull and tired for three days: the solitude 
 terrified him, and he flew back to the cities. Some- 
 thing to do ! was the cry of his soul; something use- 
 ful and practical to expend all this burning energy 
 upon. . 
 Until he was twenty-one this undisciplined youth 
 travelled, keeping up his vain, unworded search. One 
 day, in Nuremberg, he stood looking up at the Frauen 
 Church, almost laughing at the strange architectural 
 industry displayed in the two-storied porch, the rows 
 of odd little windows in the gable, and the funny 
 
64 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 belfry. Why this church should have attracted his 
 attention that day, when he had passed and re-passed 
 it fifty times before with hardly a look, he could not 
 tell. But the Fates were in it. They had given Thomas 
 “Macrae time enough for school-going: they had work 
 for him to do now. 
 
 As he looked, a voice at his side startled him. Of 
 late he had begun to be critical in the matter of femi- 
 nine beauty. He had an ideal of face and figure and 
 voice. This voice, which only said to a half-elderly 
 lady in black, “ How beautiful!” was the very voice. 
 He was so startled that he looked its possessor squarely 
 in the face, and behold! it was the very face. He 
 scanned the figure unobtrusively, and it was the very 
 figure. 
 
 “Something to do now!” he said almost aloud 
 He began by following the two ladies, at a respect- 
 ful distance, to their lodging. It took him but a 
 few minutes to ascertain that they were Mrs. and 
 Miss Hartley, on their way from Italy to Liverpool, 
 and that their luggage had already gone on, marked, 
 “e# Steward ‘Princess Adelaide,’ steamer.” 
 
 In another hour a telegram was on its way to cer- 
 tain London bankers, — 
 
 “ Engage passage for me by steamer ‘Princess Adelaide,’ 
 
 this trip. 
 THOMAS MACRAE.” 
 
 An English newspaper was easily obtained; and 
 Macrae learned from it that he had yet nearly two 
 weeks to spend in Europe, and, further, that “The 
 
THOMAS MACRAE. 65 
 
 Princess Adelaide” was one of the steamers of the 
 Royal Family Line, and was destined to Quebec. 
 
 The next morning the ladies had left Nuremberg, 
 their host said, intending to make several short stops, 
 and then post on to England. Thither went Thomas 
 Macrae, not once thinking of any nonsensical follow- 
 ing of these two ladies. The fires within him had 
 suddenly been banked. His energies were solidifying 
 for a mighty effort; his impatience was quelled. He 
 stopped in London long enough to ascertain that his 
 passage was secured, and went on to Briartop. 
 
 The days flew by, and in due time Macrae went 
 down to Queenstown and boarded the steamer. In 
 his pocket were letters to John Macrae, the third of 
 the Macrae brothers, from Adam. Thomas knew this 
 John Macrae to be a lawyer practising in Canada, but 
 had never seen him. When he learned, therefore, by 
 adroit inquiry, that Mrs. and Miss Hartley were on 
 board, and were booked through, by Grand Trunk 
 Railway, to Millington, Ontario, his heart stood still for 
 a moment, then bounded back to a settled, steady 
 beating. 
 
 “Grand!” said Macrae. “I will study law with 
 my uncle. The Fates have arranged it all beautifully. 
 I can read my future as well as if it were printed in a 
 book.” 
 
 Had you known Thomas Macrae during the year 
 preceding Ben Hollins’s engagement to Betty Hart- 
 ley, you would have seen in him one of the most dili- 
 gent of students, one of the most exemplary of young 
 men. ‘The blow finally came, and his great will stood 
 
66 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 out against it. The fire in him seemed to be wholly 
 directed now to the one purpose of achieving a manly, 
 honorable station, like that of his uncle. Who could 
 tell when or how that fire might again spring up into 
 fierce burning, devouring and licking up all that was 
 good in Thomas Macrae ? 
 
 When Ben’s misfortune came, Macrae drifted into 
 a more frequent and intimate intercourse with the 
 family at Elmswoods. It was at the solicitation of 
 Mr. Hollins, too, who was honestly fond of him. He 
 was kind to Ben, and spent hours in diverting him. 
 Was not that enough to earn any father’s gratitude ? 
 
 But as the year went on, Macrae grew uneasy. The 
 old passion was rising in him again. It almost mad- 
 dened him, at times, to think that Betty should bind 
 herself to a man who was probably hopelessly insane. 
 Step by step he drifted into a fury of love, —that fury 
 in which men mount skywards in probity and honor, 
 or sink hellwards. But if he offered Betty Hartley a 
 graceful courtesy, and she blushed, how was he to 
 know that her reddening proceeded not from love, 
 but from very fear of his love? 
 
 Then, again, he took note of her tender devotion 
 to Ben; and, in proportion to the intensity of that 
 tenderness, she was cold, distant, formal, common- 
 place with himself. At such times his honor, his 
 pride, his self-respect, rose to a towering height; and 
 he went out into the fields, or paced his room until 
 his whole being was filled with a determination to be 
 content. 
 
 It is one thing to be a man,—a manly man, — 
 
THOMAS MACRAE. 67 
 
 quite another to be always fighting and laboring to 
 try to be a man; and this was the key to Thomas 
 Macrae’s difficulty. He found it out on a certain 
 day in September; turned the key carelessly, or des- 
 perately: the bolt shot out of its place, and pande- 
 monium was let loose in Millington for a time. 
 
68 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 TEMPTATIONS. 
 
 E return now to the morning of Ben Hollins’s 
 
 disappearance from Elmswoods. It will be 
 remembered that Macrae had spent an hour at the 
 house, in Betty Hartley’s company. Poor Betty! she 
 needed contact with the brightness and cheerfulness 
 of the unafflicted. They all thought at Elmswoods 
 that Thomas Macrae’s visits were a blessing. 
 
 But Macrae, on his part, left the house that morn- 
 ing in great agitation. He had come to the verge 
 of casting his burning love at Betty’s feet, and chai- 
 lenging her; but he was afraid. He locked up his 
 great trouble again in his breast, therefore, and went 
 out into the open air for relief. On his way down the 
 avenue he met Ben, and they walked together as far 
 as the gates. The sight of Ben just at that moment 
 filled him with loathing. He was barely civil to the 
 poor fellow for once, and left him standing in the 
 avenue with hardly so much as a word of farewell. 
 
 And now Macrae was in no mood for books and 
 law-papers. He would walk, run, traverse the woods, 
 any thing to get rid of this heart-beating, and the 
 pressure of his rapid blood upon the brain. Not by 
 the direct road to Millington, therefore, but across 
 
TEMPTATIONS. 69 
 
 country he went, towards the river. He never looked 
 behind once: if he had, he would have seen a new 
 and strange sight. 
 
 On and on he walked, gloomy, hopeless, building up 
 anon some new castle of desire, arranging innocent- 
 looking snares wherewith to trap a certain beautiful 
 bird. At length he turned off towards Bridge Hill. 
 Walking rapidly, and wholly occupied with what was 
 passing in his own mind, he was unaware that Ben 
 had followed him, until he stopped to seat himself for 
 a rest on some of the timbers that lay upon the hill. 
 To his amazement, Ben was within forty paces of him. 
 
 “ What have you followed me for, Ben?’’ he asked. 
 
 “Oh, yes, folly !— ha, ha ! — great folly !” 
 
 A flush came over Thomas Macrae. ‘“ What a 
 shame!’ he thought, “that a girl like Betty Hart- 
 ley should have to bear this sort of thing all her life!” 
 The river plashed against the lofty wall of rock be- 
 low ; and the hissing wash of each succeeding wavelet 
 seemed to bring suggestions more and more distinctly 
 to his half-horrified, half-willng ear. He hated to 
 look that way, lest he should see shapes of unholy 
 aspect. He shuddered when there came to his ear, 
 as distinctly as if Ben himself had uttered them, the 
 words, “Come on, Thomas Macrae! Grand times 
 down here. Marry the girl you love; do just as you 
 please ; defy the silly laws of heaven and earth. Oh, 
 what a merry life we devils lead !”’ 
 
 Macrae was startled, and, leaping up, seized Ben’s 
 arm, and almost dragged him into the road and hur- 
 ried with him towards Elmswoods; and as he went, 
 
70 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 faster and faster, there came to him on every breeze 
 and from the rustle of every leaf a demon voice, a 
 demoniac suggestion. 
 
 What if Ben should wander alone to Bridge Hill, 
 and fall over into the river below? 
 
 What if he should be standing near the edge of 
 that precipice : how much of a push, how much fury, 
 would it require to send him over? 
 
 Was Thomas Macrae prepared to yield to such 
 suggestions? Not at all. He was too wise a man 
 for that, held himself still too close in hand; and, 
 with every step which lengthened the distance be- 
 tween him and the scene of temptation, Macrae was 
 becoming stronger and calmer, —so calm finally that 
 he dared to look at Ben. And what a sight presented 
 itself to him ! 
 
 This rapid walking was a new experience to Ben. 
 He was in a glow of something like excitement. 
 Half his coat was stripped off and hung dangling ; 
 his waistcoat was open, necktie fluttering, sleeves 
 hanging loose. 
 
 “Ben, what have you been déiné to yourself?” 
 Macrae asked. “Where is your hat? And your cuff- 
 buttons — what have you done with them?” 
 
 “Ha, ha!” answered Ben. “I’ve done for them 
 this time sure enough.” 
 
 “Did you take them out on the hill?” 
 
 “Well, I couldn’t rightly say as to that,” answered 
 Ben; and in a helpless way he half-turned towards 
 
 * the hill. 
 
 There was a suggestion in the motion, and a per- 
 
TEMPTATIONS. 71 
 
 fectly innocent one. Macrae followed it, and they 
 turned back to re-traverse the mile they had just cov- 
 ered. Arrived at the place, Macrae speedily recovered 
 one of the buttons, but the other was not to be found. 
 
 The time consumed was long enough for a new 
 attack from without, and Macrae’s blood began to 
 boil again. The loudness of the voices from below 
 was gone: they came in whispers this time. 
 
 “Come, Macrae, don’t be a coward. Marry the 
 girl you love, and come down here and dwell with 
 us. Oh, what a merry set we are! And, Macrae, 
 send zm down first!” 
 
 Macrae laughed at this now,—scorned it; tossed 
 stones over the bank, as if to say, “There! feed on 
 those! Stones are good enough food for such mur- 
 derous devils as you.” | 
 
 Nevertheless, awful thoughts were passing in Mac- 
 rae’s soul; and as one after another came into being, 
 was examined, rejected, and passed away, still others 
 trooped in. Rain-drops began to patter upon the 
 timbers; and Macrae arose, saying, ‘“‘Come, Ben: it 
 is going to rain. We must go home.” 
 
 As he stood he gave that sweeping look towards the 
 road which is almost always our first operation when 
 setting out upon a walk. His blood almost went cold 
 as he encountered the gaze of an old woman stand- 
 ing motionless on the crown of the hill. It was Car- 
 ney Dugan. She had been standing there full fifteen 
 minutes, Macrae all unconscious of it. She lifted her 
 finger, and shook it at him. He was maddened by 
 this, — disgusted, terrified, — and then provoked with 
 
72 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 himself for attaching any importance to the imperti- 
 nences of such a forlorn creature. 
 
 Faster and faster came the rain. A two-mile walk 
 was not quite as desirable as shelter. At the foot of 
 the hill, five minutes away, there were houses ; better 
 yet, here was an old roadside shop, unused. The 
 windows were long ago battered out, but it was good 
 enough for an hour’s waiting. Harder and harder 
 the September flood poured down from the water- 
 laden sky. The hour passed into two; and, finally, 
 at four minutes before six, the sun went down, the 
 twilight spread abroad and oe a into darker and 
 darker shades. 
 
 Macrae saw Harper and his followers go up the 
 hill, Had he known that they were in search of Ben, 
 he might still have saved himself by simply crying out, 
 “Here is Ben! He is all right and safe!” But he 
 did not know, and did not think. He was on fire ° 
 with phosphoric thought. He had resolved, — that 
 is to say, half-resolved,—in his enforced silence, to 
 make a bold push for success. A plan had come into 
 his mind, —one so bloodless, so comparatively inno- 
 cent, that he began to wonder how he could have let 
 a whole year glide by without trying it. 
 
 In the deepening darkness, and in a lengthy lull in 
 the storm, Macrae and Ben left the old shop. “Come 
 on, Ben,” was enough to secure docile following, and 
 Macrae successfully threaded lanes and streets without 
 exposure ; for the search after Ben was at this time 
 temporarily suspended, and the town lay for that hour 
 in its accustomed early-evening quiet. With a bound- 
 
TEMPTATIONS. 73 
 
 ing heart, Macrae turned the key in his’ own door, 
 clinching his hands, as if to hold firmly the triumph 
 he had achieved. 
 
 “Ben, you are half-wet,’’ said Macrae. 
 
 “Ha! a little moist, I should say.” 
 
 *T must give you something dry. Here, let’s put 
 this on, Ben, — and this, — and this.” 
 
 The clothing which Ben was speedily covered with 
 made quite a different-looking man of him. More- 
 over, not one piece of it had ever been seen on the 
 streets of Millington. There was a coat from Bar- 
 ton’s, Ludgate Hill; a waistcoat from Palisser’s, Grand 
 Rue, Paris. Ben’s own apparel was all dark: these 
 articles were. of lighter shades. 
 
 “Come, Ben!” Oh that fatal docility of obe- 
 dience! ‘Come, Ben!” 
 
 Together they went out into the night. We shall 
 find them again, but most quickly by following Car- 
 ney Dugan. 
 
 Carney had gone on up the Bridge Hill road, west- 
 wards, to the widow Cormick’s, to help her count her 
 pennies. As she went she muttered, “The lad is spir- 
 ited enough; an’ I niver knowed a Macrae dishonest 
 in all me life. But what a look was dhat in his face! 
 an’ what was he thinking of, wid his head down in 
 his han’s, an’ he a-lookin’ up at Misther Ben, wid his 
 teeth set an’ his eyes on fire? O Barney Dugan! 
 wasn’t it dhat same look I seen in yure face wanc’t, 
 the night Con Cormick was killed? Whin murdher’s 
 in dhe wish, it’s dhe same like in dhe face. Is it me 
 fate to be privy to sich things all me days? O Bar- 
 
74 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 ney, an’ yer ghost can come down an’ warn him away, . 
 do it! Maybe it’s dhe dade o’ charity as’ll cover yer 
 own multitude uv sins.” 
 
 Carney’s mind was not upon her work as she slowly 
 looked over the pennies, and half-dimes, and occa- 
 sional English sixpences, which her sister-widow spread 
 out before her. She finished her counting as speedily 
 as possible, therefore, and set out to return to Milling- 
 ton, in greater haste than she had ever travelled that 
 road before. Had it been Ben Hollins only that was 
 concerned in the matter which was now weighing so 
 heavily upon Carney’s mind, it is doubtful whether she 
 would have thought twice of it; but she had reasons 
 for an intense interest in Macrae. She saw, or thought 
 she saw, danger in the occurrence of the afternoon ; 
 and a resolve to avert it took possession of her. 
 
 She had seen Macrae and Ben go down the hill, 
 so she made her way to the town. The tidings of 
 Ben’s disappearance greeted her at every turn; but 
 not a word did she say of meeting him, for fear of 
 compromising Macrae. She made an excuse for going 
 into the mill-offices; she looked in at many of the 
 shops ; she passed Macrae’s lodging, and could see 
 no sign of life there. 
 
 At last came the rumor that Ben had been found, 
 and Carney saw the mill-men going home in that satis- 
 fied, unconcerned way which confirms us in the belief 
 that anxiety has ceased. She went to her cabin, there- 
 fore, satisfied that all had come right again. 
 
 But bitter recollections had come into her mind, 
 and Carney sat and wailed until darkness enveloped 
 
TEMPTATIONS. 75 
 
 her. As the clock in St. Peter’s tower struck seven, 
 Carney rose, and saying aloud, “ Betune dhis an’ dhe 
 widdy, I’ve lost me day intirely, an’ niver a stick in 
 dhe house,” took up her basket, and set off down the 
 river-bank, below the mills, where firewood could be 
 had for the taking. She threw over her head a small 
 three-cornered shawl, so ragged and soiled as to have 
 little resemblance to the gay affair it was when it first 
 left the loom, and was presently threading her way 
 among the lofty piles of tanbark and scattered heaps 
 of refuse which constituted the holdings of what were 
 known as Thompson’s yards. 
 
 Let me explain briefly that the firm of Thompson 
 Brothers used these yards for storage of schooner- 
 _ loads of bark which was brought from the upper coun- 
 try, and here shipped by rail to the tanneries, forty 
 miles away. A special track had been laid into these 
 yards from the main line of the railway; and every 
 evening one or more cars were loaded here, and taken 
 off about eight o’clock by an eastward-bound goods- 
 Pan 
 
 As Carney reached this track her keen eyes de- 
 tected two figures moving slowly near one of the 
 loaded cars, a matter of forty feet distant. It was im- 
 possible to recognize either of them in the darkness, 
 but hearing supplied Carney with startling information. 
 As she stood watching, the words came down to her, 
 “Come, Ben, climb up here !” 
 
 Carney saw one of the figures mount the car, and 
 crouch into a narrow space by the side of a stake. 
 The other person, leaving him then, turned away, and 
 
76 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 walked slowly towards Carney. Crossing the track, 
 he stumbled, and almost fell into Carney’s arms. He 
 was flushed with success, this stumbler,—by name 
 ‘Thomas Macrae,—and had lost his watchfulness ; 
 but, in spite of the surprise which overtook him, he 
 managed to say, almost coolly, “This is the second 
 time I have met you to-day.” 
 
 “Yis, sir,” replied Carney, “jist that; an’ maybe 
 it wud ha’ been betther for all uv us if I had made it 
 wanc’t, an’ wanc’t only, as I was minded out on dhe 
 Bridge Hill.” 
 
 ‘“What are you talking about?” 
 
 “What are you doin’ wid Misther Binjamin?” 
 
 “Sending him up on Thompson’s car to the sta- 
 tion, of course. Didn’t you know he was lost? He 
 wandered away from me this afternoon, and we have 
 been looking all over the town for him.” 
 
 Macrae was for moving on, but Carney detained 
 him. 
 
 “Thomas Macrae,” said she solemnly, “beware uv 
 dhe evil wan!” 
 
 “Stop your infernal tongue, you meddling beggar !”” 
 
 was his reply. 
 
 “Softly, gintly, Misther Macrae,” said Carney; “av 
 ye want anny thing uv me, ye must be civil.” 
 
 “Who wants any thing of you, woman?” asked 
 Macrae ; then, with a sneering laugh, “No one wants 
 your help in this matter, I am sure; for Mr. Benja- 
 min will soon be at the station, and I shall take him 
 home.” 
 
 _“An’ shposin’ you shouldn’t, Misther Macrae, what 
 
TEMPTATIONS. 77 
 
 dhin? Carney Dugan’s old, but not blind. Now lis- 
 ten me, Misther Thomas. Dhe Macraes o’ Briartop 
 was used to spake softly to dhe likes o’ me, an’ not 
 knock us down wid haird wurruds. I knowed ’em 
 long before iver you seen dhe light o’ day. "Iwas 
 but an hour’s journey from dhe Scotch fairms in lower 
 Derry to Arboe, in county Tyrone, where me an’ my 
 Barney lived. Oh! could ye but see Barney Dugan 
 the day, Misther Thomas, perhaps ye’d need no help 
 uv mine! Manny’s dhe day’s fishin’ an’ sailin’ yure 
 father had wid my Barney an’ Con Cormick on Lough 
 Neagh to Killead an’ Glanevy in Antrim ; an’ more 
 times dhan twinty dhey crossed dhe Shebli Gallan to- 
 gether. Dhe Macraes was uv gintle blood an’ makin’. 
 It’s no time to be bringin’ evil ways intle it.” 
 
 ‘Thomas Macrae was stricken dumb, for the mo- 
 ment. Here was a ragged, miserable woman claiming 
 a sort of connection with him, professing an interest 
 in him, and yet seemingly menacing him. Rapidly 
 he surveyed the field which was darkly spread before 
 him. Here was untold danger in this woman’s little 
 knowledge of his purpose and his acts. Should he 
 retrieve every thing by the one capital stroke of giving 
 up Ben to Carney, and asking her to take him to 
 Mr. Hollins’s office? Something whispered in his ear, 
 “No: one turn more, and all is accomplished !” 
 
 On the rack for seven hours, Macrae was becoming 
 blind: a great confusion was coming over him. ‘The 
 door to a good ending of all this trial had been opened 
 to him several times; and each time, what he after- 
 wards called accident, but what was really nothing 
 
78 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 but a momentaly infirmity of will, intervened, and he 
 drifted back towards evil. 
 
 His first approach to crime, he “bungled”? at it, 
 as men say. His question, Shall I retrieve all? he 
 answered in the affirmative. But when it came to 
 giving Ben up to Carney Dugan,—the woman was 
 repulsive to him, she had meddled with him, he was 
 angry with her: he would restore Ben, but not through 
 her. He would submit to no such degradation as that, 
 and have her holding the whip over him ever after- 
 wards. He would take Ben up to Elmswoods him- 
 self. 
 
 It was a great relief to Macrae to have so decided ; 
 and now advancing a step, he said with the boldness 
 of conscious superiority, “Stand aside, Mrs. Dugan. 
 Don’t you see that they are pushing those cars up to 
 the station? They will be there in five minutes, and 
 I must hasten or I shall lose Mr. Benjamin.” 
 
 But the woman clung persistently to him. “TI goes 
 wid you,” she said firmly and quietly. 
 
 To break away from Carney, and run towards the 
 station, was Macrae’s first thought; but what dangers 
 might not spring out of this? Perhaps it would be bet- 
 ter to lose one minute more in parley. So he turned 
 to Carney, saying, “I am perfectly competent to take 
 care of Mr. Ben without any help, Mrs. Dugan ;” and 
 then with a burst of angry chagrin, revealing his in- 
 most soul to her and exciting Carney’s doubts still 
 more, he added, “And, mind you, don’t you cross 
 my path again! If you do, it will be the worse for 
 you.” 
 
é 
 
 TEMPTATIONS. 79 
 
 “ You can take care of him, can you?” asked Car- 
 ney. ‘An’ maybe it’ll be dhe same kin’ o’ care you 
 took uv him on dhe Bridge Hill, an’ as you’ve been 
 carin’ for him iver since! ‘Thomas Macrae, go to 
 dhe rail-house as fast as iver yer legs can carry you; 
 an’ I goes wid you on mine. Do ye hear to dhat?” 
 
 There was no help for it. Time was becoming 
 precious. The goods-train was already rattling down 
 from the west; and Macrae was now as anxious to 
 prevent Ben from being carried away as he had been, 
 in his temporary passion, to get rid of him. He 
 strode on, therefore, as much in advance of his un- 
 welcome companion as possible ; but it required more 
 than five minutes to reach the station. 
 
 And what was the use of their going to that spot 
 at all? The train made no stop there, but drove 
 past almost at full speed.’ It was not there, but an 
 eighth of a mile below, that the cars from Thomp- 
 son’s were taken up; and Macrae and Carney either 
 did not know this, or in their excitement forgot it. 
 They stood, therefore, bewildered, doubting ; and, as 
 they waited, the rattle of the train ceased for a mo- 
 ment, there was a pushing and pulling of cars in the 
 distance, a few shoutings of men and blowings of the 
 
 .. whistle, a “ Let go!” sounded shrilly upon the air, and 
 
 the train was off again, its manifold sounds growing 
 fainter and fainter, until Carney and Macrae were left 
 alone in the stillness of the undisturbed night. Mac- 
 rae was shaking, as a mill-wheel shakes when its round 
 of steady duty is brought to a stop by an overwhelm- 
 ing flood, the great rush of waters enveloping it and 
 
80 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 refusing to let it turn. His face was literally livid, its 
 dark lines growing darker, and its lighter ones like 
 new-moonlight — ghastly. 
 
 “Fine worruk you’ve made of it dhis night, Thomas 
 Macrae!” said Carney ; “fine worruk for dhe people 
 at Elmswoods, an’ for yersilf, an’ for me too! who 
 knows ?” 
 
 To have faced all the risks in this affair alone would 
 have been comparatively easy for Macrae ; but the in- 
 stant he comprehended that now he must share every 
 thing with this miserable woman he grew sick at soul. 
 The only relief possible came in hideous shape. 
 
 “Misther Thomas!” said Carney, “now hear to 
 me again. Before dhis night is over dhere may be 
 innocent blood on yure han’s; but Carney Dugan’ll 
 niver forget dhat it was a Macrae washed blood aff 
 her own han’s wanc’t, whin Con Cormick was a-lyin’ 
 in dhe upper field at Briartop wid his head crushed 
 be my Barney! ’TIwas Con Cormick I loved, an’ 
 dhey drugged me to marry Barney Dugan 3 an’ whin 
 Barney Dugan lay dhat night snatchin’ dhe bit sleep 
 till he’d run over till Belfast in dhe early morning to 
 set sail to Loverpool, an’ me a-standin’ over him wid 
 dhe axe in me han’s, to do vengeance on him, in 
 comes yure father, Misther Thomas, an’ says, ‘ Get 
 him off, Carney ; get him off. They’ve found Con’s 
 body an’ Barney’s cudgel.’ —‘ Oh!’ says I, ‘dhe Holy 
 Vargin an’ all dhe saints be praised!’ Misther Mac- 
 rae niver seen it, but he saved me from murther dhat 
 night ; an’ I’d do it for you, Misther T homas, av I 
 could.” . 
 
TEMPTATIONS. 81 
 
 “Don’t make such a racket, Mrs. Dugan! pray 
 don’t!” said Macrae almost piteously. “ What’s to 
 be done? I—I thought we should have found Ben 
 here.” 
 
 “Toots wid yer findin’ Ben! What did ye put him 
 on dhat cair for, but not to fin’ him? Misther Thom- 
 as!— wan quistion! —is it for love uv the Hairtley 
 lass ye done this?” 
 
 Of what use was it for Macrae to set himself against 
 this woman? Maddened, aghast at the first conse- 
 quences of his evil deed, he lost all control of himself. 
 He turned away from Carney, and fled. 
 
82 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 THE TEMPTED TURNED TEMPTER. 
 
 HEN Harper left Carney Dugan’s hovel, 
 
 spurred to eager action by the information 
 that Ben had been at Thompson’s, he went thither as 
 one who felt sure that he was near the object of his 
 pursuit. Lanterns were procured, and the yards thor- 
 oughly searched. But not a sign of Ben was to be 
 found, save a handkerchief marked “B. H.” 
 
 Said Matthew Bryan, “Mr. Harper, this be almost 
 dead certain. Here be the very spot where they 
 loaded Thompson’s car. He be gone on that car.” 
 
 The same conclusion had already been reached by 
 Harper ; and the party hastily returned to the offices, 
 where Harper unfolded a project whose practicability 
 impressed itself at once upon Mr. Hollins and his 
 friendly advisers. . 
 
 To put it in Harper’s own words, his proposal was 
 as follows : — 
 
 “If Mr. Benjamin has gone off on the goods-train, 
 it is easy enough to find him. That train is a slow 
 one, and makes many stops. An engine always comes 
 to Millington station about nine o’clock, and waits 
 here until midnight to help the westward goods-train 
 up the Winbrook grade. I know Sandys, the engin- 
 
THE TEMPTED TURNED TEMPTER. 83 
 
 eer ; and, if you gentlemen will take the responsibility, 
 we can overhaul the train in an hour, and return in 
 advance of the westward train. We must be quick 
 about it. It is nearly nine now.” 
 
 They were quick about it, indeed, as in such an 
 
 exigency they had need to be. A few words of expla- 
 nation enlisted Sandys’s interest. He asked a backing 
 from Mr. Hollins if the irregularity of “running his 
 engine wild” should be inquired into at headquarters ; 
 and, being assured of it, made a rapid calculation as to 
 how far away the goods-train might be, how long it 
 would “take her’ to shift cars at Wormley and Par- 
 don, and how much time “she ” would lose at Tarnton 
 switch waiting for the express. 
 _ The stoker “fired up,” and away they went, Harper 
 having two of the mill-men with him. Cautiously 
 they proceeded at first, until all the Millington 
 switches and sidings were passed ; then Sandys pulled 
 upon the throttle, and the engine breathed harder and 
 faster. 
 
 The cab shook and swayed. The track-joints gave 
 out a sound like the rattle of a snare-drum. Five 
 anxious faces peered out of the little cab-windows 
 from time to time, looking among the dense shadows 
 and out into the deeper blackness beyond, as if Ben 
 might happen to be wandering there. 
 
 “Five miles*in five minutes,” said the engine- 
 driver. “Now we’re coming to the eight-mile straight. 
 When I lift my hand, begin to count, and when [I sing 
 out stop.” 
 
 Sandys’s hand went up suddenly, and Harper 
 
84 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 watched the second-hand of his timepiece as it 
 leaped along—oh, how s!owly! Now for a race 
 against time, nay, against faults in engineering, against 
 carelessness and want of skill in the making of iron 
 rails and spikes and in the shaping and fastening of 
 ties, against a thousand unforeseen accidents of quick- 
 sand, heat, cold, storm and fire, or mistakes by sleepy 
 or overworked telegraphers, of the devilishness of 
 creatures in human form who scruple not to plunge a 
 whole train into wreck and death, that they may 
 pillage. On and on the “Stamford” flew. Islay, 
 Pangborn, Wales, were passed. A mile beyond, Sandys 
 called out, “Stop!” The eight miles were finished. 
 
 “Six minutes and fourteen seconds,” said Harper. 
 The seconds did not seem so slow then. 
 
 “And, Sandys,” added Harper, “we must be getting 
 somewhere near that train.’ 
 
 The driver’s only reply was, “What’s that bright 
 light?” 
 
 And in another minute he answered his own ques- 
 tion and the inquiring looks of the others. 
 
 “That’s a fire, and not a forest-fire, nor yet a 
 farmer’s house. ‘That’s oil. The road curves below 
 here a little, and shoots off in that direction. That 
 goods-train had eleven cars of oil from Petrolia. 
 Something has happened down there. Stoke her, 
 Billy !” 
 
 In a minute or two more the curve was rounded, 
 and the hearts of these five men leaped as they saw 
 a burning train a mile ahead. 
 
 “Now, Billy, look sharp,” said Sandys, as he pre 
 
THE TEMPTED TURNED TEMPTER. 85 
 
 pared to bring the engine to a stop as close to the 
 train as possible. 
 
 ‘What’s the matter, Parl.er?’”? he asked of the 
 conductor of the goods-train, who was looking rue- 
 fully on, in an interval of hard labor at pushing the 
 rear cars up the track out of reach of the blazing 
 oil. There was little or nothing to tell, not evena 
 theory. 
 
 Harper and the two mill-men looked at once for 
 Thompson’s cars. Nota sign of Ben Hollins could 
 they discover. They looked for a living Ben, they 
 looked for a dead Ben; but there was nothing. 
 
 Only one solitary clew was obtained. A hat was | 
 picked up, smeared and bloody, one of those East 
 Indian affairs of straw and white muslin, affected by 
 the Canadian youth in summer. They took this back 
 
 to Millington. Ben had had just such a hat, and it 
 ~ could not be found. So they mourned and mourned 
 at Elmswoods, with an indescribable horror at Ben’s 
 probable fate, —a horror which even a telegram from 
 the scene of the accident the next morning could 
 not allay. The telegram described a body found in 
 the ditch. “ Dark hair streaked with gray ; mustache ; 
 poorly clad ; general appearance of tramp.” ‘This was 
 not Ben. 
 
 The newspapers took it up, and within a week 
 asserted that it was beyond doubt that “young Mr. 
 Hollins of Millington”? had perished ; and even Har- 
 per adopted this view of the matter, returning to his 
 regular round of work as if this episode in the affairs 
 of the world had come to an end. 
 
86 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 Almost at the very hour when Harper returned to 
 Millington, Ben’s case was under consideration by 
 others, and these had no thought of giving up Ben 
 for lost. One especially Thomas Macrae by name 
 —was nerving himself to the point of beginning a 
 search for Ben just as those who most sincerely loved 
 
 him gave it up. 
 
 _ When he fled from Carney Dugan at the station, 
 the old woman looked at his retreating figure as long 
 as the darkness permitted, and then set out for her 
 miserable home, muttering as she went, “He'll be 
 comin’ again. He’s wild-like now; an’ if he doesn’t 
 seek me, I’ll seek him.” 
 
 And true enough, before many minutes there was 
 a knock at her door. Her thoughts were dwelling 
 upon the expected visitor ; and she called out, “Come 
 in, Thomas!” finding herself, to her surprise, face to 
 face with Harper, not Macrae. 
 
 Again a few minutes, and the dark figure which 
 crouched out of sight as Harper and his men left 
 Carney’s cabin arose to the stature of a man and 
 cautiously approached. 
 
 As he opened Carney’s door, he stood for a moment 
 perplexed at the woman’s attitude of despair. She 
 sat staring at the old pocket-books and the little heap 
 of silver coins in her lap. Seeing Macrae at last, she 
 burst into lamentation. 
 
 “Qh-h-h! Woe an’ woe, Misther Thomas! dhe 
 swate life is goin’ out uv me intirely! Me a-workin’ 
 dhe very bones out uv me fingers, an’ me little store 
 all gone! O Misther Thomas! whativer will I do now 
 
q 
 i 
 | 
 | 
 : 
 
 THE TEMPTED TURNED TEMPTER. 87 
 
 or next? O Misther Thomas! you’re a lawyer, — can 
 
 _ you see dhe way out uv dhis?” 
 
 “What is it all about, Mrs. Dugan?” asked Macrae. 
 
 “OQ Misther Thomas! dhis is a life of throuble 
 an’ sorry! ‘T’irty yares ago I kem to dhis land, in 
 hopes of rist and pace. But dhey wuddent lave me 
 rist wan day nor hour in it. It’s a place for wild 
 beasts an’ fowels uv dhe air. An’ me a-savin’ an’ 
 savin’, dhese manny yares back, wid buyin’ an’ sellin’ 
 an’ beggin’, an’ scrapin’ up dhe price of a ticket back 
 to Arboe, — it’s t’irty dollars for me passage, — an’ 
 I’ve dhe tin cup an’ plate by me, an’ tin dollars for 
 dhe ixpadiencies, an’ that makes forty ; an’ ’twas like 
 rollin’ up mountains, it was, to get it. An’ here I 
 was wid four poun’-notes on dhe Bank uv Monthreal 
 in dhis book, an’ dhe rist uv it in silver in dhis wan, 
 an’ here’s me paper money all gone! Ohoo! ohoo!” 
 
 Macrae would have screamed almost, had not Car- 
 ney’s talk come to an end. He was very nearly hyster- 
 ical already. His Scotch sturdiness and his Biscayan 
 fire had rubbed against each other so long, now, that 
 he was all but torn in pieces. But none of his quick- 
 ness was gone: his thoughts came as sparks of elec- 
 tric light yet. Carney’s lament was like the turning 
 of a generating-plate, and his fiery brain received the 
 scintillation almost instantly. It was difficult for him 
 to restrain himself from pouring out at once the words 
 that flew.together on his tongue ; but he made a mighty 
 
 _ effort, and went out into the cool night-air to think, to 
 
 reflect. 
 He had come here vaguely purposing to struggle 
 
83 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 with Carney, to plead, to threaten, to argue, to per- | 
 suade, to bribe, perhaps to do even worse; and now, 
 was there in Carney’s words an opening of escape, — | 
 
 something which he might turn to account? 
 
 He went in again, half-calmed ; shaking, it is trae, 
 
 as if in an ague, but hopeful. With an inward gasp, 
 he grasped Carney’s arm, and said, “ Mrs. Dugan, do 
 you really wish to go to Ireland?” 
 
 “Wish, is it? Wouldn’t I begin dhe journey afut, 
 
 dhis very night, av it wasn’t for dhe murdherin’ say _ 
 
 dhat lies betuxt?” 
 
 “Stop your noise, then, and let us talk it over. 
 Perhaps I can comfort you.” 
 
 “ An’ it wouldn’t be dhe first time I was comforted 
 be a Macrae, aither. Sure I said it was dhe Macrae 
 blood was in you, Misther Thomas.” 
 
 “Never mind the blood. Now, see here: if you 
 
 want to go to Ireland, you shall go. Do you hear?” 
 
 An’ how am I goin’? on a broomshtick ?”’ 
 “Nonsense! In a steamer of course.” 
 
 ““O Misther Thomas ’’ — 
 
 “Hold on, now; wait till I say all I have to say. 
 
 Mrs. Dugan, you want something, and I want some- | 
 thing. Will you go to Ireland, and [he whispered in 
 
 her ear now] take with you?” 
 The name of Ben Hollins was not even whispered. 
 
 Carney arose in unfeigned alarm. The eager eye 
 
 was fastened upon hers, however; and at the end of 
 that trying time, in which these two gazed at each 
 
 other, the power of the man and the selfish cupidity 
 
 of the woman conquered. Suppose she said No, Car- 
 
THE TEMPTED TURNED TEMPTER. 89 
 
 ney reasoned, what fate still awaited Ben? and sup- 
 pose she consented, and went, could she not restore 
 Ben at some future time? And what of herself also? 
 This began to trouble her. She had been assuming 
 a mighty deal of authority over Macrae ; but now, of a 
 sudden, the tables were turned, and this fierce young 
 man was making her afraid. 
 
 They talked till midnight. They schemed, and 
 plotted, and planned. ‘They discussed the chances of 
 Ben’s escape from the train, of his being discovered 
 by the train-hands and ordered off. And the conclu- 
 sion was, that Macrae determined that it would be an 
 easy matter to trace Ben and find him. If it became 
 necessary, he knew professionally just the man to 
 employ for that business. But he knew another man 
 whom he would intrust with it first, and that man was 
 — himself. 
 
 “To-morrow morning, then, I will go in search of 
 him, Mrs. Dugan. este / I wish you had said you 
 wished to go to Ireland when we were down at 
 Thompson’s.”’ 
 
 “ And so does I, Misther Thomas.” 
 
 And so do we all. For, in all probability, these two 
 would then have entrapped each other in far less time 
 than it required under the new arrangement. 
 
 Macrae had now a purpose once more, and almost 
 felt as if he were about to do something virtuous. 
 The very first thing he did in the morning was to go 
 to Elmswoods boldly enough. He fairly rushed up to 
 Mr. Hollins, and was voluble with his regrets at having 
 been “absent” yesterday during the alarm. He had 
 
90 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 heard all about the railway-accident, and felt that Ben 
 must be alive and within reach. He was going in 
 person to the spot where the accident occurred, and 
 should push his inquiries into every hamlet and farm- 
 house. And he fairly laughed as he bade them be of 
 good cheer. 
 
 But they mourned and wept at Elmswoods over the 
 hat which they had carefully laid away. And Thomas 
 Macrae, knowing that this was not the hat which Ben 
 wore, said not a word to that effect. He let them go 
 on mourning, and even wrote down in his note-book, 
 “Do not forget B.’s h.” 
 
 Oh, how grateful they were at Elmswoods! Mrs. 
 Hollins was filled with confidence in this ardent young 
 man. : 
 
 “And you may be sure, Mr. Hollins, that I shall 
 not leave a stone unturned,” said Macrae, as he went 
 down the steps. 
 
 And he did not. 
 
SI KIMBER'S PLACE. Ol 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 SI KIMBER’S PLACE. 
 
 N this chapter we shall allow Ben Hollins to speak 
 
 for himself; that is to say, we shall use a portion 
 
 of his manuscript verdatim. Before writing the quo- 
 
 tation-marks, however, let it be briefly explained that 
 
 we are on the threshold of one of the great mysteries 
 of the most mysterious of sicknesses. 
 
 Ben’s manuscript is made up of his recollections in 
 after-days of impressions made upon his mind during 
 the period of his aberration. Now, it is not every im- 
 pression thus made which is retained and held in the 
 memory. But shall this cast discredit upon what is 
 professedly remembered and told? If so, then the 
 narrations of the sane must be discarded also. For 
 do we not all forget much more than we remember? 
 
 The singular feature of this matter is, that an insane 
 man forgets from day to day, from moment to moment 
 almost, what he is saying and doing; and yet years 
 afterward, when restored to health and soundness, a 
 panorama of the facts, the feelings, and the fancies 
 even, of his dark days will come vividly before him. 
 
 Nevertheless Ben Hollins’s paper would not be 
 quoted here, were it not for the fact that so many, 
 even minute, details and particulars written therein 
 
92 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 have been corroborated by testimony of others that the 
 whole narrative is stamped with truthfulness. There 
 are blanks in the story, indeed, which must be filled 
 from information obtained elsewhere, the record of 
 hours when tired human nature became oblivious to 
 what was passing. 
 
 FROM “NARRATIVE BY B. HOLLINS.” 
 
 “My first recollection of the day on which I left 
 Elmswoods,” writes Ben, “dates from the hour when 
 Macrae and I sat together on the timbers at Bridge 
 Hill. I remember placing one of my cuff-buttons in 
 a mortise-hole in one of the timbers. When Macrae 
 and I left the hill, an old woman, whom I looked upon 
 with great apprehension, met us, and either said or did 
 something which excited my fears. I pointed secretly 
 to the stick whereon I had laid the onyx button, think- 
 ing, as I clearly recollect, to appease her anger or to 
 divert her attention. Unobserved by Macrae, as I 
 think, and guided by my dread of the woman, I 
 turned more than once to look at her. I saw her go 
 to the timbers, lift up the button, and look at it care- 
 fully, then lay it back again in the same place. 
 
 “Presently we reached the old blacksmith shop, 
 two-thirds of the way down the hill; and Macrae led 
 mein. Oh, how often have I thought of that woman 
 since that unhappy day! She became the one ele- 
 ment of misery in my life. She lifted her warning 
 finger at me by day; she intruded upon my dreams 
 at night, and threatened me. ; 
 
Sl KIMBER’S PLACE. 93 
 
 “Pleased as a child with the fresh suit of clothes 
 which Macrae gave me at his rooms, I went out with 
 him, with a feeling that now I was to do real business 
 in the world. No question arose in my mind as to 
 Macrae’s intentions. I followed him with eagerness, 
 —I almost outwalked him. I mounted the car at his 
 bidding, still under the impression that it was all for 
 business, that I was going somewhere to meet some 
 one on urgent affairs. 
 
 “The moving of the train gave me the keenest of 
 pleasures. The pushing and pulling of the locomo- 
 tive, the bumping of the cars, the ringing of the bell, 
 the shrieking of the whistle, —- all kept me alert. The 
 train was only a goods-train, but to me it seemed to 
 fly. Faster and faster we went. Millington lights 
 faded away in the distance ; trees and fences came in 
 sight, and were gone again before I could count them. 
 - Then I looked upward to the now cleared sky, studded 
 with sparkling stars, and I trembled as a great multi- 
 _tude of them seemed to fall around me. Again I 
 laughed at myself for so mistaking the sparks thrown 
 out by the locomotive when the stoker put on fresh 
 fuel. 
 
 “ After we had traversed some distance, —I cannot 
 tell how much, —the car upon which I was began to 
 lurch and twist, the piles of bark pressed more and 
 more heavily upon me, and I could barely maintain 
 my place. A broad glare of light shot suddenly out 
 into the fields, and moved as we moved. It was only 
 the stoker opening the furnace-door, but to me it 
 seemed some awful sign of disaster. I no more 
 
94 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 thought of business, or of the pleasure of travelling, 
 Fear was my one feeling, my one thought. 
 
 ‘Suddenly the bark upon the car on which I was 
 stationed gave way with a horrifying sound, and I 
 heard a great mass of it falling upon the track. I 
 cannot accurately describe what followed. All that 
 I can recall is a crash, a whirl, a wrench, a plunge 
 into the ditch. I fell into an abyss, apparently of mud 
 and water. I came out of this almost as quickly as I 
 went in, and remember the poignant regret with which 
 I surveyed my ruined clothing. 
 
 “Loud voices shouting, calling, asking, replying, 
 re-awakened my terrors. I looked up, and saw a 
 great flame shoot skywards, and fall back again to the 
 earth, covered with a pall of the very blackest dark- 
 ness. Horrible fumes began to stifle me, tongues of 
 flame reached out towards me, tongues that seemed 
 to have old women’s faces over and around them. 
 They roared to me, ‘Away! away !’ 
 
 “JT recall most clearly the agony in which I climbed 
 up into the field and fled. How far I went I know 
 
 ot; but I did not stop, certainly, until those voices 
 were no longer audible, that dreadful flame out of 
 sight. 
 
 “Those who have never suffered as I have can 
 hardly understand how easily and quickly, even to 
 suddenness, the most engrossing emotions pass away 
 from the afflicted. For instance, I was only out of 
 sight and hearing of what had so terrified me but a 
 short time before, when I lay down under the trees 
 and went sound asleep. 
 
Sl KIMBER’S PLACE. 95 
 
 “Very early in the morning I awoke. The stillness 
 around me was death-like ; not the quiet merely which 
 comes from the absence of man, but that deeper, utter 
 silence which is to be known and felt only in the 
 woods, and only at those hours which have been fitly 
 called ‘the gloaming,’ especially the hour of morning 
 twilight, when it seems as if the very spirits of the air 
 were sleeping, the insects, birds, and every tree and 
 bush wrapped in slumber. 
 
 “YT remember feeling uneasy. I looked in vain for 
 familiar things. I washed my hands and face in a 
 cool stream near by, and, spying a road at a little dis- 
 tance, betook myself thither, and set out upon a jour- 
 ney which may be called aimless, or not, according to 
 
 the intensity with which those who read my story shall 
 be able to enter into my feelings and thoughts. 
 
 “My journey, I know, was northward; for I can 
 distinctly remember having the sun at my back all 
 through the middle of the day. It was a very lonely 
 road upon which I travelled. There were fields, not 
 covered with signs of the grain-harvest, but with black- 
 ened stumps of trees; long stretches of dark, dismal- 
 looking forest ; here and there cross-roads with few or 
 no fresh ruts in them; and, as I went on and on, the 
 way grew more and more gloomy. ‘Twice — perhaps 
 oftener—I came near habitations of men. Once I 
 saw a small village in the distance. But I had grown 
 fearful of human beings now, and made long detours 
 to avoid those whom I had so nearly met. 
 
 “Late in the afternoon I came to the end of the 
 road. It stopped in a great bank of turf as abruptly 
 
96 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 as if it had come to the very end of the world ; but 
 in the turf were marks of wagon-wheels, and I fol- 
 lowed them up a knoll to a broad, flat space, whereon 
 a number of logs lay scattered about. I sat down upon 
 one of these logs, wearied out. I was not troubled 
 in mind. I had no sense of being utterly out of the 
 world, lost and forsaken. Indeed, if I had had such 
 a feeling it would have disappeared very quickly ; for 
 almost immediately upon my arrival I made an ac- 
 quaintance. 
 
 “A large, handsome dog came bounding down the 
 turf, came close to me, barked once or twice, sniffed 
 at me, wagged a comely tail, and deliberately stretched 
 himself at full length at my feet. Now, I have always 
 loved dogs ; and I caressed this one, and felt grateful 
 to him for his company. This put us upon a good 
 footing with each other, and presently my canine friend 
 put his nose between his paws, and closed his eyes. 
 
 “But I knew that he was not asleep. I had seen 
 that same performance on the part of intelligent dogs 
 before. He was meditating, that was all. Again and 
 again he lifted his head, took a long look at me, — 
 how thoroughly I recollect all this pantomime ! — and 
 went to thinking again. 
 
 ‘A sane man would have wondered, doubtless, how 
 this thoroughbred animal, a very aristocrat of his spe- 
 cies, came to be in such an outlandish corner of the 
 world ; but my thoughts were not of the questioning 
 kind. 
 
 “At length my friend arose, retreated from me a 
 few paces, barked, ran off a dozen yards, and turned 
 
SI KIMBER’S PLACE. 97 
 
 to look at me. I am ashamed to say it, but I did 
 not comprehend him. If he could only have said, 
 in human speech, ‘Come, Ben!’ I would have fol- 
 lowed him doubtless; but I failed to grasp the mean- 
 ing of the bark, the run, the turn, the furious tail- 
 wagging, the eager open mouth. Three times the 
 invitation was given me, but I silently declined as 
 often. 
 
 “The dog now returned, and resumed his attitude 
 of meditation. He was the better reasoner of the two, 
 I. imagine ; for while I was powerless to move even, 
 the animal invented a method of moving me. He 
 arose and barked loudly, not in a ‘ bow-wow’ as be- 
 fore, but with a ‘boo-woo-woo!’ Instantly three of 
 his fellows came tearing down into the open. Round 
 and round they circled, nose to nose, head to head, 
 foot against foot. As a finale, the three new-comers 
 lay down on as many sides of me, watching me with 
 open mouth, while the Prince scampered off and dis- 
 appeared.” 
 
 There is a hiatus here in Ben’s narrative, a lapse 
 of memory; but the facts are known. 
 
 Prince, the prince of dogs, had undertaken a deed 
 of charity; and his method of performing the same 
 was much sharper and quicker than those pursued by 
 boards of directors and general agents. 
 
 Now, at a little distance from Ben, but as yet unseen 
 by him, was a habitation, the only one in many miles 
 of wild country. Evidently this was no farmer’s house 
 
 nor laborer’s cottage. Built of rough boards heavily 
 @ 
 
98 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 battened, with an unusually small number of lights for 
 so large a building, surrounded with a heterogeneous 
 collection of articles;—an old boat, a smartish city 
 wagon, a half-dozen dog-kennels, frames with nets 
 drying upon them, — decorated here and there with 
 skins of eels and squirrels, this edifice would have 
 been, to any stranger happening that way, an archi- 
 tectural problem. 
 
 The ownership, however, was clear enough; for a 
 rough signboard nailed crookedly upon a corner of 
 the house declared this to be 
 
 SI KIMBER’S PLACE. 
 
 To this came Prince, eager and shaking with that 
 nervous tremor which is part of a good and chari- 
 table dog’s normal condition. He made his pres- 
 ence known at the kitchen-door by furiously barking, 
 whining, and scratching, — so furiously that Debby, Si 
 Kimber’s daughter, opened the door at once to ascer- 
 tain the cause of all this commotion. Prince greeted 
 her with a sharp “ bow-wow,” and again exhibited the 
 canine tactics of short runs and turnings about, as if 
 eager to secure a following. Debby was accustomed 
 to the ways of the animal creation, and understood 
 Prince as quickly as if he had said, “Come out here 
 immediately: you are wanted !” 
 
 Speaking to some other person within, Debby fol- 
 lowed the dog down the stubbly patch which served 
 as yard, lawn, and road, all in one, and out on the 
 knoll came upon poor, tired Ben. Here was a strange 
 
SI KIMBER’S PLACE. 99 
 
 sight, —a figure all splashed and begrimed, a tramp, 
 an escaped convict, some one surely that belonged to 
 the “used-up” class. But what of the face, the clean 
 hands, which Ben had laved in many a brook that 
 day? What of the whole air of the man, the some- 
 thing which cast Debby’s tramp-or-convict theory to 
 the winds? 
 
 “No tramp ’bout him,” thought Debby. “Ain’t 
 drunk, either.” Then, aloud, she asked Ben, “Say, 
 you, who are you?” 
 
 “Oh, yes!” replied Ben: “what’s your news?” 
 And on the instant he made a motion as if to rise 
 and walk on. 
 
 “Stop, you man!” cried Debby. ‘“ Why, you look 
 a’most as tired as death.” 
 
 “Oh, yes, to be sure! tired to death. Very hard 
 work, I’m sure. I had better sit down, perhaps,” 
 Ben said, smiling gently. 
 
 There was something in the speech and in the 
 smile that smote upon Debby’s soul. It was the most 
 painful sight she had ever witnessed. She stood there 
 looking at Ben, feeling the uselessness of asking ques- 
 tions; and finally lifted up her voice, and sent out 
 into the air a shrill, penetrating call. 
 
 “Mar! mar!’ she cried. 
 
 “Mar ”’ — that is to say, Mrs. Kimber — responded 
 to her daughter’s summons with alacrity. She came 
 down the patch on a run, putting strands of hair over 
 this ear and over that as she came, and calling out, 
 “What’s the matter, Deb?” 
 
 “Come along ’n’ see, can’t you?” answered the 
 
100 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 daughter. “You never seen sich a critter in all your 
 life, mar!” 
 
 Mrs. Kimber came close to Ben, and, probably 
 associating any thing unusual in humanity with deaf- 
 ness, shouted, “What ye doin’ here, mister?” 
 
 Ben recoiled, and looked troubled. 
 
 “Why, he’s deef ’n’ dumb, Deb!” 
 
 “No, he ain’t nuther, mar. He’s ben a-talkin’ to 
 me. Don’t you yell at him so!” 
 
 Tugging at his coat, muttering, “ Missed her, — oh, 
 yes, I must have missed her somehow: I couldn’t 
 exactly say as to that,” Ben sufficiently defined him- 
 self to Mrs. Kimber, and she met the revelation with 
 womanly pity. 
 
 Turning to her daughter, she said, “Why, Deb, 
 the feller’s crazy. He talks jest as Sol Mather used 
 to, down to Eas’port, ’fore I was married. He kep’ 
 a-talkin’ nonsense, an’ sayin’ right over agin any thing 
 anybody else said, jest like this one.” 
 
 For a while they stood there, questioning Ben, to 
 little purpose, and finally led him to the house. A 
 good and bounteous supper was spread for him, and 
 hunger and digestion were valorous thereat. 
 
 A certain young man, Algie Burnson by name, 
 stood in the doorway, and sneered now and then at 
 “the crazy fellow.”” What has Algie Burnson come 
 home for, so much in advance of the rest of his party? 
 Look out, Debby! A youngster who has the suc- 
 cession to an earldom is no match for you. And why, 
 among all the mysteries, should such a sturdy young 
 woman as you feel the softer, gentler feminine emo- 
 
SI KIMBER’S PLACE. IOI 
 
 tions at sight of such a lollipop as this young aris- 
 tocrat? Look out, Debby! go carefully! That boy 
 is only playing with you. 
 
 And the play is disappointing to him this evening, 
 for Deb happens to be so much taken up with Ben, 
 And now it must end altogether; for here come the 
 troop of holiday Nimrods for whom and their frater- 
 nity Si Kimber’s Place exists. 
 
 With this party returning from the hunt was Si 
 Kimber himself. A bluff, hearty fellow was Si,—a 
 Nova-Scotian, who had floated, all through his earlier 
 years, on Fundy waters and in St. Mary’s; floated, in 
 his early manhood, to the Grand Menan, to Calais, 
 up the St. John’s to the lumber district, and thence to 
 _Eastport. 
 ® Picking up a wife here in the person of Miss 
 Bathepha Hutchins, Si went to floating again, pene- 
 trating the regions of the unknown as far as Rhode 
 Island. Providence River and the contrary waters of 
 Narragansett presented little attraction to Si Kimber ; 
 and again he floated off, — floated westward, north- 
 ward, eastward, ever uneasy, ever looking out for 
 sheets of water, never content to sleep twice in the 
 same bed. How Baffy, his wife, liked this business, — 
 this fashion of sailing round the world,—is not re- 
 corded. It is written that when Si finally settled 
 down at Little Bear Lake, built the hostelry, and 
 nailed the signboard in its place, she expressed her- 
 self briefly in these words: “ Wall, Si, looks ’s if we 
 was anchored now, don’t it? I’m glad on it.” 
 
 And so were many gay gentlemen who had been 
 
102 DOCTUR BEN. 
 
 at the mercy of a variety of hosts in the northern 
 wilds, but remembered none of them with such re- 
 spect, and even affection, as Si Kimber. 
 
 “Hellaw, Bawffy!” exclaimed Si, as he looked 
 upon Ben for the first time. ‘“Who’s thus?” 
 
 “7 dn know,” responded Baffy. “Me ’n’ Deb 
 foun’ him a-settin’ by the gate [?], an’ he looked so 
 awful tired ’n’ hungry we fetched him in.” In lower 
 voice she added, “You let him be, Si: he’s kin’ o’ 
 flutterin’ in the head. You rec’lec’ Sol Mather, down 
 to Eas’port, don’t ye?” 
 
 “'Thot ben’t Sol Mather, Bawily, no more as I be 
 a—a hoss!” 
 
 “Who said you was a hoss? No more he ain't, 
 nuther.” 
 
 Si went off to his work, aru a little. But 
 when did a really big-hearted man ever succeed in 
 an attempt to make a little-hearted man of himself ? 
 Si gave it up, laid down his axe, and returned to the 
 kitchen, merely to look in at the door, and call out, 
 “ Hellaw, Bawffy ! what you goin’ to do wi’ yon?” 
 
 “Keep ’im, of course,’’ was the short but decisive 
 answer. 
 
 This nettled Si somewhat, and he closed the door, 
 —only for a moment, however; for he quickly re- 
 turned, and, going boldly up to Ben, asked, “ Now, 
 who be ye, mister? an’ whar’ d’ye coom fro’?” 
 
 “Oh, yes! to be sure,” said Ben; “ what’s your 
 news?” 
 
 “Wull, Bawffy, I be dashed! This be the queer- 
 est, h’oddest thing 7 ever see!” said Si. 
 
ST KIMBER’S PLACE. 103 
 
 A great pity had been growing in Si’s heart. Small 
 pity has an enormous vocabulary, great pity a small 
 one. Si’s expressed itself thus : — 
 
 “Say, Bawffy, take good care of yon, will ’ee?” 
 
 “That I will, Si,” replied Baffy. ‘You go ’long.” 
 
 And thus Ben found a refuge among as kind- 
 hearted and hospitable a family as ever made the 
 hunting months the crown of the year for jolly hunt- 
 ers. 
 
104 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 AN UNHOLY COMPACT. 
 
 FULL week Ben Hollins passed at Si Kimber’s, 
 
 the days gliding by full of that simple content- 
 ment with which persons in his condition are blessed. 
 He took little note of the goings and comings of the 
 sporting party ; and, indeed, Bly Folliss, Germaine Par- 
 son, and the others took little note of him. 
 
 To Macrae it was a week of trouble. Bolstered by 
 his own determination, and by an accession of courage 
 which he derived from meditations upon the prosperity 
 of his past, he flitted from town to town, and from 
 hamlet to hamlet, in a vain search. Towards the 
 close of the week, he began to believe that Ben had 
 really perished in the railway-accident ; and the horror 
 of it all but turned him back to Millington. Neverthe- 
 less, he telegraphed to Mr. Hollins, sending messages 
 of hope, and inquiring whether news of Ben had been 
 received at Millington. Again and again he pretended 
 to have heard of Ben, or of some wanderer who might 
 be Ben. 
 
 And at last, on the: seventh day, he arrived at Pat- 
 ton Junction, wearied out, half sick, almost despairing. 
 Alighting from the wagon which had brought him, he 
 stood upon the platform at the station irresolute. 
 
AN UNHOLY COMPACT. 105 
 
 Which way should he go? Back to Millington to sit 
 there in fear and uncertainty, or eastwards to search 
 and search? 
 
 The rumbling premonition of an answer to this 
 question was already audible. It was coming by train 
 from Little Bear Lake. The train was due at 3.15, 
 and the station clock already marked that time within 
 two minutes. Macrae heard the whistle, and walked 
 to the upper end of the station, where the tracks of 
 the Ontario, Saskatchewan, and Athabasca Railway 
 are switched into those of the main line. He walked 
 close up to this incoming train, merely to watch: he 
 had fallen into a habit of watching every thing, on the 
 mere chance of discovering Ben Hollins. 
 
 “Confound the luck!” he suddenly exclaimed. 
 “ Here is Bly Folliss.” 
 
 That gentleman spied Macrae instantly, and cried 
 out, “Is this you, Tom Macrae? Where have you 
 kept yourself of late? Ever been up to Little Bear 
 Lake, Tom? Parsy and I always— _ By the way, you 
 never met Germaine Parson.— Hi! Parsy, see here ! 
 Mr. Macrae, Mr. Parson— Mr. Parson, Mr. Macrae. 
 Mac was my old chum at Dideron’s, Parsy.” And he 
 rattled on with a multitude of those detached, tele- 
 graphic sentences which enter so largely into the use 
 of this ungrammatical age. 
 
 “See that fellow over there, Tom? ‘That one with 
 the cigar? That is the next Earl of Blankdom, as 
 likely as not. Used to be a capital fellow, over on the 
 Continent, but this climate seems to be bad for him. 
 He’s a cad, between you and me. Falls in love with 
 
106 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 ‘the landlady’s little daughter,’ and all that sort of 
 thing. You would have enjoyed it, Tom, I know you 
 would, to see him turn green because our little daugh- 
 ter up at the lake chose to be attentive to a lunatic fel- 
 low, with a blazing red head, who strayed up that way.” 
 
 Macrae had almost asked, in the excitement of the 
 moment, when the lunatic appeared at Little Bear 
 Lake, and what his whole personal appearance might 
 be. But he checked himself, and only said, —' 
 
 “A lunatic!” 
 
 “Yes,” replied Bly, “a poor crazy fellow, completely 
 gone ; didn’t utter an original remark from morning to 
 night.” 
 
 There was a sudden hurrying to and fro of porters 
 with rattling luggage-trucks, with gun-cases and bas- 
 kets; there followed a deafening whistle or two, a 
 scraping, grating grind of wheels, and the afternoon 
 express on the main line came to a stop, discharged a 
 few passengers, took on the party of sportsmen and 
 was off again. As Bly Folliss placed his foot upon the 
 car-step, he called out, — 
 
 “Which way, Tom?’ 
 
 “Up the Ontario, Saskatchewan, and Athabasca — 
 ah-—a few miles, on business for my uncle,” replied 
 Macrae ; wishing, a moment after, that he had pre- 
 tended not to hear. 
 
 Five miles down the road, Folliss said, — 
 
 “Wonder what brought Tom Macrae down here !” 
 
 “Couldn’t tell you, Bly,” replied Germaine Parson. 
 “T never saw your friend before, and didn’t much like 
 the look of him, to tell you the truth.” 
 
AN UNHOLY COMPACT. 107 
 
 Bly smiled, as he rejoined, “You are candid, at all 
 events, Parsy. How dare you attack my friends?” 
 
 “Oh! beg pardon, Bly. Is he really a friend?” 
 asked Parson. . 
 
 “You are right, Parsy, — always right. Tom was 
 not the old Macrae of Dideron days. He acted 
 queerly — wasn’t cordial. Country law business is 
 bad for him. And, now that I think of it, I wonder 
 what he is practising law for over here! They say he 
 has more money than he knows what to do with, and 
 is heir to an estate in Ireland.” 
 
 “Toronto papers! Morning papers!’’ shouted the 
 train-boy ; and, before he had reached the farther end 
 of the car, Germaine Parson’s eye lighted upon an 
 article in “The Globe,” which he had purchased, and 
 he exclaimed, “Listen, Bly! ‘It is no longer to be 
 _ doubted, that young Mr. Hollins of Millington met 
 his death in the railway accident near Windham. 
 His intimate friend, T. Macrae, Esq., who is almost 
 inconsolable, still persists in keeping up the search for 
 him, but we fear it will be in vain.’ What is it all 
 about, Bly?” 
 
 A moment after, Parson read aloud again. ‘Here 
 is a despatch from Millington, Bly. ‘Mr. Hollins, who 
 wandered off last week, while insane, has been heard 
 from.’”” The despatch was all wrong, of course ; de- 
 spatches are sometimes, and not seldom they disagree 
 with editorials and items. But this one opened Ger- 
 maine Parson’s eyes somewhat; and he repeated the 
 words “insane,” “wandered off,” “last week,” “T. 
 Macrae,” over and over; and at last cried out, — 
 
108 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 “Come, Bly, wake up. Who is this Mr. Hol- 
 lins?” 
 
 “T have heard of him often, and met him once,” 
 answered Bly. ‘“‘ He went insane some time ago, I 
 think.” 
 
 “Bly, what if our lunatic at Si Kimber’s was the 
 very man? He certainly had the air of a gentleman.” 
 
 These two hereupon plunged into a serious discus- 
 sion of the subject, weighing all the facts known to 
 them. The net result was, that, when the train reached 
 Oxley, Germaine Parson alighted, and made inquiry 
 for the next train westward ; being fully determined to 
 go back to Little Bear Lake, and rescue Ben Hollins, 
 if indeed the lunatic should prove to be Ben Hollins. 
 
 At eleven o’clock the following morning, he was 
 driven up to Si Kimber’s door. 
 
 “Woy, Muster Pairson, wot on earth ’as brote you 
 back?” exclaimed the proprietor. ‘’ Ave you forgot 
 something mebbe?”’ 
 
 “No, Si, I came back to see you about that young 
 man, that crazy young man.” 
 
 “Wull, now — Bawffy, do ’ee ’ear Muster Pairson? 
 Las’ night, Muster Pairson, comes a young gent, an’ 
 says as how he’s ’eard we ’ad a crazy young man ’ere, 
 an’ as ’e was ‘is h’own brother. So I makes Bawffy 
 keep the pore feller out o’ sight, and says I, ‘Draw 
 "im, draw ’is picter for me, now come!’ So the 
 young gent, ’e h’ups an’ tells the very colors of ’is ’air 
 an’ h’eyes, an’ the make of ’is clo’es, an’ h’every think 
 about ’im, down to a sleeve-button.” 
 
 ** And what then, Si?” 
 
ee 
 
 AN CNHOLY, COMPACT. I09 
 
 “Wull, we brings ’im h’out then; an’ blest if the 
 
 | pore feller didn’t walk right h’up to ’is brother an’ calls 
 
 47m Tom, an’ seems h’awful glad to see ’im like! Sol 
 
 says to Bawffy as we ’adn’t no rights fur to keep ’im, 
 
 an’ the young gent, ’e treated us ’an’some.” 
 
 “ Have they gone?” : 
 
 “Bless ye, Muster Pairson, went right off las’ night. 
 The gent says as they lived ’cross country. Now, where 
 was this, Bawffy?”’ 
 
 “Millington ?”’ suggested Parson. 
 
 “No—o—o! ’Twa’n’tno Mill’ngton. Said they 
 was farmers, but they was mighty genteel farmers ; 
 wasn’t they, Bawffy?”’ 
 
 “Ves,” replied Baffy Kimber. “But, Si, I guess he 
 didn’t tell nothin’ but truth. He was too glib to do 
 any thing else.” 
 
 With which piece of reasoning all the Kimbers were 
 satisfied, but not so Germaine Parson. For the life 
 of him, he could not describe Tom Macrae. The one 
 prominent characteristic, his swarthiness, was all he 
 could safely dwell upon. Asking if the stranger was a 
 dark man, the Kimbers were equally at sea ; and, while 
 Debby thought the stranger was dark, Mrs. Kimber 
 was doubtful, and Si pronounced him “no darker as 
 you or h’I be, Muster Pairson.” 
 
 There was nothing left to Germaine Parson, but to 
 take up his journey again. At Patton, next day, he 
 determined to telegraph to Millington, and did so in 
 these words. ‘A young man, who may be your son, 
 was at Little Bear Lake up to last night.” This mes- 
 sage he sent to Mr. Hollins, giving also his own 
 
[IO DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 address in Toronto. To his amazement, he received 
 a despatch soon after his arrival there, to this effect: 
 “Thanks. Have traced man at Little Bear. Not the 
 right person. (Signed) T. Macrae.” 
 
 “That settles one thing,” said Germaine to Bly » 
 Folliss. “If Macrae is in Millington to-day, it is not 
 very likely that he was driving across country last 
 night from Little Bear Lake.” Another of those pe- 
 culiar conclusions which almost all men are fain to 
 satisfy themselves with, on the principle, that, where 
 there is no corn, husks must be taken with satisfaction. 
 
 It is needless to say that it was really Thomas 
 Macrae who took Ben from Si Kimber’s. They were 
 driven to.the station, a distance of four or five miles; 
 and there Macrae found, to his chagrin, that there was 
 no train until early in the morning. All night he sat 
 there with Ben, chafing and fretting. He tried to 
 reason with himself, but the shadows of the darker 
 hours crowded around him in illogical shapes. He 
 slept and waked, until it seemed as if all the days had 
 turned to nights. 
 
 As morning approached, new energy, new calmness, 
 new determination, came to him. He made out a 
 little programme on a page of his note-book, read it 
 over many times, committed it thoroughly to memory, 
 and tore the paper into flakes 
 
 What he wrote was this : — 
 
 “1. Find a safe place to keep Ben in. JZem.: the 
 widow’s. 
 
 “2. Go to Millington. 
 
 “3. Arrange with C. D. 
 
AN UNHOLY COMPACT. Ii! 
 
 “4, The finish.” 
 
 As he threw the fragments of paper out into the 
 night air, a morning gust of wind swept by, carrying 
 the dead and dying leaves in showers. Macrae shiv- 
 ered; for he thought a voice came out of the trees, 
 saying, “ Beware! for, as these leaves die, so die and 
 fall the schemes of men; and, as [I still live, so lives 
 on the world, careless of the dead and fallen.” 
 
 Another voice sounded in his ear, saying, “ Be not 
 fearful, Thomas Macrae. It will be only a journey or 
 two: a little forethought and care, a bold, free course. 
 Then marry the girl you love, and” — 
 
 At last the early train started. It was still dark, 
 but to Macrae the car-lamp was as full of joy as the 
 sun himself. It was a grand enjoyment to be moving 
 once more. Now for victory,—victories, in fact! 
 Now for the greatest piece of work he had ever 
 done! Now for the first great trial of his strength ! 
 And as Macrae thought of this he braced himself 
 against the side of the car, and heard the wood-work 
 crack, with intense satisfaction. | 
 
 It is but a step from strength to goodness, and 
 Macrae took that step in his rapidly varying thoughts. 
 He began to pose as an instrument of Providence. 
 He had not thought of this before ; but really, after 
 all, he was not doing such a wicked action. Look at 
 the good that was likely to flow out of this. Betty 
 Hartley would be relieved from a drudging, hope- 
 less life; Mr. and Mrs. Hollins would be dwelling no 
 longer in a horrible uncertainty as to their son’s future. 
 Ben would be just as well off. Poor fellow ! what dif 
 
112 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 ference could it make to him whether he lived his 
 void existence in Millington or in Arboe? Carney 
 Dugan would have her hopes fulfilled. Bless the 
 woman! curse her! And as the vile association came 
 vividly to mind Macrae arose, and paced the length 
 of the car, flushed and tumultuous. The fever was 
 fitful: it passed, and Macrae sat again to contemplate 
 the crowning-point, the climax of all this false reason- 
 ing, — himself, himself, — his hopes, his pleasures. 
 
 Five miles north of Patton Junction is an insig- 
 nificant hamlet, which has the singular fortune of 
 possessing almost as many names as houses. Here 
 Macrae left the train, and made his way at once to a 
 small, neat dwelling, at whose door he greeted a plain 
 middle-aged widow-woman familiarly, with the words, 
 “ Good-morning. I have found him.” 
 
 The dame was honestly pleased, and all because 
 this dark young man had only yesterday made in- 
 quiry of her concerning his lost “brother.” In fact, 
 it was from this very hamlet, Polynomia, that Macrae 
 had driven over to Patton Junction. 
 
 “And now,” said Macrae, “I have a favor to ask. 
 Would you be willing to take care of my brother over 
 night? He is perfectly harmless, and will obey you 
 implicitly.” 
 
 To be left with an insane person on your hands is 
 not the most pleasant outlook. But what will not a 
 good woman do for very love of doing good? It re- 
 quired but a moment's reflection, therefore, to bring 
 this good, simple creature to the point; and having 
 said “Yes,” it followed that arrangements were quickly 
 
AN UNHOLY COMPACT. 113 
 
 made for Ben’s stay, and for Macrae’s departure for 
 Windham, the next station west of Patton, where he 
 could catch the afternoon express west. 
 
 And now the stimulus of more rapid motion came 
 upon him. His fiery nature sprang into accord with 
 its new surroundings ; he glowed with energy ; he felt 
 free. 
 
 Arrived at Millington, his rooms were re-opened, 
 the rejuvenating influence of the bath and the toilet 
 invoked ; and presently Macrae stepped forth into the 
 streets as blithe as any man who walked there. 
 
 And whither should he go first of all? To Elms- 
 woods, with the easily told lie upon his lips, that he 
 had not found Ben. 
 
 “A despatch has just come from a Mr. Parson,” 
 said Mr. Hollins. ‘Please read it, Thomas.” 
 
 “Yes,” said Macrae: “I heard of this yesterday, 
 and made inquiry. It turned out to be a young man 
 from one of the northern towns in Grey County, — 
 Glenelg I think.” 
 
 Thus ruthlessly was a slender, tender thread. of 
 hope which was winding around Ephraim Hollins’s 
 heart torn away, and the suffering man sent back into 
 the darkness to think of his son as dead and graveless. 
 
 Why need we listen to the talk of these two, with 
 its dismal fruitage of sorrow for the one, and reckless 
 deceit in the other? It would be harrowing to wit- 
 ness the grief, the despair, the almost fiendish cold- 
 ness and hotness, the groping down into deeper and 
 deeper depths of falsehood; hardly less so to write 
 of thern. 
 
114 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 Macrae finally arose. He had business to-night, — 
 yes, foul business. As he went, Mr. Hollins remem- 
 ‘bered Germaine Parson’s despatch, and spoke of it 
 again to Macrae. 
 
 Quite readily Macrae said, “I am going past the 
 station, Mr. Hollins. Shall I answer it for you?” 
 
 - “Tf you please, Thomas.” | 
 
 And Germaine Parson was not the only man who 
 was thus deceived by specious appearances of lan- 
 guage. At Elmswoods four sorrowing ones were con- 
 tent to accept falsehood for truth. The garb of virtue 
 in which the teller was clad was only a garb of gauzy 
 texture ; but it would, manifestly, have deceived the 
 very elect. 
 
 There remained one other upon whom Macrae must 
 cast this same glamour. The night came, offering 
 to every evil impulse of man opportunity and scope. 
 And among the troop of evil-minded ones, seeking — 
 place to murder, to rob, to soil virtue, to debauch 
 body and soul, this novice in crime went forth tempt- 
 ing and tempted. 
 
 Down among the silent mills, through the deserted 
 yards, picking his way among all the accumulations of 
 by-paths, went Macrae, until he reached the dimly 
 lighted hovel where a human being, and that a woman, 
 kept up a rough semblance of living. 
 
 Carney was waiting. She knew the hour would — 
 come. For a whole week she had waited for it. She 
 was certain that Macrae would open the door, and call 
 ‘her forth. And what should she do then? Go out 
 into the streets, and cry aloud? Betray this evil-doer? 
 
AN UNHOLY COMPACT. T15 
 
 That would be to call suspicion upon herself, to pro- 
 yoke her own destruction. 
 
 And now, even while she was debating with herself, 
 considering innumerable ill-assorted sequences of self- 
 questioning and answering, there was a creak, a Jar, a 
 rustle, a gentle closing and even barring of the door ; 
 and Macrae stood before Carney with a smile upon 
 his face. 
 
 “ Well, old woman,” he said, “I am here again.” 
 
 “ An’ where is Misther Ben?” asked Carney. 
 
 “That is my affair. The question is,—are you 
 ready?” 
 
 “© Misther Thomas! for the love of’? — 
 
 “ Never mind that now,” said Macrae. ‘“ We can 
 attend to love some other time. Business first.” 
 
 “ But, Misther Thomas ” — 
 
 “Now, see here, Mrs. Dugan,” said Macrae: “I 
 have not one minute to waste in arguing this matter 
 all over again. Are you ready, or not?” 
 
 “Ves, Misther Thomas, I’m dhat; but stop a bit. 
 Dhis wi!l ind in misery an’ distraction for you an’ me. 
 I see it comin’ fast. I dhramed it last night, an’ dhe 
 night before. Dhe ghost uv my Barney ’”’ — 
 
 “Stuff, nonsense !”” Macrae exclaimed impatiently. 
 “There are no ghosts that I am afraid of, Mrs. Dugan. | 
 But, upon my word, if you keep up this sort of thing, 
 there may be ghosts in the play yet.” 
 
 Now followed a round of threatenings, expostula- 
 tions, coaxings, entreaties, dark hints of betrayal and 
 clear notifications of revenge, compromises, yieldings, 
 promises, and all the details of an unholy compact. 
 
116 DOCTOR BEN 
 
 In the end the woman had to all appearance yielded 
 herself, body and soul, to the man. 
 
 Macrae’s instructions to Carney were brief and 
 clear, as he considered it needful they should be; 
 but they might as well have been as intricate as the 
 scrawls upon an obelisk. For they came to nothing, 
 not because Carney’s intentions were other than Mac- 
 rae’s, but because a higher power than either of them 
 interfered. | 
 
 “Here, Carney,” he said, “is a ticket for Toronto. 
 And here, money to buy a ticket there for Montreal. 
 Now mind what I tell you! Take the night-mail at 
 3-45, — to-night, you understand. When you arrive 
 at Montreal, go directly to Quebec. Here is money. 
 Wait at Quebec until I come. Hold on: where shall 
 I find you?” 
 
 “At Patsy Doniphan’s, to be sure, in T’ree Pistol 
 Street. Where else?” 
 
 “Where is that? In Lower Town, or in St. 
 Roch?” 7 
 
 “In nayther: it’s in Quebec.” 
 
 “ Peste / you know nothing about Quebec, then.” 
 
 “Little enough, thrue for you, Misther Thomas, 
 seein’ I was dhere for t’ree weeks, an’ niver wanc’t out 
 of Patsy’s house, be rayson of dhe say-sickness.” 
 
 “And that was thirty years ago? Patsy Doniphan 
 may be dead or in Texas by this time. And, now that 
 I think of it, you may as well let this Doniphan alone, 
 and any other friends you may have in Quebec. Go 
 to some quiet place near the river ; and now — mark ! 
 you can find the post-office, can’t you? Be there 
 
AN UNHOLY COMPACT. 117 
 
 every morning at eight, and every evening at six. I 
 will meet you there.” 
 
 Left now to herself, Carney elaborated a long fare- 
 well to Millington, and to the roof which had sheltered 
 her these many years. And, in the darkness of the 
 hours which bound night and morning, she closed her 
 door for the last time, saying to it, “It’s not much 
 I’m takin’, an’ it’s little I’m lavin’. I’ve all me parly 
 furnichy on me back, an’ it’s a light load. Sure, I’ve 
 as good a right as any of dhem to go to me own 
 funeral, which I’m goin’ to it now, wid dhat murdher- 
 in’ say a-rollin’ an’ a-pitchin’ dhe head almost aff me.” 
 
 Carney must be left now to make her way to Que- 
 bec alone, which she did without let or hinderance. 
 For ourselves, it will be better to go first-class with 
 Thomas Macrae and Ben Hollins. 
 
118 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 @. INTO DARKNESS. 6. INTO LIGHT. 
 
 EAVING Carney, Macrae returned to his own 
 quarters in Barony Street. Here he quickly 
 wrote a note to Ephraim Hollins, to the effect that his 
 interest in Ben was such that he could not rest. “I 
 have laid out, therefore,” he wrote, “a new route, and 
 shall make as diligent inquiry in that direction as I 
 have already made towards the north and east. I feel 
 that we ought not to give up yet. I am sorry not to 
 see you again. I leave on the night-mail, for no time 
 should be lost.” 
 
 A similar note to his uncle, a few brief regrets to 
 friends who had left invitations in his absence, and 
 three or four letters to more distant correspondents, 
 occupied the remaining time ; and at quarter to four in 
 the morning Macrae boarded the train, leaving behind 
 him the tearful gratitude of a family of mourners, and 
 a vast respect of the men and women of Millington at 
 large. What friendly devotion! what self-sacrifice ! 
 A dozen young men were half-inspired to go forth — 
 upon the quest; but somehow, on second thought, a 
 great reliance upon Thomas Macrae sprang up, and 
 the town settled down to a belief that he, and he 
 alone, had been commissioned to bring this affair to a 
 
a. INTO DARKNESS. 6. INTO LIGHT. 119 
 
 happy termination — if, indeed, Ben Hollins were not 
 already dead. 
 
 Macrae did not travel far that night. He made 
 sure that Carney took the train, and at half-past four 
 alighted at Windham. A lonely hour at the station 
 stood between his arrival and the waking of the 
 people of that sleepy village ; but Macrae endured it, 
 and by six he had found a conveyance, had hired it 
 for the day, and was well on his way to Polynomia. 
 
 The smoke was curling around the chimneys when 
 Macrae arrived at the widow’s house. She was up, 
 and busy in multiform little household duties. But 
 Ben was lying in bed, wide awake: he had not been 
 told to get up. Macrae remedied this very quickly ; 
 for he was hungry, and the widow had evidently been 
 postponing some of the more savory of her prepara- 
 tions for breakfast, out of mistaken politeness to Ben. 
 
 Breakfast despatched, this gentleman seemed in no 
 hurry to go, whereat the widow wondered. She had 
 not had such company as this, however, for many a 
 year, and was content to have him stay as long as he 
 would. So the morning hours passed, the long roll 
 of noon sounded, and still her guests sat in her little 
 parlor, the one busy with papers and letters and note- 
 books ; the other, with pebbles and any trifle, making 
 occasional rushes towards the door, as if on business 
 suddenly intent, and returning in a melancholy fash- 
 ion to Macrae’s side. 
 
 Towards evening, however, there was a sudden 
 change. The horses were ordered up ; Ben was 
 brought out; the widow was pressed to receive a 
 
120 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 parting douceur, and this strange party left sh: 
 nomia. 
 
 “Drive to Patton Junction,” was Macrae’s brief 
 order ; and it was executed as well and as quickly 
 as good horseflesh is able. It was dark, very dark, 
 when they drove up to the station. No trains were 
 expected, and but one light was hung out as yet. 
 Macrae dismissed his farmer-coachman, and looked 
 cautiously about. 
 
 “That Parson might happen to be here,” he said 
 to himself. But Germaine was sitting, that very mo- 
 ment, in Bly Folliss’s snuggery in Toronto, discussing 
 this same Thomas Macrae. 
 
 Connected with the Patton Junction station — over 
 the railway-rooms, in fact —are.to be found quite 
 sufferable accommodations for a few travellers, in the 
 shape of clean beds and a plain breakfast or supper. 
 Macrae had bespoken a room, and hustled Ben into 
 it before the station-master and inn-keeper had time 
 to notice any of Ben’s peculiarities ; and out of that 
 room Ben was not seen until, at a quarter before five 
 next morning, Macrae brought him hurriedly forth, 
 with barely time enough to board the eastward train. 
 
 On the way, at last! and whither? whither, thou 
 son of affliction? Verily, if those who named thee 
 had been prophets, they would not have called thee 
 Ben-yamin, which is Felix, the Happy One, Son of 
 good fortune ; but rather Ben-oni, Son of my sorrow. 
 
 And whither art thou tending, also, dark-eyed, 
 tempted, overcome, and desperate one? 
 
 It was broad daylight when they reached Toronto, 
 
 1 
 
S4VTO DARKNESS: b& INTO LIGHT. 121 
 
 and Macrae was ready with expedients. In one 
 minute after alighting from the train he was seated 
 in a public carriage with Ben, and holding colloquy 
 with the driver. 
 
 “Take me to some very quiet house, will you? 
 Not the Rossin, or the Queen’s, or any of those large 
 houses, — some place near by.” 
 
 And what better could a man with such a roving 
 commission do than to drive a respectable length of 
 time, and finally deliver his passengers at the “ Prince 
 of Cumberland’”’ hotel, just one square away? Not 
 the kind of house for Thomas Macrae to stay at, but 
 to-day it suited him admirably. There would be no 
 Bly Folliss or Germaine Parson here to spy him out 
 and ask questions. And here, as yesterday, it suited 
 him to remain within the whole day; for it was the 
 night he preferred to travel in just now, and there 
 was no occasion for haste. Macrae had learned his 
 lesson well. 
 
 It was now Friday, Sept. 14. That night’s jour- 
 ney would carry him to Montreal; Saturday he would 
 go on to Quebec. ‘The Breton,” steamship, was to 
 sail on Wednesday. Carney and Ben could be put 
 on board on Monday if necessary. The intervening 
 time would pass. . 
 
 Nearly an hour after sunset Macrae walked down 
 to the station. Once seated in the car, the first thing 
 he did was to tell Ben to go to sleep; which Ben 
 proceeded dutifully to do, so wrapped and covered 
 that his own father, passing through the dimly-lighted 
 coach, would never have known him. Nor would he 
 
322 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 have known Macrae either; for that, gentleman took — 
 good care to cover his face, and to look at no man or 
 woman, lest he should be observed in turn, and pos- 
 sibly recognized. No sleeping-car for these two: the 
 people who might know Macrae or Ben were sure to 
 be there. It was uncomfortable, sitting up all night; 
 but it was safer. 
 
 At Napanee there was a long and ominous silence. 
 Passengers grew uneasy, and one by one went out, 
 returning to yawn, and say uncomplimentary things 
 of the management, the road, and the equipment. 
 Macrae heard them talking about “half an hour,” 
 then “an hour.” His watch indieated two o’clock, 
 at last three, and four. Then came a shrieking of 
 whistles and blowing of steam, and they moved again. 
 Manifestly Montreal would not be reached on Satur- 
 day morning. And what — thought Macrae — will the 
 day bring forth? And what, if this, and this, and that, 
 and something else? What if Carney Dugan should 
 have died on the way? 
 
 The sluice-gates of imagination and anxiety opened 
 upon this man, and let in upon him a veritable flood 
 of self-torment. And ever, in the lulls of that mighty 
 rush, came the still small voice, whispering, “‘ Not too 
 late, Thomas Macrae: go back to Millington, and 
 deliver this unfortunate to peace and safety again!” 
 Of avail, was this? No, not with those other voices, 
 loud and fierce, drowning out the gentler one, and 
 fairly shouting in his ear, “ Don’t you do it, Macrae } 
 Don’t be a coward. Send him over the sea, and then 
 go back to Millington to marry the girl you love!” 
 
Eee lO DARKNESS. 6. INTO LIGHT. - 123 
 
 Day came, full day, and the train had only reached 
 Brockville. Macrae bade Ben sit still, and boldly 
 went through the entire train. Not a man or woman 
 was there in it whom he knew. This gave him some 
 relief, but he lost its value in the vexatious delays 
 which beset that particular train. All day long alter- 
 nations of perfect confidence, of tormenting doubt, 
 heated and chilled him. A score of new points, 
 which he had entirely overlooked, came into view, and 
 assumed huge proportions. He called himself a fool, 
 one minute, for embarking in such an undertaking ; 
 the next, for having any doubt of ultimate success. 
 Thoughts of Betty Hartley crowded into his mind, at 
 
 once condemning and urging him on. Once he 
 awoke from a day-doze in terror; for he dreamed 
 that his own father was standing over him, with a 
 scornful look upon his face, and ready to fell him to 
 the ground. And there sat Ben, smiling, and greeting 
 him, as he started violently, with, “I say, Tom, what’s 
 your news?” 
 
 News, indeed! more than he would have liked to 
 tell. The ghosts had begun to come. 
 
 The wearying day was passed at length, and Macrae 
 found temporary diversion in the excitement of the 
 arrival and transfer at Montreal. ‘Two hours of wait- 
 ing ensued, during which Macrae was thankful that 
 there were such occupations for humanity as eating 
 and drinking; and they were off once more, Ben so 
 thoroughly tired out with all this jolting and bustle 
 that he was soon asleep, but Macrae alive to every 
 sound and sight. If he attempted to sleep, he 
 
124 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 erxcamed of horrid conflicts: waking, he was in a 
 tumult of thought. Suppose Carney should play him 
 false. Suppose his uncle should die, and he should 
 have to go to Briartop to take charge, and should take 
 Betty with him, —oh, delicious thought !— what could 
 be done with Ben? 
 
 “Fool!” cried Macrae aloud. And the travellers 
 in the next seat looked around at him, one even 
 saying, — 
 
 * Beg pre sir ! 
 
 = pyeuse me,” was Macrae’s ready apology. “I 
 must have been dreaming.” 
 
 In the later hours of the night, as he approached 
 the intended end of his journey, Macrae entered upon 
 a prolonged and terrific battle with his conscience. 
 The enormity of his crime —a crime so far from the 
 thoughts of the law-makers, that, had Macrae been 
 arrested at any stage of his proceedings thus far, it 
 would have been no easy matter to name it — pressed 
 sorely upon him. Again and again his good angel 
 came with sweet suggestions and promise of future 
 peace. But the evil had the nine points now, against 
 the one point. From the sickening, depressing, terri- 
 fying influence of his agitation, Macrae rose to strength 
 again. Anon he was plunged into a raging sea of 
 self-accusation. 
 
 At Becancour he looked at his time-table, and 
 exclaimed, “Only forty miles more! curse it, an hour 
 and three-quarters to cover that! Why don’t they 
 put on steam and fly?” The station-lights were 
 out as they came lazily up to Lyster platform. At 
 
 ee 
 
a INTO DARKNESS. 6. INTO LIGHT. 125 
 
 Methot’s Mills passengers came aboard, three or four 
 rough men ; and Macrae found himself scanning their 
 faces as if to discover whether they had ever com- 
 mitted crimes, and whether the recollection was galling 
 to them. But they roared and laughed, chattering in 
 a broken tongue, to that degree that Macrae laughed 
 with them; and having concluded, with the absurd, 
 distorted logic of such a man at such a time, that 
 these men had at least been robbers and murderers, he 
 was cheered for the moment, and thought within him- 
 self, “Oh! I shall forget too, and be happy and 
 jovial.” 
 
 “Chaudiére !”’ cried the guard, and Macrae counted 
 nine a score of times. “Only nine miles more?” he 
 asked of the now awakened traveller in front of him. 
 
 “Wake up, Ben,” he shouted. ‘We are almost 
 there.” . 
 
 “T am sure I am very glad,” said Ben. “I thought 
 we should be there some time or other —ha, ha! I 
 was never kicked by a goose yet.” 
 
 The traveller looked round at Ben, and then, more 
 searchingly than Macrae liked, at his companion, 
 finally putting his finger to his forehead, and nodding 
 toward Ben. 
 
 “ Da’g’reux ?” asked the traveller, in that awful 
 patois, neither French nor English nor Hottentot. 
 
 “ Out,” replied Macrae in more accurate French, 
 “ terriblement.” 
 
 The traveller instantly arose, and stood at the door 
 for the remainder of the journey. 
 
 An arrival at a railway terminus on Sunday morning 
 
126 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 has its peculiarities. ‘The men are working, but evi- 
 dently under protest. - Trunks are handled more gently 
 on Sunday morning than on any other ; conductors, : 
 office-men, are more polite ; travellers less hurried, less 
 disposed to elbow you out of the way, to poke umbrel- 
 las into you at hap-hazard, to squeeze past you. 
 
 It was a quiet entry, therefore, that Macrae and 
 Ben made into Point Levi; and still more quietly they 
 stepped upon the wharf on the Quebec side. The 
 question, where to quarter himself, was easily settled 
 by Macrae. No more of these bad-smelling ‘“ Prince 
 of Cumberland” inns would he endure. He would 
 play his game more boldly now. In twenty minutes, 
 therefore, the register at the “St. Louis ” showed the 
 names of Thomas Macrae and —at Macrae’s dicta- 
 tion — of Adolphus Janes; this last being written by 
 Ben himself in a queer, cramped hand, utterly unlike 
 the signature of Benjamin Hollins in the Millington 
 letter-book. 
 
 At half-past seven Macrae was at the post-office, 
 not to ask for letters, — for, even if he had expected 
 any, Sunday morning was a poor time to look for 
 them, — but to find Carney Dugan. Till eight o’clock 
 he waited, but no sign of his accomplice was vouch- 
 safed. ‘The same experiment at the evening hour 
 came to the same result ; and again on Monday 
 morning. ‘There was mischief in it,—trouble, dis- 
 aster. 
 
 Macrae bethought himself of Doniphan, of whom 
 Carney had spoken. To Trois Pistoles Street he went, 
 therefore, in the suburb St. Roch; and, sure enough, 
 
a INTO DARKNESS. 6. INTO LIGHT. 127 
 
 there was the establishment of Patrick Doniphan, a 
 prosperous look spreading out upon a comparatively 
 new stone building of that mongrel appearance which 
 at once perplexes you. It might be only a drinking- 
 place; it might be an inn in full character: at all 
 events, the drinking accommodations stood out very 
 prominently. Macrae entered, and, to obtain the good- 
 will of a soured young Ganymede, gave an order and 
 paid for it. 
 
 “T am looking,” he then said in confidential direct- 
 ness, “for Mr. Patrick Doniphan. He must be an 
 older man than yourself.” ! 
 
 “An’ why shouldn’t he be?” answers Ganymede. 
 “A man’s faither is ginerally older nor his own son, 
 pisnt he?” 
 
 “Oh! this is the younger Mr. Doniphan, then? 
 Might I see your father?” 
 
 Surlily young Doniphan opened a door in the rear 
 of the apartment, and called out in loud tones, 
 “Faither, dhere’s a gintleman ” — 
 
 A not unpleasant voice, with a queer savor of con- 
 sequence and grand pretension in it, sounded back, 
 in reply, “A gintleman? Well, dhere’s more gintle- 
 min dhan wan. I’m wan; an’ I wish yourself was 
 another, Tim, an’ dhat makes two of us.” 
 
 Old “ Patsy” was a late-riser, and in truth was not 
 out of bed when Macrae called. Surly Tim had the 
 visitor all to himself, therefore ; and without waiting 
 long, he inquired, “Is it ship business?” 
 
 “Yes, — no,” answered Macrae; “not exactly: 
 connected with the sailing of “The Breton,” how- 
 
128 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 ever. The fact is, I’m looking for an old servant 
 of ours, who is going home, — Mrs. Carney Dugan. 
 She spoke of your father as an old friend, and I 
 thought I might find her here.” 
 
 Not a word would Tim give back in reply. In- 
 stead, he sauntered off, slowly opened the door already 
 mentioned, and disappeared. In time — his own time 
 — he returned, and his aged father with him. 
 
 “Wud ye be plazed to take a sate, sir?” asked 
 this consequential personage ; “and ve-late your busi- 
 ness, sir, ouch, but dhe informities of age, sir, is 
 havocin’ che free circumlocution of me joints, sir, to _ 
 dhat zx-tint dhat I wish meself deaf an’ dumb some- 
 times to dhe pains an’ pangs dhat’s in me!” 
 
 Macrae expressed his sympathy, and Doniphan 
 quietly made mental notes. 
 
 “Your name is not McGovern, now, I’d bet a 
 keg?” asked Doniphan. 
 
 ““No, my name is Macrae.” 
 
 “And did you say you was from Guelph, sir?” 
 
 “No: I am from Derry, Ireland,” was Macrae’s 
 reply. 
 
 This questioning perplexed Macrae; but he an- 
 swered honestly the first query, the second one cau- 
 tiously, and then instantly took up the interrogation 
 himself. 
 
 “T am inquiring for Mrs. Carney Dugan, whom I 
 half-expected to find here, Mr. Doniphan. Do you 
 happen to know any thing of her?” 
 
 “Do we know ary Dooger, Tim?” asked old 
 “ Patsy.” 
 
a. INTO DARKNESS. 6 INTO LIGHT. 129 
 
 “No, an’ niver did,” replied the surly one. 
 
 “Dhe name is familiar to me hearin’, Tim; but 
 I’ve a difficklety in locatin’ it,’ continued the old 
 man. 
 
 And that was the difficulty all round. Macrae 
 would have rewarded the Doniphans handsomely if 
 they could have located Carney for him; but that 
 was past their powers as well as his. Not many hours 
 earlier they might have done him service. 
 
 Macrae could only conclude that he was deserted 
 by Carney, — a wrong conclusion, but tenable in the 
 lack of any ground for a truer and better one. Yet 
 he made inquiries at the shipping-offices, at a score 
 or more of emigrants’ stopping-places, of every one 
 who was likely to know absolutely nothing about the 
 lost woman ; but not a question did he put to those 
 ‘who could have informed him,—the police. Being 
 ~ something of a lawyer, he had his reasons for that. 
 He knew that your true policeman is a sceptic, and 
 would be quite likely to follow up a fine young man 
 like Thomas Macrae inquiring for such a creature as 
 Carney Dugan ; and particularly if he happened to be 
 the policeman on that beat, and to know just where 
 Carney was. 
 
 Till Wednesday Macrae kept up the chase, — until 
 the very hour when “The Breton” sailed. Early that 
 day he made inquiry at the steamer’s office, and was 
 brusquely told that half the people in the steerage 
 went over under assumed or misunderstood names, 
 and he might go on board and find out for himself. 
 “The Breton” was in mid-stream: so Macrae took 
 
130 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 boat, and presented himself to the officer of the deck. 
 Through and through the steerage he went, looking 
 into the remotest corners and most unlikely places. 
 And why should he look here at all? He knew the 
 woman had not money enough to pay her passage. 
 But he was pursuing absurdities now, and for the mo- 
 ment, in his confusion, had lost his clear judgment, 
 and was mingling fictions and facts together. 
 
DR. BUSHWICK. 131 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 DR. BUSHWICK. 
 
 HERE were, doubtless, many desperate men in 
 Quebec on Wednesday afternoon, Sept. 19, 
 18—; but certainly not one more utterly bewildered 
 than a dark young man, who stood watching the steamer 
 “Breton,” as she swung loose and took the water on her 
 outward course towards the Atlantic and the eastern 
 world. He had intended to freight that very ship with 
 all his cares and perplexities, with instructions to the 
 invisible agents in the air—those underwriters who 
 land or sink cargoes in a fashion wholly unexpected by 
 worldly shippers and consignees—to deliver these 
 anywhere, somewhere out of. sight and reach forever. 
 And here they were, all thrust back upon him, — not a 
 care, not a perplexity, missing. 
 “What am I to do next?” said Macrae to himself. 
 The good angel whispered; and the evil ones 
 roared to him as from some deep pit, cajoling, mock- 
 ing, enticing, taunting him, until he was almost mad. 
 Mechanically he went out upon the river again, 
 towards Point Levi. He crossed, and went into the 
 railway-station. The aééris of the last incoming train 
 had been swept into a little heap in the street. A 
 white paper attracted his attention, and Macrae picked 
 
132 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 it up. On the reverse he read words which he had 
 assisted to put together. It was a bill offering a round 
 reward for “information concerning a young man, out 
 of his mind, but not violent, who left his home at 
 Millington, Ont.,” on such a day. Macrae was aghast. 
 
 With the paper still in his hand, he stood gazing 
 purposelessly about, finally staring hard at a great 
 band of blue and yellow, green and black, which came 
 before his eyes, piece by piece, shaping itself in large 
 block letters. PoRTLAND, Bosron, SPRINGFIELD, NEW 
 York, and a multitude of other names of cities in the 
 States stood staring at Macrae from the walls, and each 
 one seemed to be struggling to speak to him. — 
 
 “By Jove! an idea!” he exclaimed, and the de- 
 spairing, now eager man flew away to his hotel. It 
 ‘was verging upon five o’clock, and at half-past seven 
 a train would leave for the South. That fertile brain 
 revived, and roused itself into activity again with a new 
 purpose, quickly compassing all immediate require- 
 ments. 
 
 ‘The reward-bill warned Macrae that discovery might 
 not be so very far behind. ‘He must have his wits 
 about him now. More yet, he would stoop, must 
 stoop, to arts which hitherto he had despised. For he 
 was going straight into the jaws of danger. 
 
 Macrae had travelled extensively, and knew full well 
 that on the route he now mapped out for himself and 
 Ben, he must meet at Richmond Junction a tide of 
 Canadian travel setting Portland- and Boston-wards. 
 He must of necessity travel with that tide for a few 
 hours at least. 
 
DR. BUSHWICK. £33 
 
 When Ben and he, therefore, left “The St. Louis ” 
 that evening, Ben was no longer what the reward-bill 
 declared he was, “of sandy hair and complexion.” 
 Ben thought this immensely funny. He laughed, and 
 volunteered the remark that he was “quite a rainbow 
 now ;” and even Macrae laughed with him, as the 
 sense of fear and hopelessness was exchanged for the 
 exhilaration of new adventure. 
 
 Macrae took tickets for Richmond, then for New- 
 port, then for White River Junction. Glad enough he 
 was, at midnight of Thursday, to hear the last of the 
 echoes aroused by the multitude of engines at this 
 latter place dying away behind him; glad enough to 
 feel that he was clear of the main stream of Canadian 
 travel, that he was breathing air of pure republican 
 consistency unmixed with any border oxygen. He 
 would hardly have cared now if Ben’s hair had turned 
 red again. It persistently remained black. 
 
 Macrae had tickets now for Springfield, a city which 
 he had never seen. So much the better. Arrived 
 there, and turned out in the early morning into that 
 great breezy place called, in local parlance, “the 
 deepo,” he felt, for the first time since leaving Que- 
 bec, that he had reached a stopping-place, —a stop- 
 ping-place, not merely in travel, but in purpose. 
 What to do next, however, was the question. From 
 his window in ‘‘The Massasoit,”” he looked out into the 
 air for an answer, for a suggestion. 
 
 Trains were going and coming, crowds of people 
 hurrying hither and thither. Macrae was as ingenious 
 as most men, but this morning he could see no farther 
 
134 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 than he had at Millington. To place Ben upon one 
 of these trains, — any one, —ticket him to some out- 
 of-the-way place, and let him go, was his poor impotent 
 thought; and time and time again he rejected it. 
 Fagged as he was, he was not so duil as to be blind to 
 the fact, that these “‘ Yankees ” were an inquiring peo- 
 ple, that Ben would become an object of interest in 
 Becket or Brookfield, or any other town at which he 
 might be landed. ‘The case would get into the papers ; 
 and it was a certainty, that, sooner or later, Ben would 
 be brought back to Millington. Macrae felt himself 
 failing. Many years of honest living were telling 
 upon this novice in dishonesty. 
 
 Feeling secure from hazardous observation, Macrae 
 took Ben out for a walk, studying how he should make 
 it the last one. He looked at the river, and a fall from 
 the railway-bridge occurred to him, — keen pursuit by 
 the police also. And his own heart shrank from vio- 
 lence still, Helpless man !—too virtuous yet to be- 
 come a murderer,—too wicked, too much involved, 
 to do the good which still beckoned him back to 
 peace ! 
 
 They: stood at last upon a street corner, Macrae 
 lost for a moment in abstraction, Ben by his side 
 looking vacantly down upon the ground. At the very 
 moment two other abstracted creatures came in their 
 way, and solved Macrae’s case for him in a. twinkling. 
 
 It was eccentric Dr. Bushwick, and the doctor’s 
 eccentric horse, that brought matters to this issue. 
 The doctor was sitting in his gig, lost to every thing 
 on this earth, except a mental speculation, in which he 
 
DR. BUSHWICK. 135 
 
 was completely enveloped and befogged. ‘The horse 
 was jogging along as one who did his own driving, 
 covering little or much ground just as he chose, going 
 to the house of this patient or that as he thought best 
 (for this notable animal really did a deal of Dr. Bush- 
 wick’s thinking), taking a wide sweep around street- 
 ‘corners, or hugging the gutter-stones if he was so 
 minded. 
 
 That horses, as well as human beings, are subject to 
 spiritual influence requires no proof. The good and 
 evil they have done in this world are testimony enough. 
 This particular horse, taking it into his head to turn 
 that particular corner at that particular moment, is an 
 instance in point. Why should he not have followed 
 
 _ .the ruts, and swept the doctor’s gig gracefully through 
 
 the centre of the road? Instead, he clung so per- 
 sistently to the very edge, that the outer wheel took 
 Ben Hollins squarely in the back, and sent him flying. 
 The shock awakened all four of these abstracted ones 
 thoroughly. The doctor alighted from his gig, and 
 insisted upon carrying Ben forthwith to his office, 
 Macrae to follow. 
 
 An examination showed that Ben’s back was proof 
 against gig-wheels drawn by lazy horses, also that Dr. 
 Bushwick had providentially run over an insane man. 
 Then followed a running fire of questions, which need 
 not be repeated: the gist of Macrae’s replies will suf- 
 nee... 
 
 According to these, Macrae and his brother (Ben) 
 were two Englishmen travelling in this country. Ben 
 had shown symptoms of insanity during a late trip in 
 
136 DOCTUR BEN. 
 
 the White Mountains; and Macrae was terribly dis- 
 tressed about it. 
 
 Dr. Bushwick was in ecstasies. To this good and 
 gentle man let us give the credit of being a physician 
 per amore. Fees were nothing to him; the giving of 
 medicines, and above all the giving of advice, the very 
 delight of his soul. Mental cases were his hobby: 
 he had, in fact, written treatises upon the subject, 
 mostly unintelligible, and in shockingly bad grammar. 
 Occasionally startling truths were to be found in his 
 printed pages, —as, for instance, this: ‘The Supreme 
 Creator, by this fine mechanism, has caused human 
 actions to be concatenated to the organization.” 
 
 As a partisan, Dr. Bushwick had been from early 
 times a “ brain man ;” that is to say, he believed that 
 the brain was the seat of the intellectual and moral 
 faculties. He never excited himself except when in 
 the field against disciples of Bichat. “The born 
 idiot of a Frenchman!” he used to exclaim: “ who, 
 but a member of a nation of gastronomes would ever 
 think of maintaining that the seat of the moral and 
 intellectual organism is the bowels and the great 
 sympathetic?’’ What battering he administered to 
 Bichat’s bowel theory! How his blows rained down 
 thick and fast upon Bichat’s logic! And no amount of 
 evidence could ever draw him one step nearer to that 
 eminent but mistaken Frenchman, except that in his 
 last printed work he made this cautious admission: 
 that we are “conscious of. sensations of a peculiar 
 kind, having either a pleasurable or a painful charac- 
 ter, in the epigastrium.” 
 
DR. BUSHWICK. 137 
 
 The gentle doctor ! — he has gone to his rest now. 
 May no painful sensation ever trouble his spiritual 
 epigastrium, and may he clap his spiritual hands daily 
 over the victory of the brain-school ! 
 
 Now to make out a certificate consigning a patient 
 to an asylum was one of the dearest joys of Dr. Bush- 
 wick’s life. If he had had his way, he would ultimately 
 have consigned all the world to the asylums, shrewdly 
 retaining for the last, one of his fellow-physicians, and 
 engaging with him that they should commit each 
 other. 
 
 Macrae shook with eagerness, as this good man 
 went more and more deeply into Ben’s case. And 
 when the inevitable fale was reached, and the opin- 
 _ion pronounced that an asylum was the place for Ben, 
 this strong man gave way and shed tears, broke down 
 utterly, yielded to the nervous pressure of ten days’ 
 alternating fears and hopes. 
 
 What could Dr. Bushwick do but soothe and com- 
 fort him? 
 
 “Much better, my dear sir, much better every way,” 
 he said kindly. ‘Think of your brother’s comfort, sir, 
 and of your own; for I must be candid with you. I 
 fear that the patient is approaching the paroxysmal 
 state, and that he will soon become violent. I dis- 
 cover signs of plica Polonica. Look!” and the deep 
 fésculapian lifted up a section of Ben’s hair. 
 
 “To you observe the redness — sandiness — of the 
 new hair? Intense mental action is going on, sir, — 
 like a volcano. Every hair on your brother’s head 
 will turn, and of course the explosion must come some 
 
138 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 day. I beg you to remember that the dram of pre- 
 vention is worth more than the ton of cure.” 
 
 “Would it be a long confinement, doctor?” asked 
 Macrae. 
 
 “Looks to me, sir, like a case for life. True, pa- 
 tients do recover nowadays in the most extraordinary 
 manner. I sometimes think that insanity is spending 
 itself, like the plague and the cholera, and may finally 
 disappear. But I have my doubts in this young man’s 
 case.” 
 
 It was with no little difficulty that Macrae could 
 keep out of sight—even out of unsuspicious Dr. 
 Bushwick’s sight — his eagerness to get to the end 
 of this matter. Together they discussed public asy- 
 lums and private, near and distant, large and small. 
 
 At six o’clock that evening, lighter-hearted Thomas 
 Macrae was on his way towards Elysium. Virtue sat 
 by his side, —that is to say, one of Macrae’s attend- 
 ant imps clad in Virtue’s robes, and masking for the 
 occasion with immense success ; for Macrae had ctom- 
 promised with his conscience. He had said to him- 
 self, “I am going to put Ben into a private asylum, — 
 at least, just the same thing as a private asylum. I 
 have counted the cost, and shall pay it. Lucky fel- 
 low! to have that much done for him! And, now 
 that I think of it, this is vastly better than sending 
 him over the ocean. What a stupid I was! Much 
 obliged to you, Mrs. Dugan, for running away!” 
 
 Macrae mentally noted down a memorandum, “to 
 hunt up that woman, and send her out of the way,” 
 and went on with his self-gratulations ; — . 
 
Dk. BUSHWICK. 139 
 
 “And, as for the good people of Millington, I am 
 doing them a service. What folly to go on wasting 
 their lives in the care of a lunatic!” 
 
 In due time, or rather in time, not an hour too 
 early, —two whole years, in fact, behind time, — Ben 
 Hollins was placed in the custody of men whose busi- 
 ness it is, not simply to keep and watch and guard the 
 insane, but to cure them. 
 
 Like many other people, and intelligent ones too, 
 Macrae looked upon the asylum as a prison, and upon 
 its inmates as prisoners serving out a life-sentence. 
 Its atmosphere, to his uninstructed imagination, was 
 that of the grave; and he had heard and read of the 
 “living death” which is supposed to reign in the asy- 
 lum, until he believed in that insane contradiction. 
 You may be sure he was not anxious to remain long 
 at the asylum where he gave Ben up. The north 
 wind was blowing, or the “ Duke of Wellington” was 
 unable to find his sword, or some other disturbing 
 element was at work, —at all events, Macrae did not 
 relish the noises he heard. He was nervous and half- 
 exhausted ; and it was not re-assuring, while walking 
 through one of the wards with Dr. Peterson, to be 
 touched upon the elbow, and find a weird old face 
 turned towards him, and to hear a squeaking voice 
 saying, “I’m going to pray to cure that man; head 
 man pay the bill; don’t tell.” 
 
 Skilfully avoiding any dependence upon public 
 benefit, because public benefit might lead to public 
 inquiry, Macrae left with the proper officer a sum 
 sufficient to cover Ben’s expenses for three months, 
 
140. DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 told his tale of being an English traveller, gave the 
 doctor a card bearing the address, — 
 
 E. P. HALLOWELL, 
 
 TORONTO, ONT. 
 Post OFFICE. 
 
 and took his departure. 
 Walking down the avenue of hickories, Macrae sang 
 softly to himself, — 
 
 “ There’s joy in the mountains ; 
 There’s life in the fountains ; 
 Small clouds are sailing, 
 Blue sky prevailing, — 
 
 The rain is over and gone.” 
 
 i oO” 
 
HICKORY HALL. IAI 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 HICKORY HALL. 
 
 ATURE has made the locality of Ben Hollins’s 
 
 final refuge a charming one, —just the place to 
 quiet overtasked nerves and soothe distracted minds. 
 Leaving the railway-station, you pass into a street 
 where business-places and homes are in near neigh- 
 borhood. Ten minutes’ walk will bring you to a gentle 
 ascent, down which the western breeze comes to meet 
 you, laden with the fragrance of the season if it be 
 summer, or with icy chill in winter. At the top of this 
 ascent you stop, attracted by the wide-spread pros- 
 pect. Down below in the town looms up the court- 
 house, high above every other building. Dwarfish 
 houses, churches, stables, and stores are grouped about 
 it, as if the whole town wished it to be understood 
 that here justice, and nothing but justice, was the sole 
 want and reliance. To the right, to the left, behind 
 you, hills roll upon one another far away into the blue 
 distance, with a glimpse of water filling in a gap or 
 two. The most noticeable feature of all this landscape 
 is, perhaps, the row of hills confronting you as you 
 look over beyond the town. One hour these hills 
 are dazzling green, another misty blue, and again a 
 golden tinge comes over them,—a glorious fagade, 
 
142 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 by the way, for the sun-burst, at the edge of even- 
 ing. 
 
 We pass on through a triple gateway, and find our- 
 selves in a broad avenue lined with giant hickory- 
 trees, whence the name “ Hickory Hall.” It is seven 
 hundred feet, by measurement, from the gate to a 
 triangle of greensward enlivened by a basket of rustic- 
 work standing high and filled with geraniums and petu- 
 nias. Behind this is a clump of evergreens, around 
 which the road circles, and farther on a row of Gothic 
 buildings. | 
 
 You know at a glance that this is neither private 
 dwelling, hotel, educational establishment, factory, nor 
 prison. 
 
 “What are those iron bars in the windows for?” 
 asks the stranger. 
 
 And some one will answer, “To keep out mosqui- 
 toes.” 
 
 ““ Nonsense !”’ 
 
 Yes, nonsense: you have hit it exactly. There is 
 a good deal of nonsense in and about Hickory Hall, 
 — harmless nonsense, funny nonsense, ridiculous non- 
 sense, fierce nonsense, murderous nonsense, pompous 
 nonsense. There are nonsensical lawyers here, non- 
 sensical merchants, farmers, clergymen, students, wives, 
 mothers, and daughters, —and even doctors ; and yet, 
 mayhap, we shall also find some good sense within 
 these walls, behind those bars, —lcarning, affection, 
 correct reasoning, the refinements of daily life. 
 
 Here is young Gager, the doctor’s pupil and assist- 
 ant in the office. And, by the way, “ze doctor,” 
 
HICKORY HALL. 143 
 
 now to be often spoken-of, is the chief of the medi- 
 cal staff of Hickory Hall. Gager has visitors to-day ; 
 and one of them, a bright little lady of twenty, he 
 has just taken out for a stroll in the avenue. 
 
 “Charley,” she asks, “who are those men over 
 there, under the trees? Visitors?” 
 
 “Visitors! No, they are patients, out for an air- 
 ing.” 
 “They don’t let that horrid-looking one out, do 
 they, —that one in the light suit?” 
 
 “Ha, ha!” laughs Gager. “That one? Why, 
 Georgie, that is one of the attendants! He isn’t in- 
 sane !” 
 
 And Miss Georgie is not the only one who has 
 been thus deceived by appearances. 
 
 Floating over towards us, across the lawn, and 
 through the trees, come the tones of a soft musical 
 yoice, a man’s, but with tenderness in it. Gager 
 invites us to go a little nearer to the party of patients, 
 for “Doctor Ben is going to entertain the company 
 with a song.” 
 
 There he stands, his hands hanging down, or nerv- 
 ously jerking upwards as he reaches a high note, his 
 vest all unbuttoned, his black necktie streaming down 
 his bosom, his coat half off, and his hair restored to 
 its original color. Listen! 
 
 “T dreamt but last night, 
 Oh, bad luck to my dreaming! 
 I’d die if I thought 
 *T would come truly to pass ; 
 
144 , DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 I dreamt, as the tears 
 
 Down my pillow were streaming, 
 That Teddy was courting 
 
 Another fair lass. 
 
 “ Oh, didn’t I wake 
 
 With a weeping and wailing! 
 The thought of the grief 
 
 Was too deep to conceal. 
 My mother cried, Norah, 
 
 Child, what is your ailing? 
 But all I could utter- 
 
 Was, Tiddy O’Nale!” 
 
 Ben sang with little art, but with such pathos that 
 the woes of poor Norah seemed to have fallen upon 
 him ; and the little knot of patients — nay, the listen- 
 ers among the evergreens as well— might have shed 
 a tear for him, if Ben had not upset the whole thing 
 by drawing up his left arm with a flourish as he rap- 
 idly flung off the closing “Tiddy O’Nale,” instantly 
 exclaiming, “ Now you get out of this, I tell you!” 
 and scampering off to the remotest corner he could find. | 
 
 “Who is he?” asks Miss Georgie. 
 
 “That is more than I can tell,” Gager replies. 
 “He was brought here some time ago by his brother, 
 an Englishman. He is registered as George Hal- 
 lowell; but the poor fellow says his name is Ben 
 Hartley, and Ben Macrae, and half a dozen other 
 things. We have all fallen into a way of calling him 
 ‘Ben,’ or, for that matter, ‘Doctor,’ also; for he has 
 been persuaded by the other patients that he is a 
 doctor.” 
 
HICKORY HALL. 145 
 
 “Toes he ever make any trouble?” she continues. 
 
 “Trouble? I only wish they were all as good as 
 Ben. He is as gentle as a lamb. Once in a while 
 he gets a little wild. He imagines that there is a 
 woman who torments him, but the fit is only mo- 
 mentary.” 
 
 “Here he comes now, Charley. Mercy! take me 
 somewhere, quick!” cries Miss Georgie. 
 
 Gager calms her fears; and Ben comes sweeping 
 by, his face aglow, his nostrils expanded, his hands 
 clutching at the coat-collar in an endeavor to pull it 
 over his head. As he passes close to us, he cries, 
 “Don’t you do that again, now!” and within twenty 
 paces more he stoops quietly to pick up a pebble 
 or to pluck a blade of grass, the gentle look almost 
 instantly overspreading his face again. 
 
 Bang! clatter! smash! What on earth is this? 
 
 Only this: that an up-stairs patient is out of tem- 
 per to-day, and has thrown his washbowl through the 
 window. In twenty minutes the carpenter will have a 
 new sash fitted, and d certain Albany gentleman will 
 order his imaginary cashier to pay damages. Being a 
 man of culture and refinement, it will mortify him to 
 have to wash his hands and face in a tin dish this 
 evening, and he will be downcast, and wonder how he 
 could have behaved so foolishly. Day after to-morrow, 
 as likely as not, he will send another washbowl after 
 the one that went out of window to-day. 
 
 And here comes “ Merry,” one of the most ferocious 
 in talk, one of the most harmless in deed. Observe 
 his peculiar gait. What extraordinarily long, broad, 
 
146 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 flat feet! and yet he has the greatest difficulty to bal- 
 ance himself upon them. And how he throws his head 
 back as he walks! It is his disease. 
 
 As he comes towards us “ Merry” begins to bow, 
 and touch his hat with elaborate ceremony. Shake 
 hands with him, by all means, and hold him hard; 
 otherwise he will topple over, and sit unwillingly upon 
 the ground. 
 
 Hear his deep bronchial tones, as he greets you ! 
 
 “Ah, gentlemen! glad to see you. Smith, did you 
 say? Oh! Isee. Yes; new patients, Isuppose. Wel- 
 come, gentlemen! Jolly good place this for a sum- 
 mer residence, if it wasn’t for those infernal — cribs. 
 Say’? — 
 
 And here “Merry” takes you off by yourself to 
 confide to you that last night the doctor put him into 
 a crib for two hours, and it made his teeth ache. He 
 then resumes his welcome. 
 
 “Yes, gentlemen, I am glad to see you here. I 
 was marshal of the city of New York when I was only 
 nine years old; and if the doctor would only let me 
 go down town, and get my teeth fixed, I could do it 
 over again. Just look at my arms! Did you ever see 
 such muscle? Pshah! [Here “Merry” brightens up, 
 pitches his voice on a higher key,. and speaks with 
 immense energy.| I could pick up that—-that— mis- 
 erable Wickson, over there, and throw him six feet, 
 if it wasn’t for my spine and my limbs!” 
 
 “Merry”? comes to a stop, not because he has 
 nothing more to say, but because he has espied three 
 or four ladies walking far down the avenue. He 
 
HICKORY HALL. 147 
 
 looks at them with a sad smile, shakes his head with 
 solemnity, and takes up his discourse once more, in 
 even deeper voice than before. 
 
 “TZ too [with great emphasis] I too had a wife! 
 Ha! did I say had? It were better to say have / for 
 she is me wife, and yet she is not me wife! Pshah! 
 such a woman as that! [This last with hasty indig- 
 nation.| I’ve asked her more than fifty times to come 
 and take me away, and she won’t. Ah, well! [sigh- 
 ing] she was the wife of me boo-zum, and B. Violet, 
 me daughter, is me own flesh and blood! Oh, what 
 a girl that is!” And “Merry” bursts into laughter. 
 
 “You ought to see that girl do sums by the rule of 
 circles,” he continues. 
 
 “ By the rule of what?” you ask. 
 
 “The rule of circles. Why, sir, her teacher had a 
 sum one day that she couldn’t do herself. It was to 
 find five-elevenths of sixteen. What do you suppose 
 daughty did? Why, she just applied the rule of cir- 
 cles, multiplied by five, and divided by the difference 
 between sixteen and eleven. It was like lightning.” 
 
 We say go®d-by to “ Merry,” and enter one of the 
 buildings. From the upper hall comes a voice, calling 
 out in loud tones, — 
 
 “Hey! if you want any money down there, send 
 up a basket. I’ve got more than a hundred bushels 
 of greenbacks up here, hidden in my shoes and stock- 
 ings. I’m going to buy New Jersey to-morrow. The 
 rascals are trying to boost me up to a hundred and 
 eight and a half, but I’ll circumvent them.” 
 
 This is from one of the most notable men at Hickory 
 
148 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 Hall. When he is in a social mood we call him “ Uncle 
 Babbage ; ” if religiously inclined, “ der Babbage ;” 
 if disagreeable, “ Old Babbage.” 
 
 Let us now go into the billiard-room. 
 
 “ Billiard-room?’’ you ask. 
 
 Yes, billiard-room. Here is a handsomely dressed 
 gentleman, evidently well-to-do, playing. 
 
 “Not insane?” is the question I see in your eye as 
 you glance from him to me. And Mr. Robbins of 
 Boston sees it too, and laughs, as he shakes hands 
 with you, and says, “ No, gentlemen, you need not be 
 afraid of me. I’m not one of these insane fellows: I 
 am just a little off my balance now and then, that’s all. 
 All owing to a difficulty I have about maintaining the 
 proper relations between the positive and negative 
 currents. Now, to-day has been a very positive day ; 
 but to-night the negative will predominate. I can 
 feel it already creeping up my left arm. About eleven 
 o’clock there will be a perfect balance. What do you 
 say to a game of billiards, gentlemen? I made a run 
 of a coi aie points here yo in ten min- 
 utes.’ 
 
 Robbins would talk forever on subjects of his own 
 choosing. Let us choose one for him. 
 
 “‘ How about business, Robbins? ” 
 
 ‘Business? Well, that’s rather a plump question. 
 But I am in a position to answer it now. None of 
 these gentlemen are reporters, are they? Then I'll 
 tell you, —I have purchased Garden City. The judge 
 was pretty hard on me, harder than A. T.; but I’ve 
 got it, and to-morrow this establishment, bag, bag- 
 
HICKORY HALL. 149 
 
 gage, men, women, and children, go there. We'll all 
 get well then.” 
 
 You say you would like to go next to the ladies’ 
 department? We are sorry, but that is against the 
 rules. You do not roam about at pleasure in the 
 ladies’ corridors at the Fifth Avenue or the Brunswick, 
 do you? We must observe the same courtesy here. 
 But come this way, — let us take a look at the flower 
 and vegetable gardens, the orchards, the farm. Did 
 you ever see an estate more neatly kept? 
 
 Here is healthful out-door labor for such as are 
 capable of it. Here are diversions for female hands, 
 which touch the flowering plant as tenderly and lov- 
 ingly as in better days. Here are shady nooks for 
 conversation and reading, seats of rustic shape, over- 
 looking the water, walks through lanes of maple and 
 chestnut. One of these latter passes the end of the 
 south wing. Let us walk that way. Gager and Miss 
 Georgie are sauntering through it, just ahead of us, 
 building castles in the air as likely as not. And, as 
 they go, Miss Georgie shrieks, — simply because a 
 feminine voice calls out, ““Oh! how I do love to see 
 little girls! And I should say, now, that is Mr. White 
 of Pittsburgh. 
 
 Te-ruddle—dee-buddle, 
 Te-ruddle-tie-ray ” — 
 
 The rest of the song dies away in the distance, as 
 an attendant leads noisy “ Mrs. Te-ruddle” away from 
 the window. But the song has awakened echoes in 
 other unfortunate hearts; and a hand beckons to us 
 
150 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 from another window, while a sorrowful voice cries, 
 ““T never stole Charlie Ross. I never did, never, 
 never. And I never took any one’s papers. I never 
 did. I never saw Charlie Ross in all my life, never, 
 never, nev’? — 
 
 Oh! what hidden record of wrongful accusation, of 
 harsh dealing, of bitter shame and grief, of the unloos- 
 ing of reason’s cords, is here! Thank God for the 
 gentle, womanly voice that we hear, saying, — 
 
 “There, Mrs. Ransom, never mind it now! Come 
 to my room: we must finish that collar, you know, if 
 we are going to the doctor’s party this evening.” | 
 
 No fiction this. Mrs. Ransom did go to the party, 
 and danced, and played a rubber of whist. 
 
 Some one is coming across the lawn, and beckoning. 
 It is Robbins, out on parole. 
 
 “You were speaking about business, gentlemen. 
 Now, if you really mean business, I can put something 
 where you can find it. That Garden City matter is all 
 bosh. Just come down here into this arbor: I can’t 
 bear to have that prying Wickson near me, nor that 
 pompous old marshal of New York. 
 
 “Now, see here, I have an invention just perfected. 
 I am going to call it the chevaloscope. You don’t 
 know what that means, eh? Look! cheval, horse — 
 scope, sight, or seer. A little bit mixed, maybe; 
 French and Greek, but so much the better. My 
 invention is founded upon a principle of science, 
 which is neither positive nor negative, but an exact 
 balance. I can feel it in my left wrist: now —-a— 
 ah ! what was I talking about, gentlemen? ” 
 
HICKORY HALL. 151 
 
 “ Chev” — 
 
 “Oh, yes, chevaloscope! No: principle of science, 
 that’s the subject. Science, gentlemen, is at the bot- 
 tom of all our— our — social—h’m! I know per- 
 fectly well what I want to say !— anomalies: that’s the 
 word. I’ll convince you. Lovers of horse-flesh, gen- 
 tlemen? Youare. Well, are—you— aware — of the 
 —fact —that a horse steps, to a hair, just as far as he 
 can see? No more, no less. If, then, a horse could 
 see sixty feet, he would step sixty feet, wouldn’t he?” 
 
 We assent. 
 
 “The chevaloscope is triumphant, gentlemen. My 
 invention consists of a simple rubber hood, with pow- 
 ful lenses for the horse’s eyes. I have made my cal- 
 culations upon a basis of sixty feet, I may get it up 
 to eighty. Now, divide five thousand two hundred 
 and eighty by sixty: eight — y—eight times exactly. 
 My old Jim takes four steps ina second. That makes 
 a mile in twenty-two seconds. Think of the astonish- 
 ment of Dexter, the Maid, and all that class of horses, 
 after grinding themselves to powder to get around a 
 two-mile course, finding my old Jim in front of the 
 judge’s stand eating oats !” 
 
152 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 NEW PATIENTS AND OLD. 
 
 HE last chapter was not intended to occupy any 
 definite place in the historical sequence of Ben 
 Hollins’s life. Its sole purpose was to familiarize the 
 reader somewhat with Ben’s surroundings at Hickory 
 Hall. 
 
 Coming back now to the more strictly historical or 
 biographical line, we take up the thread of our narra- 
 tive on the day of Ben’s entry into his new life. And 
 while following this thread, occasion will be taken still 
 further to correct an impression, if such an impression 
 has been received, that the dweller at Hickory Hall 
 necessarily and always dwells in the midst of appalling 
 or heart-rending scenes. 
 
 Ben’s separation from his injidus Achates took place 
 without. demonstration on either side. An attendant 
 asked him, politely and pleasantly, to come and see 
 his room. “Go, Ben!” whispered Macrae, and the 
 end was accomplished. 
 
 If you ask what would have taken place if Ben had 
 shown any unwillingness to go to his quarters, or, in a 
 more general way, if you would like to know what 
 does take place when a new patient shows fight, does 
 not wish to go to his room, or won’t go, and would like 
 
NEW PATIENTS AND OLD. 153 
 
 to see the man who can make him go, it only needs 
 to be said, that after due consideration, and with a 
 plentiful allowance of time for evaporation, such a 
 patient finds himself sitting in the hall or in his own 
 future apartment, the most astonished man in the 
 establishment. If he looks upon his person for 
 scratches and bruises, he will find none. But the fight 
 is not yet out of him; and the excitable patient mani- 
 fests his disapproval of the new order of things by 
 stamping up and down, and making a hideous noise. 
 Boots or shoes then melt away from his feet ; and in 
 their place are soft, warm slippers. Next he seizes a 
 chair, and bangs upon the floor with all his might, or 
 rattles his bed. Noise is his one refuge. And ina 
 twinkling he finds himself alone in an unfurnished 
 room. Still he has a tongue; and he can sing and 
 scream, if he cannot stamp and pound. He can open 
 the window and call to the small boy passing on the 
 public road, four hundred feet distant, and offer him 
 five thousand dollars to send up a carriage to convey 
 him to the railway. 
 
 It is not necessary to make fun of this poor man. 
 He is in misery, and calls for your pity. But close to 
 him are those who are waiting patiently to relieve him. 
 And not very far off is still another agent of alleviation, 
 —the craziest man in the buildings. This is “the 
 Giant,” otherwise variously known as the “ Duke of 
 Wellington,” “Gen. Scott,” “ Julius Ceesar,” “ Napo- 
 leon Bonaparte.”” ‘The moment the new patient begins 
 to call to the small boy, “the Giant ” smells the battle 
 afar. Up goes his window, loud are his calls for bat- 
 
154 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 talions of cavalry, infantry, and artillery. He flourishes 
 his sword, — that is to say, an old newspaper or towel, 
 —and gives military orders with the rapidity of a 
 practised general; and yet “the Giant” never saw a 
 battle or wore a uniform. Back and forth fly the 
 sounds of war, the new patient personating the enemy. 
 The culmination comes in one long yell from the 
 patient, and the cry of, “ Murder, murder, murder!” 
 “The Giant” takes it up, and bellows forth such a 
 rending response of “‘ Murder—r—r—r—r!” witha 
 whirr and a rattle at the end, and bangs his casement 
 to with such a crash that the patient is diverted. It 
 occurs to him, that there is some one in this little 
 world worse off than himself, and he quiets himself to 
 study the matter. They could hardly get on at all 
 with some new patients, were it not for “the Giant.” 
 
 Now is the time for a little soothing. It seldom 
 requires any great amount of artfulness to secure this 
 poor man’s confidence. He becomes grateful for 
 attentions, even for an invitation to visit an attendant 
 or a stronger fellow-patient. He loses sight of his 
 terrors in the charity of “helping the doctor,” in the 
 room of some sick patient. His pulse comes down 
 to the standard, the eye becomes more gentle, and in 
 an hour he is walking about the ward, making acquaint- 
 ances, and entertaining them with accounts of his very 
 peculiar life and works. 
 
 Our Ben began his asylum life without any of these 
 violent demonstrations, or any necessity for coaxing. 
 With a double shuffle and a laugh he accepted the 
 invitation to go to his room ; averring that he thought — 
 
NEW PATIENTS AND OLD. 155 
 
 he had travelled about far enough, and was glad to get 
 home again. It required but little time to set Ben’s 
 wardrobe to rights, for it was decidedly insignificant ; 
 but Macrae very decently remedied that by sending 
 a trunk full of new clothing a few days after. 
 
 Now followed the first visit to the hall, the reading- 
 room, the billiard-room, — in a word, the grand round. 
 The attendant introduced Ben to this patient and that. 
 There was a great shaking of hands, and giving of 
 welcome, on the part of most of the old patients ; 
 while a few, a very few, were frightened almost to 
 death by poor, simple, gentle Ben, and shrank away 
 to their rooms or behind any convenient table or door. 
 Some greeted him patronizingly ; others examined his 
 clothing, pronouncing it to be of pretty good material, 
 and very decently made, but not at all to be com- 
 pared with theirs. 
 
 Robbins took a great fancy to Ben, and pronounced 
 him a perfect gentleman, at sight; and expressed his 
 great delight, that at last there was a patient with 
 whom he could be in perfect sympathy. Ben replied 
 quite cordially, “Oh, yes, to be sure! — ha, ha, yes, 
 yes,” which pleased Robbins immensely. And forth- 
 with this doughty inventor of the chevaloscope brought 
 from his room a great mass of towels, sponges, soaps, 
 brushes, flannels, books, bottles of cologne, gold, steel, 
 and quill pens, and what not, to exhibit to Ben as the 
 most remarkable productions, in their several kinds, 
 known to the human race. 
 
 Of course we never see such a trait manifested out- 
 side of the insane asylum. 
 
156 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 - 
 
 The outer door now opens, and there come into the 
 hall three persons, who may be said to be the princes 
 of this little principality. They have pass-keys, and 
 go in and out on parole, as they please. All three are 
 on the downward turn of life: gray is mixing with black 
 and brown on their heads. ‘Ten, sixteen, and twenty 
 years have they been at Hickory Hall. ‘They live in 
 peace, and, for the most part, in happy contentment. 
 Out in the world, life would be one continual misery 
 to them. 
 
 Spying Ben, these three magnates, Dikstouted Fisher, 
 and Biddle, hold a consultation. The attendant waits 
 for the ending of this ceremony, and then introduces 
 Ben.. They neither welcome nor comment upon him 
 in his own hearing, but of the attendant make the 
 following formal inquiries : — 
 
 1. Who is he? 
 
 . Where did he come from? 
 
 . By which train? 
 
 . Ina carriage, or on foot? 
 
 Who brought him? 
 
 . Married, or single? 
 
 . Was he noisy? 
 
 . How much of a wardrobe has he?” 
 
 feck noted these data mentally, the trio separate : 
 Delorme, as secretary, going to his own room, and 
 jotting down the attendant’s answers upon paper. 
 
 Presently the dinner-bell rings, and Ben is regaled 
 with as good eating as he requires. The most impor- 
 tant feature of the occasion is the studious observa- 
 tion, of which Ben is the unconscious object. The 
 
 com Aw & Wd 
 
NEW PATIENTS AND OLD. 157 
 
 magnates are taking notes, and the glances they confer 
 upon one another are most significant. 
 
 But these three say not a word to each other con- 
 cerning Ben all the afternoon. Each one goes his 
 several way, — each one cogitating. At evening a con- 
 clave is held in Delorme’s room. Fisher, as the elder, 
 diagnoses Ben’s case, with astonishing fulness and 
 perspicacity. Surreptitiously he has felt Ben’s pulse, 
 and looked at his tongue, taken his height and girth, 
 observed his gait and breathing. He is a wise man, 
 this Fisher, and a good man it should be said. He 
 has built railroads in his day. He has been at the 
 head of some gigantic engineering operations whose 
 results you, Mr. Mens-sana-in-corpore-sano, admire 
 greatly. He has been an adept with all known chemi- 
 cals and minerals. He is still full of lore, and can 
 talk a whole college down on professional subjects. 
 
 Solemnly the trio look over Delorme’s notes: Fisher 
 writing first, at the head of the page, “ Wotite ad 
 @grotum novum.” 
 
 A free discussion now ensues, any disagreements 
 being invariably settled by some wise dictum from 
 Fisher ; and at the end this leader asks, “ Have you 
 any thing further to say, gentlemen?” 
 
 “ Nothing.” 
 
 “ Then I will offer my opinion. T’ll give that man 
 just one week on this hall. After that, good-by. 
 These quiet ones always end up with a ruction. I’m 
 sorry for him ; but there’s nothing for it but the crib, 
 the muffs, and the blind-room.” 
 
 More than five hundred times has Fisher pronounced 
 
158 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 these same words after the same ceremonial, and in 
 the cases of an equal number of new patients. And 
 just as many times has Delorme followed them up 
 with the question, — 
 
 ‘What do you think is the matter with him, Fisher?” 
 
 And every time Fisher has replied, — 
 
 “ Mania, — undeveloped mania. I can see it in 
 his eye, on his tongue, in the cut of his coat.” 
 
 And every time Biddle has piped in, “It’s g’my 
 opingiong that he’s g’pretty near n’gen’ral p’resis too.” 
 
 It is impossible to put the ludicrousness of this 
 scene into print; and it becomes especially lawful 
 and proper to laugh at it, when we reflect that the 
 dire prophecies of the magnates come true only in 
 one case in hundreds ; and most laughable of all when 
 the knowledge is ours that Ben Hollins never saw a 
 crib, a muff, or a blind-room, never was stricken with 
 mania, never had a symptom of paresis or paralysis, 
 and is living to-day in Comfort Lodge, well and 
 happy. 
 
 A night of restful sleep brought Ben to an awaking 
 which interested the medical staff and the intelligent 
 attendants. Experienced as they were, the trait of 
 implicit obedience in Ben was discovered at once. 
 He did not get up until he was told to; he did not 
 dress, come out of his room, or heed the breakfast- 
 bell, until he was bidden. Knowledge of this trait 
 became of great service ere long. 
 
 After breakfast at Hickory Hall comes the morning 
 outing for the milder and convalescent patients. Ben 
 joins the group on the lawn in some bewilderment. 
 
NEW PATIENTS AND OLD. 159 
 
 Presently “‘ Merry” walks up to him, spreading his 
 feet widely, and in his deepest voice asks, ‘‘ Did you 
 hear me yell last night?” 
 
 Says Ben, “I’m sure I don’t exactly recollect just 
 now.” 
 
 “You bet, I just Zollered / That doctor wouldn’t let 
 me go to sleep, poured a quart of medicine down my 
 throat, rubbed my spine with something that smarted 
 like kerosene-oil and red pepper. Of course I made 
 a noise! and /’ve got a voice, now, if I am a sick 
 man!” And “Merry” laughed and tittered at the 
 thought of it. 
 
 *Pshah!” he continued. “You ought to have 
 
 heard me when I took my slipper, and slapped on 
 the window-slats !— rat, tat, rat, tat, tat! rat, tat, rat, 
 tat, tat! And, when I got tired of that, I turned over, 
 and rapped on the floor. I'll bet you they heard me 
 ten miles off! Pshah! when I was mayor of Albany, 
 —I was only eight years old, —I made a speech on 
 the opening of the Atlantic cable, and a ‘Troy Times’ 
 reporter took down my remarks verbatim while he was 
 attending a funeral up at Cohoes.”’ 
 
 From a window in the north wing come strains 
 which draw Ben away from “Merry.” It is the well- 
 known air, “Il balen del sorriso,” and it is “the 
 Giant’ who is singing in a grand baritone. Ben lis- 
 tens, standing stock-still, entranced. He is as a man 
 upon whom some gentle flood of memory is begin- 
 ning to pour; and what shall be the end of it? Shall 
 “the Giant,” perhaps, touch the very chord which 
 Betty Hartley longed to sound, and failed? Shall the 
 
160 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 “ Ah! l’amor, l’amore ond’ ardo 
 Le favelli in mio favore, 
 Sperda il sole d’un suo sguardo 
 La tempesta del mio cor!” 
 
 warm up the dead love in Ben’s chilled heart? Shall 
 he come again to think of Betty as of 
 
 “The loved for whom my heart is burning 
 With a love beyond control”? 
 
 Shall he break forth here in Hickory Hall some day, 
 and sing, — 
 
 “ She alone, that love returning, 
 Can quell the tempest of my soul ”? 
 
 These questions were for the future to answer, but 
 Dr. Peterson took note of the effect of the song upon 
 Ben at once. 
 
 The day passes, and early evening finds Ben one of 
 a company of patients and attendants in the billiard- 
 room. Some are playing, with varying degrees of 
 skill, with much good-humor and zest. These are 
 not trying to make “a run of a thousand points in 
 ten minutes :”’ it is genuine playing. All the finesse of 
 the game—the cushion-shots, the draws, the parlor- 
 ing — they understand as well as men outside. Look 
 at Barclay, now, — how he manceuvres those balls in 
 the corner! What a run he will get out of them! 
 Acuteness, reflection, manual delicacy in the avoid- 
 ance of a “freeze,” are parts of Barclay’s training. 
 
 At tables in other parts of the room are groups play- 
 ing checkers, backgammon, euchre, and even chess, — 
 
NEW PATIENTS AND OLD. 161 
 
 not crazy games of mere tossing men and cards about, 
 but genuine play, and some of it uncommonly skilful 
 play. | 
 
 “‘ Here comes the new one,” says some older patient. 
 *‘ Ask him to play checkers, Merry.” 
 
 “Oh, yes! certainly,” says Ben. 
 
 A smile goes from face to face as the electric spark 
 from lamp to lamp. The truth is, the patients look 
 upon Ben as foolish: they are disposed to class him 
 among idiots. 
 
 But he takes the proffered chair, and sets the 
 blacks. ‘ Merry” cannot possibly play with any but 
 the whites. 
 
 “Move first,” says “Merry,” out of pity for the 
 “poor fellow.” 
 
 Ben moves; “Merry” moves; Ben follows up; 
 they gather their forces in serried array; ‘ Merry” 
 gets first blood; Ben sweeps off one, two, three; 
 “Merry” looks surprised, but renews the attack. Back 
 and forth they surge, the group of patients gathering 
 round in silence. “ Merry” bluffs his opponent with 
 a little of that braggadocio which might be allowed to 
 a man who was marshal of the city of New York at 
 the age of nine; but Ben is deaf to it. “Jumping” 
 is uppermost in his thoughts; and he jumps finally 
 into the king-row,—then off go the whites, pell- 
 mell. Another black monarch, —and another! and, 
 as ‘ Merry’s” last man is cornered, Ben clears the 
 room at two bounds, puts on his hat, and walks rap- 
 idly to the hall-door as one who has business to do. 
 
 The games are over, the players tired of them. 
 
162 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 Now comes a ripple of conversation, and what do we 
 hear? Talk about cities far away, of European travel, 
 of art-galleries, of politics, of business, of famous sing- 
 ers and painters, and preachers and kings, — sayings 
 as rational as you would hear in any drawing-room or 
 club.° 
 
 And down at the farther end of the hall is Fisher. 
 He has opened a cabinet, and is arranging upon its 
 shelves a score of new mineral specimens, every one 
 of which he will label with its name in science. And 
 Ben is helping him. How? Fisher, too, has discov- 
 ered the obedience upon which hinges so much of 
 Ben’s present character, and is making good use of it. 
 He is delighted with Ben’s readiness at spelling the 
 hard names he gives him to write upon the small 
 cards, and Ben is appointed and confirmed assistant 
 mineralogist at Hickory Hall. 
 
 The groups begin to break up at eight o’clock ; and 
 now scattered about the hall are men reading, — one a 
 New-York daily, another a Boston paper, or one of 
 Philadelphia, Baltimore, Chicago, Montreal. There 
 are illustrated papers also, and a dozen books from 
 the library. 
 
 Occasionally Ben will take up a paper or book. It 
 is doubtful, however, whether he reads. He dwells in 
 a region of abstraction for the most part. He is evi- 
 dently thinking, thinking always. He holds imaginary 
 conversations with unseen beings. He has fitful 
 periods of purpose, just as he had at home, — of pur- 
 pose which evaporates at the outset of accomplish- 
 ment. 
 
NEW PATIENTS AND OLD. 163 
 
 For one thing, Ephraim Hollins, dnd Ben’s mother, 
 and Betty Hartley, could they but have seen him in 
 these days, would have been thankful, — that their Ben 
 was content and happy, and greatly loved. 
 
164 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 BETHLEHEM — BEDLAM. 
 
 HE history of the enlargement of human knowl- 
 edge is much the same, in whatever line of 
 thought we look at it. In astronomy, in music, in — 
 food products, in mechanical forces, we witness a 
 development, for which this century, in particular, is 
 notable. How is it in medical science? Precisely 
 the same. ‘Time was when the sick, with whatever 
 disease, were carried to some secluded spot ‘and left 
 to recover or die, as unassisted Nature might deter- 
 mine. ‘There are nations still which know no better. 
 With increased intelligence, however, the wondrous 
 provisions of Nature for the cure of the sick are dis- 
 covered. A materia medica of one or two herbs or 
 roots is enlarged by hundreds; minerals are experi- 
 mented upon, and added to the growing list of reme- 
 dies. A profession becomes necessary, and learns to 
 arm itself with lancet and knife, discovers the secrets 
 of the ligature and bandage, builds hospitals, trains 
 nurses, —in a word, brings forth to the world a full- 
 fledged science. 
 Now, why this science, for hundreds and hundreds 
 of years, should concern itself solely with the care of 
 men’s livers and hearts and spleen and limbs, and 
 
BETHLEHEM — BEDLAM. 165 
 
 stand utterly powerless the moment the brain is 
 touched, let them explain who can. Thank God, 
 medical art is no longer satisfied with half-knowledge. 
 It is determined to look into this affair of brain-dis- 
 turbance. And its first formula is thus written, — 
 
 Axiom. — Insanity is sickness. 
 
 LTypothesis.— If insanity is sickness, it can be cured. 
 
 Problem. — How? By what means? 
 
 There is a key to every problem. This one can be 
 solved,—and must. In fact, every particular case of 
 insanity, or each class of cases, is an independent 
 problem, and the key exists. Will it ever be found? 
 
 It is not too much to say, that faithful students have 
 _ solved some of the problems already : towards others, 
 they are progressing, inch by inch. Patience! The 
 day and the hour will come. 
 
 Dr. Peterson, of Hickory Hall, is a student. He 
 recognizes, in the suspension or partial suspension of 
 the mental faculties, in mental distortion or weakness, 
 a grand scope for research. A new patient is to him 
 anew study. He admits, being utterly without quack- 
 ery, that the case may baffle him, that he cannot handle 
 it as a mason would set a stone. J/ay baffle him! 
 there are infinite chances that it w/ laugh all his 
 knowledge to scorn. But, patience, good people! It 
 will not always be thus. A few generations of students, 
 a stronger concentration of the light which is pouring 
 in upon the world, and the new science will come 
 forth in full panoply. It has taken six thousand years 
 to bring Dr. Peterson to the birth. He ought to da 
 _ good work for Mother Earth and her other children. 
 
66 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 But even body-treatment is not yet perfected. It 
 ss still possible for a “noted” physician to declare 
 that a kidney trouble is heart disease, and not to dis- 
 cover his mistake until the post-mortem. Indeed, it 
 is only a few years ago that D’Alembert told us of one 
 of the leading medical lights of France, who retired 
 after a practice of thirty years, giving as his reason for 
 so doing, that he was “weary of guessing.” Good 
 physicians, honest ones, men who are determined to 
 make medicine a science and not a bugaboo, will go 
 on guessing, conjecturing, experimenting, investigat- | 
 ing, — and we know with what grand results. And if 
 body-treatment, with its thousands of years of study, is 
 thus imperfect, it would be folly to expect mind-treat- 
 ment to be perfected in only two hundred, — it would 
 be within bounds to say even fifty. 
 
 For let us compare what now is with what has been. — 
 Not many years ago, no one cared to know whether 
 such a man as Ben Hollins had any semblance of 
 humanity, except the bodily, left in him. The divine 
 spark was considered to be totally extinguished. Even 
 the Reformation, much vaunted for its grand achieve- 
 ments, somehow failed to touch this large class of 
 Christ’s sheep effectively. True, it may be said in 
 one sense to have inaugurated, or to have paved the 
 way for, the steps which have since been taken in 
 mental science. But of itself, it did nothing but in a 
 moment of pity drive the monks out of the priory of 
 St. Mary of Bethlem, and convert the premises into 
 an asylum. Where were the physicians, and where 
 the intelligent keepers? Not yet known. On the 
 
BETHLEHEM — BEDLAM. 167 
 
 contrary, pity was satisfied when it had placed over 
 the unhappy inmates of St. Mary’s as barbarous a set 
 of men as were ever bred in Rome, or for that matter 
 in Africa or in the Society Islands. The poor crea- 
 tures confined there were lashed and beaten, starved 
 and murdered. The keepers were allowed, by special 
 enactment, to exhibit the “crazy folk” to a gaping 
 public. In one year, it is recorded, eight thousand 
 people came to see this spectacle, to look upon men 
 and women literally caged, some snarling and biting, 
 some shrinking in half-conscious fear and shame into 
 darkest corners. All this (and much more that can- 
 not be written) at a charge, set by the law, of one 
 penny a head. 
 
 From the mouths of these eight thousand came a 
 new word, — “‘ Bedlam,’’— formed out of a barbarous 
 twisting of that name of no other than tender memo- 
 ries, Bethlem, Bethlehem; for water out of whose 
 well David longed; the town where Ruth the Mo- 
 abitess found sweet welcome, the town where Jesus 
 was born. Bethlehem,—house of bread! Bedlam, 
 —house of starvation and grief ! 
 
 “ Bedlam” seems to have been, for many years, the 
 model upon which all English institutions for the 
 insane were built and conducted. In them thousands 
 were consigned to darkness and filth, maltreated and 
 murdered on slightest provocation. Not an effort 
 seems to have been made for their curve. Their keep 
 was the sole consideration. And England has written 
 of herself, that, in the brief space of eighty years, no 
 less than forty-five thousand insane people were hung, 
 
168 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 shot, drowned, or otherwise violently disposed of, with- 
 in her borders. Such is not the England of to-day. 
 The ignorance and superstitions of that former 
 England came over the ocean to this new land, as well 
 as many good and noble ideas. Bedlam was set up 
 here also, at an early period. The law took upon 
 itself the whole charge of the insane. If harmless, the 
 
 law allowed the unfortunate to roam about in the — 
 
 character of “a fool;’’ but if he broke a dish, or 
 mischievously unbuckled the harness of a standing 
 horse, much more if he flung stones or shook a stick 
 at teasing children, or struck an exasperating man, the 
 law put forth its long arms, and sent him to Bedlam. 
 And where was that? In the cellar, the garret, of the 
 poorhouse or the jail. Twelve good men and true, 
 that is to say, zo¢ tnsane, gathered together with an 
 array of big-wigs and little-wigs, and a charge was 
 framed against the offender, — the charge that he was 
 insane. Pro forma, he was tried, convicted, sen- 
 tenced, like a criminal, and duly incarcerated among 
 criminals, only to be treated with ten times as much 
 rigor as the meanest of thieves or the most villainous 
 of murderers. . 
 Whence was the logic of all this? You will find it 
 based upon the fears and the cupidity of the people. 
 It was to be feared, the law claimed, and the people 
 who made the law, that this man might commit crimes, 
 — ergo, it would be better to put him away defore the 
 crimes were committed. Why not try the working of 
 such a principle in the slums of all our cities? And, 
 again, there is no denying that, in early days, thrift and 
 
BETHLEHEM — BEDLAM. 169 
 
 economy were among the loftiest cardinal virtues in 
 this land. Give a man an insane son or daughter, 
 _ one who could not dig and delve, and bring in some- 
 thing for the household treasury, and he would go to 
 the authorities, perhaps with tears in his eyes, and foist 
 off the encumbrance upon the public expense. 
 
 But the shocks borne by a more enlightened pa- 
 rental, marital, and filial affection have awakened us 
 somewhat to the study of this subject. We are begin- 
 ning to see that our own flesh and blood, sick with 
 mental trouble, are objects of pity and affection, as 
 much as when:stricken with physical disease. 
 
 There is still enough to be remedied, however, in 
 our method of caring for these unfortunates. Let us 
 - take a look at the county poorhouse for instance. 
 Here is a veritable lordling who meets us at the door, 
 and in manner, if not in word, resents our intrusion. 
 Who is he? Some small political henchman, almost 
 sure to be one of the meanest of his class. He has 
 done an amount of most unclean work for “ the party,” 
 and must be rewarded with a place. The poorhouse 
 is thought to be a fitting niche for this man, and he is 
 installed without pomp or ceremony. He surveys his 
 field with an eye to the profits. For the aged he 
 cares little enough, for the sick no more, — the in- 
 sane are his especial aversion. ‘These he endeavors 
 to keep out of sight} out of his own sight, mind you, 
 quite as much as of other people’s. Without exercise, 
 air, proper food, or any medical care worth speaking 
 of, they are shut up, tied, nay, chained. What won: 
 der that they decome madmen? 
 
170 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 And while the process of converting them into 
 maniacs is going on, this heartless administrator of 
 what is intended to be a public charity actually spends 
 occasional moments of his valuable time in reasoning 
 with the unfortunate lunatic. He threatens generally, 
 coaxes rarely. A cry of distress is followed by new 
 punishment, a protest by abuse or a blow. Such 
 things are a blot upon any social system, a shame to 
 any people. 
 
 But this world is waking to what the Lord Christ : 
 sought to teach. Did not he give the grandest im- 
 petus to medical art? Did he not point out that 
 blindness and deafness might be cured? the speech- 
 less tongue, the paralyzed limb, be restored? the very 
 dead be raised to life again? And yet men read of 
 his mighty works, and speak of them only as miracles. 
 This is drivelling superstition and weakness. Hear his 
 majestic words! “Verily, verily, I say unto you, he 
 that believeth on me, the works that I do shall he do 
 also ; and greater works than these shall he do.” 
 
 Your average ecclesiastic, even, disposes of this 
 text, and of the glorious heritage which it announces, 
 in quite a remarkable fashion. He takes down a cer- 
 tain history of the Church, and reads therein of the 
 death of Ignatius and some of his contemporaries, 
 and apparently derives solid comfort from this closing 
 sentence, “About this time miracles ceased in the 
 Church.” Yes, they did cease, because the condition 
 upon which they were given to men ceased. Men 
 ceased to believe in Christ, and began to put faith 
 in wooden images and pictures of him. Then came 
 
BETHLEHEM — BEDLAM. 171 
 
 a furious battle against these, with much pretentiously 
 pious iconoclasm, and a substitution of mental images. 
 The real Christ was just as much forgotten as before, 
 and this man’s Christ and that man’s Christ substi- 
 tuted. Are the preachers telling us to-day exactly 
 and precisely the words of Jesus of Nazareth? Not 
 at all; but they are hurling firstlies and secondlies at 
 us, clinched with the unconvincing logic of “J be- 
 lieve this,” and “It is my opinion that.” And these 
 generations of image-worshippers, whether wooden or 
 mental, have been swallowed up in the ardor of Pope- 
 service and Reformer-service, with very little substan- 
 tial difference between them when you come to sift 
 the matter ; and trooping in among them, a free-lance 
 in the fight, comes the sceptic, cutting and slashing 
 right and left, knocking over Cavalier and Roundhead 
 indiscriminately. Has he any quarrel against the real 
 Christ? None whatever. His ire is really against the 
 false ones, — the images ; and it makes little difference 
 to him whether they be visible or invisible. 
 
 No wonder, then, that miracles ceased. But what 
 is this that is coming to the world? Has faith begun 
 to revive? Certainly the miracles are coming round 
 again. The sick are better cared for, the insane are 
 no longer stoned to death by an ignorant, brutal mob, 
 who the next hour will be counting beads, or piously 
 repeating the Book of Leviticus backwards. To the 
 clergy it may be left to tell whether “to the poor the 
 gospel is preached.” 
 
 It is not intended here to set up any barrier of com- 
 parison between the two charitable professions. It is 
 
172 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 always a pity that these two professions cannot more 
 intimately go hand in hand. The time is coming when 
 they will. Short-sighted and opinionated sceptics in 
 one, and raving anti-materialists in the other, will be 
 swept out of sight and hearing, some day. Meantime 
 there is much to be’ done in the particular field which 
 we are surveying, — a public sentiment to be built up 
 which shall insist upon the final retirement of the 
 barbarism which has hung upon our skirts too long, a 
 private intelligence to be communicated which shall 
 make each individual man and woman look upon in- 
 sanity in a clearer light. 
 
 And here, as well as anywhere else, a certain phase 
 of insanity may be touched upon. Boileau hit upon 
 it in a satirical strain, which is not so very far from 
 doctrinal truth : — 
 
 “ Tous les hommes sont fous, 
 Et, malgré tous les soins, 
 Ne different entre eux 
 Que du plus ou des moins.” 
 
 (Having no translation at hand, the writer begs 
 pardon of the whole fraternity of poets for the fol- 
 lowing :) 
 
 All men, no doubt, are mad, 
 Though some take pains to hide it. 
 The exposure, true, is sad, 
 But we may as well abide it: 
 The truth is infinitely sadder, — 
 We all are mad, and some are madder. 
 
 There is a grain of truth in Boileau’s satire. What 
 mean these accusations which are heard in all quar- 
 
 > 
 
BETHLEHEM — BEDLAM. 173 
 
 ters, — men. charging one another with want of rea- 
 son? Look carefully, my splendid man, my elegant 
 woman, straining every nerve, pulling hard upon every 
 muscle, daring sickness and death ! 
 
 There are questions of positively moral import for 
 you to consider in this connection. Look at the. 
 names of a few of them, and consider ! | 
 
 Overwork, whether mental or physical. 
 
 Undue absorption in one particular pursuit. 
 
 The use of alcohol and opium. | 
 
 Physical habits of degeneracy, of whatever sort. 
 
 Do not flinch. If you are sane, face these ques- 
 tions. . 
 
 One further reflection. There is “an old saw” — 
 “Once insane, always insane’”?— which may as well 
 be laid aside, as a rusty, toothless affair. It is but 
 another relic of the old barbarism. It has caused the 
 shedding of oceans of tears. We do not mean that 
 every case will or can be cured. No one dares, as 
 yet, to say that. The miracle-time has not fully come 
 yet. There are some who go down into the darkest 
 part of this “valley of the shadow of death,” never 
 to emerge till Jesus of Nazareth shall come and lead 
 them to the new light of God’s great day. For these 
 summon all your patience and pity, and wait for the 
 hour of “restitution of all things.” So far as this 
 world is concerned, death .is the only known release. 
 
 But for the many keep a warm place at your fire- 
 side and in your hearts. Coldness and dread, con- 
 tempt and neglect, have sent many a man back again 
 to mental agony. Be like “the Giant’s” noble wife. 
 
174 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 For here it may be disclosed to you that “the Giant” 
 has ceased his military operations. His campaign is 
 over: he has gone home. And how do you think he 
 found matters there? His slippers on the fender, the 
 table set for supper, and his old favorite dishes steam- 
 ing for him, his wife in the dress he loved best to see 
 her in, his dog ready to bounce upon him, the even- 
 ing paper laid ready to his hand. You would have 
 supposed “the Giant” had but returned from a jour- 
 ney. 
 
DOCTOR BEN. 175 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 DOCTOR. BEN. 
 
 O illustrate the preceding chapter, and to com- 
 
 plete our comparison of what has been with what 
 is, in the treatment of the insane, we return to Ben 
 Hollins and Hickory Hall. 
 
 Not so many years ago there would have been no 
 Hickory Hall for Ben to go to. No one would have 
 thought of finding a key to his troubles, or of there 
 being any possible remedy for his disorder. The 
 loving ones at Elmswoods would have cared for him | 
 just as tenderly, no doubt; beyond that, all they 
 would or could have done would be to sit helplessly 
 by him, waiting, perhaps, for some accident of nature. 
 Not even would there have been any Pool of Siloam, 
 upon whose banks to place Ben for a weary waiting 
 for the moving of the waters. 
 
 But at Hickory Hall there were men of intelligence, 
 with note-books in their pockets, walking with Ben, . 
 sitting with him in-doors and out-of-doors, talking 
 with him, noting slightest changes in him, observing 
 his habits of speech, of action, of physegue. Thank 
 thee, Gaul, for more words than one! Moreover, 
 these note-books passed into the doctor’s hands, their 
 contents to be verified or rejected by his larger expe- 
 
176 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 rience and knowledge. It was an almost shapeless 
 mass of metal upon which Ben’s custodians began to 
 work ; but one day Dr. Peterson made a definite mark 
 upon the mass; another day, another mark; and yet 
 another and another, until the lines he had drawn 
 upon its surface indicated that a discovery was not 
 far off. Line one was as if the letter JZ had been 
 drawn upon the metal. What next? An e, an m, 
 an 0, an v,—and Dr. Peterson quietly said to him- 
 self, “Memory / Yes, this man has the beginnings of 
 memory. ‘Through that eae he must be led back 
 to sanity.” 
 
 Dr.. Peterson proceeded to compose a new cate- 
 chism, designed for Ben’s sole instruction. But he 
 was entirely in the dark. He supposed Ben to be a 
 bona fide Englishman, and puzzled the poor fellow 
 with a hundred and one questions concerning Lon- 
 don, and Durham, and Bristol, and Manchester; Ben 
 passing a very poor examination, therefore, in the new 
 catechism. The doctor was also in the dark as to 
 Ben’s family and connections ; and the little surprises 
 he laid for his patient, in order to reach the thin little 
 speck of thread whereby to get at this machinery of 
 memory, went for nought. - Dr. Peterson finally went 
 to thinking in another direction, saying to one of his 
 coadjutors, “ Laidlaw, this Ben is no Englishman. He 
 is a Canadian. There is some hocus-pocus in this.” 
 
 Gager thereupon was directed to write letters to 
 various banks whose checks had come to Hickory 
 Hall, to the post-office authorities at Toronto, and 
 even to “Ephraim Hollins and Son, Millington, Ont.,” 
 
DOCTOR BEN. — 177 
 
 one of their drafts having actually been tendered in 
 payment of Ben’s charges. But from all the same 
 reply came: “ No knowledge of Mr. E. P. Hallowell.” 
 “Ephraim Hollins and Son” added that “in all prob- 
 ability their check had passed into Mr. Hallowell’s 
 hand in some business process.’”” How Mr. Hollins 
 would have leaped if he had seen that letter! But 
 he did not see it. It came, in due course of busi- 
 ness, into Thomas Macrae’s hands, —how, will be 
 seen in a subsequent chapter of this narrative; and 
 Macrae smiled as he calmly dictated a reply, which 
 one of the bookkeepers at the office wrote. 
 
 Dr. Peterson is not a man to be baffled by a few 
 obstacles. In lieu of information from others, he 
 determined to procure what he could from Ben him- 
 self. He gathered up the names of “ Ben, Macrae, 
 Hartley, Thomas, Betty,” and the words, “ mills, car, 
 fisherman, you get out of this,” and innumerable 
 others. It was a laborious way to go to work, — 
 something as if a man should undertake to build a 
 house with his own hands, and should have to. go 
 to the quarry for each particular stone; but the edi- 
 fice assumed proportions in time. 
 
 During the second autumn and winter of Ben’s stay 
 at Hickory Hall, his happy disposition left him for 
 a time, and he became very cross, sometimes ugly. 
 People of the imagination plagued him. His tor- 
 mentress assumed great sway over him, and disturbed 
 his serenest moments. Sometimes even in the night 
 Ben could be heard crying out, “Now, don’t you 
 do that again, I tell you!” and flying dowz the hall. 
 
178 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 Or, if the like occurred in the daytime, some one 
 would call out, “Look out for Ben!” and before 
 “Merry” could get his feet shaped for retreat, bang 
 would come Ben’s pillow, and down would go the 
 marshal of the city of New York. Generally it ended 
 in a laugh all around, “Merry” no less pleased than 
 the rest. 
 
 Ben had great jousts, also, with the beds, bureaus, 
 and doors. In his anger, he would shake their wits 
 out almost. He rasped his own knuckles until they 
 bled. 
 
 And Dr. Peterson stood by and smiled (the heart- 
 less man), and, turning to an attendant, gave directions 
 which would have sounded very oddly in a sick-room. 
 Dr. Peterson seemed to glory in making Ben more 
 
 and more active. He even laughed when Ben’s 
 _ water-pitcher went where all good pitchers go (in the 
 insane-asylum): he expressed satisfaction even in a 
 heap of kindling-wood and splinters found in Ben’s 
 room one morning, manufactured by the patient out 
 of two respectable chairs. 
 
 The three magnates, in a body, went over to the 
 office more than once during this period, to suggest 
 “the crib, or at least the muffs;” but Dr. Peterson 
 only said, “You may be right, gentlemen —and, by 
 the way, Fisher, much obliged to you for those fine 
 mushrooms you sent in yesterday.” 
 
 To this period of activity, however, succeeded one 
 of semi-stupefaction. It looked hard for Ben, for a 
 month or two. 
 
 But, lo! with returning spring, Ben woke up again. 
 
DOCTOR BEN. 179 
 
 He came out in new colors. About this time John 
 Wickson — “ that miserable Wickson ’”’ — had returned 
 to Hickory Hall, after one of his periodical absences ; 
 and his appearance on the lawn was the signal for 
 something of an excitement. ‘ Merry,” with an ex- 
 clamation of disgust, vexation, or despair, picked up 
 his camp-chair, newspapers, books, spectacles, cane, 
 and shoes, and retreated. The other patients civilly 
 shook hands with Wickson, and prepared for a siege 
 of endless talk, innumerable questions, and a recitation 
 of the histories of Rome, Greece, Assyria, Egypt, and 
 the Revolutionary War. 
 
 For some time Ben stood listening, and looking 
 abstractedly into Wickson’s face, — listening and 
 looking, that is, to all appearance: in reality, he was 
 looking into another world, and listening to inaudible 
 voices. 
 
 One of the patients, however, suddenly called out, 
 “Well, Ben, what sort of man is he?” 
 
 Ben answered, “Ha, ha! Well, I couldn’t say, — 
 exactly, —at least, not without an examination.” A 
 flash of memory, this ; not an important one, but bear- 
 ing yet some relation to the greater work that was 
 going on in Ben. 
 
 “Examine him then, Ben!’ was the cry from all 
 sides. In an instant Ben was behind Wickson, and 
 his fingers were moving about the patient’s head. 
 Wickson flinched just once, then took in the humor 
 of the proceeding, and submitted. And now rolled 
 off from Ben’s lips a phrenological rigmarole, in as 
 scientific shape as any professor could have invented. 
 
180 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 “ Secretiveness — small ; caution — small; benevo- 
 lence —large ; self-esteem — tremendous ; approbation 
 —large ; veneration — doubtful ; conscientiousness — 
 hardly perceptible ; locality — good ; tune —large, very 
 large, ha, ha! quite a musical gentleman, I should say ; 
 comparison — small ; combativeness — large ; destruc- 
 tiveness — very large.” 
 
 After a fashion of his own, Ben had made a tolerable 
 selection from the thirty-three “ bumps ;”’ and now in 
 turn every patient on the lawn had a fancy for a 
 phrenological examination. Ben was in demand, and 
 went through his prescribed labors in a dignified way, 
 every examination being in much the same terms, and 
 in the main complimentary, as a genuine phrenological 
 statement should be. 
 
 The patients took the cue from this affair ; and poor 
 little Schmidt, once a Broad-street man of great finan- 
 cial operations, now an unhappy victim of melancholia, 
 took Ben aside to consult him upon his many ailments. 
 Robbins claimed next attention, then another and 
 another; and that day Ben graduated in medicine, 
 took out his diploma, and went into a large if not 
 lucrative practice. 
 
 His own mind —this word may be used advisedly — 
 absorbed the notion of his fellow-patients, and he as- 
 sumed the 7d/e which has given a title to this book. 
 And from this time on, if Ben had ever been in danger 
 of forgetting his new office, the patients would have 
 restored him to his medical position. For not an 
 evening was allowed to pass without a summons at 
 least from Schmidt and Robbins. Until, at last, Ben 
 
DOCTOR BEN. 18I 
 
 _ fell into a regular habit of making a round of medical 
 calls. With hat and gloves on, and a cane under his 
 arm, Ben would knock at Schmidt’s door. 
 
 “ How are you to-night, sir?’”’ Ben would ask, in 
 that doctor’s voice which we have all heard with glad- 
 ness or dread. 
 
 “Oh! I am very meeserabble,” was the invariable 
 reply. ‘“‘I am more meeserabble efery day. I am 
 eaten alife, doctor, wit my sorrows. I shall nefare, 
 nefare see my wife again? Do you think I shall efare 
 see my wife again? Do you think I shall efare go 
 home, doctor?” 
 
 “Oh! well—go home?” Ben would ask, poor 
 Schmidt’s tears softening his heart, — “go home? 
 Why, yes, I dare say you’ll go home again, —let me 
 see, now !— well, just as soon as the street-lamps are 
 lighted, now. Will that do?” 
 
 Then would come a long pause. ‘These two would 
 stand looking at each other; Schmidt, a foot shorter 
 than Ben, gazing up at him over his eye-glasses, and 
 Ben dangling his hands in bewildered helplessness. 
 It was a scene to make a stone weep. 
 
 And, in the midst of your tears, Ben would whirl 
 about, and take Schmidt’s pulse, look at his tongue, 
 ask him a few questions, so like your family physician, 
 with the same air, the same cautious, soothing, authori- 
 tative tone, and, patting Schmidt on the shoulder, 
 exclaim, — 
 
 “A little feverish, I should say, to-night. A cooling 
 draught will set you all right. Suppose you try now a 
 small dose, —say two gallons of whiskey, and four 
 
~\ 
 182 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 ounces of quinine. Take it to-morrow morning be- 
 fore breakfast.” 
 
 Next door Ben would find Delorme, one of the 
 magnates, laid up with a sprained ankle. A man of 
 sixty, who climbs trees, may expect such accidents. 
 Ben has assisted the attendants to dress this ankle so 
 many times that he is fairly acquainted with the case, 
 and on this official visit he is prepared to administer 
 to Delorme pretty vigorously. ‘I want you to try 
 next,” he says, “a plaster of goose-oil and tar,—say 
 fourteen or fifteen pounds, —tie it around your back, 
 you know ; and after that, a tonic, I should think 
 about two gallons of whiskey and four ounces of qui- 
 nine,—to be taken just before breakfast. Good 
 night.” 
 
 “Hold on, doctor,” Delorme said one evening. 
 “Are you very busy now?” 
 
 “Very, very. Great many sick just now, —regular 
 epidemic.” 
 
 ‘What is it?” 
 
 “Well — we call it the diamorphous hypogene, you 
 know. Ha, ha! Latin and Greek! To tell you the 
 truth,” Ben whispers, “we used to call it colic, in — 
 ah! what’s the name of that place, now?” 
 
 Speak it, Ben, speak it! One syllable of it! It is 
 the clew to your past history, the very word of all for- 
 gotten words which is most desired at the office. 
 
 Memory pulls and pushes, but the wheels of her 
 chariot will not move out of the deep rut into which 
 they are fallen. ‘They can be made to move, however, 
 Dr. Peterson says ; and, if ingenuity can accomplish it, 
 
 5 
 
DOCTOR BEN. 183 
 
 they will stand again on level ground, whole and 
 round and workable. 
 
 During the spring-time Dr. Peterson was studying 
 two especial cases with intense care,— Ben’s and the 
 “Giant’s.” Both are putting forth new energies. 
 Ben’s are gentle manifestations, for the most part. 
 But the “Giant” is tearing every thing to pieces. 
 When he mounts the wall, and brandishes his news- 
 paper threateningly at Gager, calling, — fairly yelling 
 at him, — “It was you who shot Lady Jane Grey in 
 the leg,— I saw you, — you're a spy, sir ;”’ or when he 
 interrupts Wickson’s melodious warbling of ‘ Wash all 
 my guilty stains away,” at four o’clock in the morning, 
 with the assurance that if he did not immediately 
 “shut up,” he would come over and wash out his 
 “countless guilty stains” in his own blood, — “ your 
 blood, sir, do you hear?” the “Giant’s”’ energy was 
 unmistakable, and the whole north wing was painfully 
 aware of it. 
 
 The paramount facts were, that Ben was developing, 
 _ day by day, in accord with his own natural character, 
 while the “Giant” had assumed a character: in real 
 sane life, he was just as gentle a man as Ben Hollins. 
 
 And yet Dr. Peterson said, ‘“ Both these men are 
 going to get well.” What depths must be sounded, 
 then, if men of the same natural characteristics are to 
 be treated differently! Give the doctors time, there- 
 fore, good people! They are solving a multitude of 
 problems. The equations are long ones: four, five, 
 twenty unknown quantities are in them. 
 
 “Home” was a word which came into frequent 
 
184 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 use, in the interviews of physicians and attendants 
 with Ben and the “ Giant,”’ at this time. The one flew 
 into illogical frenzy at the word. Faintest recollec- 
 tions of home-life mingled with images of ancient and 
 modern warriors. ‘“‘Home!” he would cry. “Yes, 
 home! My name is Farragut —lash me to the mast 
 -—load those howitzers to the muzzle, and give it to 
 em. Now—bang !—there she goes, right into Canal 
 Street. Where’s Gen. Hubby? Send him here to 
 black my boots instantly. I’m going home!” _ 
 
 The other smiled at the word, stirred to some faint 
 impression and feeling, which yet he had no power to 
 grasp and mould into a distinct idea. But the very 
 smile was something, in Dr. Peterson’s mind. Behind 
 it, he knew, lay a wide realm of fact and reason. 
 
 Woe to you, Thomas Macrae, if Ben Hollins should 
 some day find that realm all open and clear! If 
 the remembrance of father and mother, and bride, 
 of Comfort Lodge, and even of that night journey, 
 and the refuge at Si Kimber’s, shall come to him all 
 fresh and untrammelled! You were not dealing with 
 a dead man, Thomas Macrae, but with an insane man. 
 “Dead men tell no tales,” it is said. Insane men 
 remember. | 
 
CARNEY DUGAN. 185 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 CARNEY DUGAN. 
 
 E must needs take a flight now to the north; 
 for other characters than Ben and his new- 
 found companions demand some notice at our hands. 
 
 And, first of all, what had become of that blundering 
 
 creature with whose fortunes Macrae’s had become so 
 _ unhappily.involved ? 
 - Carney’s uneventful journey to Quebec ended in 
 her standing on the wharf at the early hour of half- 
 past six in the morning of Friday, Sept. 14. Whither 
 should she go? In-which one of all these houses, 
 great and small, should she look for shelter? 
 
 Thomas Macrae’s command that she should avoid 
 her old acquaintance came vaguely to her mind; and 
 Carney made short work of reconciling disobedience 
 to that injunction with the ardent desire which had ~ 
 been growing in her all through her journey, to see 
 Patsy Doniphan, the friend of her younger days. 
 
 “T’ll find the pos’offy steps as well from Doniphan’s 
 as from elsewhere,” she thought. 
 
 So all day long the half-bewildered woman wandered 
 through the streets. Here and there she made inquiry, 
 fruitless for the most part; and the chilling premoni- 
 tions of night were gathering rapidly around her before 
 
186 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 she received any satisfaction from the replies made to 
 her questions by impatient or indifferent wayfarers. 
 At length, however, she wandered into St. Roch, and 
 men began to tell her more confidently of Patsy Doni- 
 phan’s whereabouts. There were plenty now, who 
 knew at least where “T’ree Pistol’? Street was, and 
 who directed Carney’s footsteps thither. | 
 
 But Carney found herself in a new world. A strag- 
 gling byway of thirty years ago had become a crowded 
 row of buildings. One only familiar object came 
 within Carney’s view,—an old stone shop on the 
 corner of Trois Pistoles and Secours. And where was 
 Patsy Doniphan’s house, which used to stand next? 
 
 Opportunely a Aadifan came that way; and Carney 
 laid hold of him boldly, saying, “ Av ye plaize, sir, is 
 Patsy Doniphan alive? An’ does he live near 
 by?” 
 
 The Aaditan lifted both hands, as if these were the 
 most surprising questions he had ever listened to, and 
 in a shrieking, quavering voice, cried out, — 
 
 “Passtee Doanphan! Iss Passtee Doanphan avif? 
 L’vieux bo’ Passtee ?”’ 
 
 “‘What-and-iver is dhe man sayin’ an’ doin’?”’ mut- 
 tered Carney. 
 
 M. Papatou loved a bit of gossip, and a bit of 
 drink, better than any thing else in this world ; and he 
 scented here a rare opportunity. Taking Carney’s 
 hand, therefore, without ceremony, he dragged her 
 along, pointing and gesticulating violently with his 
 free hand, and pouring forth a volley of words. 
 
 “Come! Passtee Doanphan lif! Pastee ver’ olt! 
 
CARNEY DUGAN. 187 
 
 Bo’ man, Passtee Doanphan! Coam wis moi, voyez! 
 Ici Passtee ’ouse, v’la!”’ 
 
 Saying which, M. Papatou ushered Carney into the 
 commodious public room of Doniphan’s establish- 
 ment. A crowd of Irish and provincial French were 
 gathered here, filling all the space except one wide 
 clearing, in the midst of which, seated in a large easy-_ 
 chair which no one else ever dared to occupy, was 
 the proprietor himself. 
 
 With utter lack of that decorum which the great 
 Mr. Doniphan expected of all visitors, M. Papatou 
 drew Carney to the foot of the throne, calling aloud 
 as he approached, “Hi! Passtee Doanphan! v’la ta 
 mére, ta tante! I haf her deescofer pa’ d’hors!” 
 Then lowering his voice almost to a whisper, he 
 added, “‘ Prappa she like a somesing —somesing to 
 dhrrink! Hi! me too? Iss colt!” 
 
 “‘ Misther Poppytoes !”’ said Doniphan, “ would you 
 do me the favor to explain dhis most extr’or’nery per- 
 ceeding? If it’s a joke, it’s a very poor one!” 
 
 “ Ah! Passtee, now, — bo’ Passtee, voyez ”’ — 
 
 To what extent the rising storm might have risen 
 we shall never know; for Carney had not come to 
 Doniphan’s to play a silent part, and at this point 
 addressed royalty after the following fashion : — 
 
 “ An’ is dhis you, Misther Doniphan? I’d niver 
 expec’ the han’ o’ age to lay so light on you! It’s 
 dhe look uv dhe lad of twinty dhat lingers in yure 
 pace |” 
 
 Old Doniphan was duly impressed with this compli- 
 ment, and endeavored to rise. His rheumatic limbs, 
 
188 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 however, straightened but slowly; and, half upright, 
 half bent over, — looking something like a comma, — 
 he replied to Carney, — 
 
 “Dhere’s something in dhe toans uv yure v’ice, 
 madam, dhat strikes famillerly on me hear’n, but I’m 
 entirely astray wid dhe face.” 
 
 “‘An’ what’s dhe matther wid me face?” asked 
 Carney in indignation. 
 
 “Well,” replied Doniphan, as if to give her back 
 as good as she sent, “I can’t say as it’s a purty one, 
 mem, agin me conscience and me own eyesight too.”’ 
 
 A wailing cry broke upon the ears of the assem- 
 blage, attracting the attention of all. ‘“Oh-h-h! to 
 be spoke to dhat away be ole frinds! O Pat Doni- 
 phan ! it’s a heart dhat beat warm an’ thrue for you 
 an’ yours dhat you’ve broke dhis day! An’ times 
 was whin you’d ’a’ fought all Anthrim, if anny other 
 man had said dhe like o’ dhat!” . 
 
 Drawing himself up a trifle nearer to the perpen- 
 dicular, Doniphan gazed at Carney earnestly. In a 
 more respectful tone he addressed her at last, but 
 with an overwhelming care not to lose one jot of his 
 own dignity. 
 
 “Plaize to zx-cuse me imponderousness, mem,” 
 he said; “but re’ly, dhe illusions you make to dhe 
 toimes an’ places dhat’s past and gone is not very 
 prespicuous. If I iver had dhe felicity uv knowin’ 
 you in dhim times, why don’t ye promulga¢e it, an’ 
 be done wid it?” 
 
 Carney’s bony index-finger was in the air in an 
 instant ; and it bent this way and crooked that way, — 
 
CARNEY DUGAN. 189 
 
 as Carney asked, with ludicrous solemnity, “Was it 
 you, Pat Doniphan, dhat fought wid Con Cormick 
 wanc’t for a lass in Arboe?” 
 
 The old man gave an extra tug at his obstinate 
 knees in order to lift his face more nearly to a level 
 with Carney’s. He peered into the mass of shrivelled 
 skin and dry wrinkles, then, with a wild “ Hurroo!” 
 flung dignity to the winds, and his arms around Car- 
 ney’s neck. 
 
 “Tt’s Carney Roak that was! it’s Carney Roak!” 
 he cried. “Is it you, Carney? More be token, I 
 dhramed a dhrame uv you, two nights agone! An’ 
 why, Carney dear, didn’t you come a year ago? Sure, 
 there’d ’a’ be’n a weddin’ as sure’s my name’s Path- 
 rick Doniphan ; for I was lonesome widout Mary !” 
 
 M. Papatou danced about the couple in ecstasies, 
 rubbing his thin hands together, grinning, and firing 
 off volley after volley of that awful Aadztan speech. 
 
 “V’la —sa mere —sa tante —ou sceur— voyez — 
 bo’ — quel grande — charma’ — Papatou find — me, 
 Papatou — dans Il’rue — oh — heureux Doanphan — 
 happee man!” 
 
 Finally, touching Doniphan’s arm, he whispered, 
 “Hi! Doanphan, gret times ziss ! — wiskee !” 
 
 “ To be sure!’ exclaimed the potentate, recalled 
 to all his self-importance. ‘Such occasions as dhis 
 calls for dhe most onlimited hostility! Tim, be lively 
 now! Bring dhe lady a sate, some of you! Dhere, 
 Carney ! next me own, dear! And, Tim, something 
 for Mrs. Dugan,—out uv dhe little Killarney bar’l. 
 Have it shtamin’, Tim, and an ixtry gratin’ uv nut- 
 
I9O DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 mig! Ah! Carney dear!” he said, with a fond sinile, 
 “don’t I remimber dhat ye war always fonder uv dhe 
 nutmig dhan uv dhe spirit ?”’ 
 
 Long and earnestly the two talked together, the 
 rest of the company turning again to their own affairs, 
 and respecting the exclusiveness in which Doniphan 
 and Carney wrapped themselves. ‘The clock sounded 
 nine at length, and Carney protested that she must 
 seek a lodging. Then hospitality (or “ hostility,’”” — 
 they were all one to Doniphan) mterposed, and 
 Carney was informed that no other lodging need be 
 looked for than could be furnished in that very house. 
 
 Carney was hereupon carried off to the inner apart- 
 ments, and introduced to the female members of 
 the household, Mrs. Tim and Mrs. Pat junior. More 
 punch was brought in, and Carney’s tongue outran 
 the tongues of all the Doniphans. Her whole story 
 was told to these eager listeners, — her intended jour- 
 ney, her expectation of Macrae (only she spoke of 
 him as Mr. McGovern), her long residence at Guelph 
 (as she put it romantically), and, finally, a revelation 
 that she was penniless. 
 
 At this last the current of conversation suddenly 
 changed. Doniphan’s hotel, the ‘ Pride of Neagh,” 
 had not been built up out of hospitalities to penniless 
 women. Many a poor immigrant and emigrant could 
 tell a different story from that. Many a one had come 
 into that house with pounds, and been glad to get 
 away again with shillings. 
 
 Old Doniphan’s joy came to an end, therefore, the 
 very moment Carney pronounced herself destitute of 
 
 - 
 
CARNEY DUGAN. 19I 
 
 money ; and the old hypocrite hobbled out of Tim’s 
 private parlor, without even saying “ good-night” to 
 his dear Carney Roak. 
 
 Left to the tender mercies of surly Tim, Carney 
 plunged into difficulties at once. A hot dispute — 
 through which we need not follow them —raged be- 
 tween the two for a brief time, at the end of which 
 Tim escorted Carney to the door, and bade her take 
 herself out of sight. For a parting salute, Carney 
 drew out of her bosom her bag of coins, and shook 
 them in Tim’s face, saying, ‘“‘Mayhap, now, ye’d like 
 what’s in dhat. Dhe poun’s an’ shillin’s of dhis 
 wurruld isn’t all in Pat Doniphan’s till, an’ isn’t goin’ 
 dhere aither.” 
 
 Out into the night the forlorn old woman went, but 
 only to encounter a more rapacious specimen of St. 
 Roch hospitality than Patsy Doniphan’s. She had 
 hardly gone a dozen paces, when a touch arrested her 
 aimless steps. 
 
 “Ts this Mrs. Dugan?” asked an unfamiliar voice. 
 “Mrs. Dugan dhat was Carney Roak? Me uncle, 
 Misther Blannerty, saw you at ‘The Pride,’ and sez 
 he, ‘Dhim murtherin Doniphans’ll do her an injury.’ 
 An’ sure, I’ve been watchin’ iver sence, Mrs. Roak, for 
 fear dhey’d be vi’lent wid you. An’ me uncle says 
 you're to come to his house an’ sleep the night. Dhis 
 way, plaise.”’ 
 
 “T niver knowed a Blannerty in all me days,” replied 
 Carney ; “but a roof’s a roof in dhis weather.” 
 
 Ushered by this stranger into an upper room, through 
 labyrinthine passages which she could never have 
 
192 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 threaded alone, Carney waited for some time with- 
 out so much as one glimpse of the hospitable Mr. 
 Blannerty. Her street-friend came in presently, how- 
 ever, with a steaming glass; and assuring her that his 
 uncle sent it with his compliments, and that it had an 
 extra grating of nutmeg on it, as his uncle remembered 
 that all the Roaks were extravagantly fond ofthat 
 article, and begging Carney to excuse Mr. Blannerty 
 until he could find his Sunday clothes, he departed 
 and left her to herself, —left her to drink the punch, 
 and almost instantly to sink down to the floor in the 
 most profound slumber that ever came over her. 
 
 Long after midnight Carney awoke, feeling chilled 
 and weary. Moreover, she found herself in the open 
 air. Voices of men in uniform were about her. One 
 was saying, “Come, old woman, paving-stones are poor 
 bedding for such old bones as yours.” 
 
 Carney arose weakly, and spoke of Mr. Blannerty. 
 The officers laughed at this, and brought upon them- 
 selves a storm of indignation. They laughed again, 
 and offered to see Carney home. She had no home, 
 and they marched her off. At the police-station she 
 was searched, and not a sow could be found upon her. 
 
 Next morning the docket at the court where such 
 cases are disposed of showed the following entry 
 of committal: “ Bridget Blannerty, vagrancy; one 
 month,” etc. 
 
 Carney’s power of fibbing was not filched from her, 
 at all events. But the post-office steps were hence- 
 forth as impossible to her as the deck of “The 
 Breton,” or the shores of Neagh. 
 
CARNEY DUGAN. 193 
 
 Carney’s month of incarceration passed ; and again 
 she stood upon the streets of Quebec a free woman, 
 —free to starve, free to drift about in an old woman’s 
 helpless manner, free to hate the place which had 
 offered her nothing but insult since she set her foot 
 upon its pavements, free to hate the man through 
 whose agency she had been led hither. 
 
 As to the man, her ill-feeling towards him was only 
 fitful. There was no ardor in it, no virulence. For 
 the town she reserved the full power of her wrath, and 
 her desire for vengeance could compass no more dire 
 calamity than a formal and utter forsaking of the town 
 and all that was in it. With one longing look at the 
 river and the ocean-going craft, therefore, Carney took 
 her departure. Not caring whither she went, she 
 drifted westwards, always keeping near the river. 
 
 At Batiscan, boatmen took pity on her, and brought 
 her as far as Montreal. But there was no stopping 
 here. City streets and city people were all hateful in 
 Carney’s sight, and on she went. But the cold north- 
 ers were blowing now, and locking up rivers and lakes 
 with chains of ice. There were no more boatmen, 
 therefore, to help Carney on her purposeless journey. 
 She must trudge, push her way on foot as best she 
 might. 
 
 Here and there Carney found hospitality, — shelter 
 and food, if nothing more. Again she fell into the 
 hands of the law, was sent to poorhouses and jails, 
 was passed on by rail to the next town. 
 
 After a whole winter of such tribulation, Carney 
 found herself in a northern county, absolutely without 
 
 oS 
 
194 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 resource. An official scanned the wretched figure, 
 and inquired into her case. Carney bewildered him 
 with a long line of fibs which left him no resource but 
 to send her out of the place,—as he thought chari- 
 tably. Personally he put her upon a cross-country rail- 
 
 way, ticketed her to the terminus, away off up in the 
 
 north somewhere, and went back to his own warm 
 house in peace. 
 
 At the end of this trip Carney felt indeed as if she 
 had reached Ultima Thule. “And a mighty black 
 place it is!” she said to herself. 
 
 One solitary light twinkled within her range of 
 vision, and thither Carney directed her way. And 
 here she found at last a bit of genuine hospitality. 
 
 Jim Bogle’s house would seem no whit better to an 
 architectural eye than some of the tumble-down cot- 
 tages which lie by the roadside below Windsor Castle, 
 if placed in such unfortunate contrast. But up here 
 in the wild lands, and in Carney’s eyes, it looked and 
 was a haven of rest. 
 
 Great was her grief, therefore, next morning, to 
 hear that Bogle and all his family were to close the 
 house that day, and make a journey of forty miles 
 away. Every year, when the snows melted and the 
 streams filled up, Bogle made this change in his 
 household arrangements. It was his business to go 
 into a certain lumber district, to superintend the float- 
 ing of the winter’s cut of timber. 
 
 Inventive and reckless, Carney had no sooner heard 
 a name given to the destination of the Bogles than she 
 declared it was the very place she was in search of. 
 
 ¢ 
 
CARNEY DUGAN. 195 
 
 “ An’ did you iver hear a word uv a Misther Roak, 
 —John Roak,—dhat lives dhere wid a wife an’ a 
 wife’s sister, an’ siven childher? an’ good boys an’ 
 girls, too, they are, as iver counted a bead.” 
 
 John Roak, his wife, wife’s sister, and the seven 
 children were productions of Carney’s genius, but 
 they served her purpose as well as so many realities ; 
 for Mrs. Bogle became at once intent upon taking 
 Carney, and her liege good-humoredly consented. 
 
 On the second day the party came to a sheet of 
 water, of which Carney declared, that, “if Arboe was 
 here, it would be as purty as Neagh itself.’ Here 
 Bogle entered at- once upon the occupancy of a 
 shanty, whose ins and outs every Bogle child, except 
 the baby, was already familiar with; and here, the 
 morning after their arrival, a shaggy head, a brown, 
 good-featured face, looked in upon the party. 
 
 “Flo, Jim!” cried a broad-speaking voice, “’ere 
 you be agin, eh? Wull, who be the new one? That 
 ben’t your mother, now?” 
 
 “Naw,” replied Bogle. 
 
 “’Who be it,-then?” 
 
 “Do’n knaw.” 
 
 “Tm blowed!” Then turning towards the outer 
 regions, the voice called, in louder speech, “Say, 
 Bawffy, coom a-here! ’Ere’s Jim, an’ Missus Bogle, 
 an’ Missus Somebody-else !”’ 
 
 Si Kimber was not only an inn-keeper: in winter 
 his establishment had no attractions, and Si went to 
 the farther end of Little Bear Lake, to cut timber, 
 Baffy and Debby also making frequent trips to the 
 
196 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 ~ 
 
 camp. The last of these visits was now being made, 
 and that very day Si was to turn over all responsibility 
 as to the rafting to Bogle; he himself, scenting the 
 coming summer, returning homewards, to furbish up 
 fishing-tackle, to clean, calk, and paint boats. 
 
 The women found in Carney an object of great in- 
 terest. The tale of her weary journeyings, her many 
 disasters and disappointments, her vain search after 
 the aforesaid imaginary John Roak, was full of thrill- 
 ing importance in their view. 
 
 During the day Baffy Kimber set the wheels of change 
 in motion again. It was clear enough to her mind that 
 this old woman would be an incumbrance to the Bogles. 
 
 “Why in natur’, then, can’t we take her?’ she 
 asked Debby. “I’m awful lonesome when Joe’s out 
 guidin’.” (Hereby hangs a tale, but Debby Kimber 
 will not thank us for telling it.) 
 
 The proposal was made; Carney accepted, and 
 before bedtime had reached her home, —the only 
 home she had known for many. months; and here 
 she might have staid out all her days, had not 
 events dragged her on yet one stage more, to play 
 her part in the drama of “Ben Hollins.” . 
 
 All the summer she was at peace, with hardly a 
 thought of Ben Hollins or Thomas Macrae to ruffle 
 the serenity of her little round of daily labor ;_ but, 
 when the first autumn month came, it brought to 
 Little Bear a gay party of sportsmen, — Bly Folliss, 
 Germaine Parson, and Jack Brandon, —and to Car- 
 hey a summons to unravel the threads of the half- 
 forgotten past. 
 
CARNEY DUGAN. 197 
 
 A rainy afternoon at Little Bear Lake is sometimes 
 taken by the sportsmen as a providential reminder 
 that guns and fishing-tackle need occasional repair- 
 ing and putting in order. All hands, even Baffy and 
 Debby, turn to at this necessary labor. On one such 
 occasion, and to break a temporary lull in the con- 
 versation, Bly Folliss, holding a “tip” in one hand 
 and a brass ferrule in the other, said, — 
 
 “By the way, Debby, did you ever hear any thing 
 more about that crazy man who was here last Sep- 
 tember?” 
 
 “Not a thing,” replied Debby. “I guess it was 
 all right, or we should have been pretty sure to hear 
 somethin’ or other.” 
 
 “A crazy man?” asked Carney. 
 
 “Parson thought it might be young Mr. Hollins 
 of Millington,” added Bly. 
 
 Carney’s eyes began to glisten, and her attitude 
 betrayed an eagerness to hear more, but not a word 
 would she say. 
 
 “Yes,” chimed in Germaine Parson : “ I suspected it, 
 to say the least ; and my suspicion cost mea journey.” 
 
 Other subjects followed, and this one passed away ; 
 but Carney Dugan’s memories were aroused, a long 
 train of them stretching twice the length of the two 
 Provinces, and leading into a darkness which Carney 
 now began to desire to penetrate. 
 
 In. the evening of that same day the flashing of 
 a gold ornament at Debby’s throat attracted Carney’s 
 eye. Again and again she went up close to the girl, 
 to see the bauble more nearly. 
 
198 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 “It’s dhe same as dhe other one,” she muttered. 
 “ Dhe same as dhe one he left on the timber on 
 Bridge Hill! Miss, might I see that ? 
 
 “Where in dhe power uv mercy did ye git it, 
 miss?’’ asked Carney, after turning the onyx cuff- 
 button over and over. 
 
 “That crazy man the gentlemen spoke of left it 
 here when his brother took him away.” 
 
 “Dhe crazy man? what crazy man?” asked Car- 
 ney. 
 
 Then Debby told the story of Ben’s arrival, his 
 short stay at the Kimbers’, and his departure. 
 
 “Oh, murther! murther! it’s him! it’s him!” 
 groaned Carney, adding inconsistently enough, “ An’ 
 what was dhe name uv him?” 
 
 “The other man called him Ben,” answered Debby. 
 
 “ An’ dhe other man’s name?” 
 
 “Ben called him Tom.” 
 
 Carney silenced herself now utterly. Not another 
 word would she say upon the subject to any one at 
 Little Bear Lake. 
 
 Soon after this Bly Folliss and party left the hunt- 
 ing-grounds, and returned to city life; and from the 
 hour of their departure Carney Dugan grew restless 
 and neglectful. The next party of sportsmen voted: 
 her a nuisance. 
 
 At length, some weeks after Folliss’s departure, Car- 
 ney made her appearance in Baffy Kimber’s kitchen 
 one morning, bundle in hand. Said she, — 
 
 “Mrs. Kimber, it’s dhat kind you’ve been to me, 
 dhat I’d like to work dhe last turn uv me fist for you. 
 
CARNEY DUGAN. 199 
 
 But I’d a dhrame las’ night. My Barney stud by me 
 bed, he did; an’ sez he, ‘Carney, av ye don’t hunt 
 him up, and restore him to life, ye’ll roast foriver and 
 iver’ An’ it’s scorchin’ me, now, Mrs. Kimber; an’ 
 I'll just be goin’. What’s dhe price of a rail-ticket to 
 Taranty ?” 
 
 Baffy and Debby set up a loud protest against her 
 going out into the world again, at her age and alone, 
 and with the winter coming on. But she was immova- 
 ble. She had conceived a purpose, — an indefinite one, 
 indeed, but even at that it was enough to rouse all the 
 conscience that was left in her. She had heard just 
 enough from Bly Folliss and his friend Parson to make 
 her confident of their assistance ; and with this she 
 would unearth Ben Hollins, dead or alive. Perhaps 
 he might be living, and safe at home, for aught she 
 knew ; but, if so, she must learn all the facts. Noth- 
 ing less would serve her now, nothing less would keep 
 that formidable ghost of her Barney from breaking in 
 upon her slumbers. 
 
200 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 AT ELMSWOODS. 
 
 E must turn now in the direction of Milling- 
 
 ton, where Macrae arrived, after his visit at 
 Hickory Hall, flushed with triumph and yet cautious. 
 He was not foolish enough to suppose that his dangers 
 were over: he knew that especially at Millington he 
 must be constantly alert, that he must do no act, 
 speak no word, upon which suspicion could hang. 
 
 “ His rolling eyes did never rest in place, 
 But walkte each where for fear of hid mischaunce, 
 Holding a lattis still before his Face, 
 Through which he still did peep as forward he did pace.” 
 
 At Elmswoods, and to many of his personal friends, 
 therefore, Macrae gave an account of his travels in 
 search of Ben, which had so much of truth in it that 
 no one dreamed of there being so much as one grain 
 of falsehood. He told boldly of his visit to Montreal 
 and Quebec, and even spoke of having gone into the 
 States. 
 
 And why should they not believe him? Not a sus- 
 picion had as yet been directed towards him, save 
 possibly one little momentary doubt in Harper’s mind, 
 — a doubt which Harper himself was ashamed of, and 
 dismissed. 
 
AT ELMSWOODS. 201 
 
 Macrae brought gloom enough to Elmswoods. The 
 family there had accepted it as proven, that, if Macrae 
 returned without Ben, then hope must be laid aside, 
 at least for the present. ‘They drifted, therefore, into 
 that state of uncertainty which is more distressing than 
 a knowledge of the utmost evil. Poor Betty, silent, 
 and sorrowful as Sisera’s mother, looked inquiringly 
 into the future; and the future only turned its disk 
 towards her, all uninscribed and comfortless. 
 
 Throughout the town, also, men felt the same cloud 
 of uncertainty. Many a citizen of Millington has said, 
 since the new and better times came, that he never 
 took a journey the first year after Ben’s disappearance, 
 without scanning the faces of travellers and of passers- 
 by on the streets of cities and towns in the hope of 
 discovering Ben Hollins. But such hopes rapidly 
 grew fainter, and faded away. 
 
 An ever-shifting cloud of uncertainty gathered about 
 Thomas Macrae also. He scented Harper’s suspi- 
 cion, faint though it was, and diverted it; and, when 
 Harper discovered Carney’s disappearance, no one 
 was so eager to join in the search for her as ‘Thomas 
 Macrae. For he had his own reasons for wishing to 
 see that woman again. Indeed, he would have given 
 half his fortune to find her. And at Elmswoods he 
 was always wondering whether they were not ready to 
 rise in rebellion against the heavy weight he had laden 
 them with. He looked into one face there with espe- 
 cial anxiety, eagerly watching for the first sign of 
 indifference to the lost one, and as eagerly hoping 
 that it might be followed by signs of better import to 
 
—— 
 
 202 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 himself. But no sign was vouchsafed to him, save 
 one like Jonah’s,—a great, rank gourd-vine of self- 
 conceit, of delusive hope, which grew up in the still- 
 ness of the night, and withered away in the morning. 
 
 The uncertainties of life, however, do not last for- 
 ever. ‘The autumn and winter, fitting seasons for 
 insecurity and dread, passed away; and Macrae had 
 become partially dulled to the pain that gnawed so 
 sorely at his heart. And, when the spring-time came, 
 he felt a great access of elasticity. 
 
 Gradually during the winter the ladies at Elms- 
 woods had been changing the color of their garb. At 
 first less bright, it became sombre, and more sombre, 
 —and at last black. “Ben is dead!” This was a 
 great comfort to Macrae. 
 
 Almost daily now, there came into the family-circle 
 at Elmswoods this dark young man, always gentle in 
 his speech, manly in his bearing, calm and self-pos- 
 sessed. 
 
 To be near Betty Hartley, to be on such familiar 
 terms with that household, to feel himself growing in 
 favor day by day; to overhear old Sandy Dart 
 prophesy, one day, that “she’ll marry ’im yit, now I'll 
 bat ye a tan-pun noat;”’ to touch the most electric 
 hand in all this world, now and then; to soothe her 
 grief in words for which she thanked him, — were not 
 these worth living for? 
 
 The early autumn came again. The leaves fell 
 from the trees, the crops came off the ground, warmth 
 left the earth. And other changes followed, — one 
 momentous change ! 
 
AT ELMSWOODS. 203 
 
 On a certain evening Macrae had dined with the 
 family at Elmswoods. For half an hour after they sat 
 together in the library. Of a sudden the three ladies, 
 at a sign from Mr. Hollins, left the room ; and a great 
 constraint, which had been painfully perceptible to 
 Macrae, deepened and enveloped him with shadows 
 of thick darkness. 
 
 “Ts it possible,” he thought, “that Ben has been 
 found? Am I to be charged at last with a crime 
 which has so festered in my soul that I have all but 
 charged myself with it openly, publicly, a score of 
 times?” 
 
 With a beating heart Macrae looked at the elder 
 one, who was pacing the floor absorbed in thought. 
 With all his strength he held down the terror within 
 him, as Ephraim Hollins came and laid a firm hand 
 upon his shoulder. Then Ephraim Hollins found 
 voice, and its tone was re-assuring. 
 
 “Thomas,” he said, ‘‘ my son is dead.” 
 
 Macrae longed to ask how, and where, and when ; 
 but he was ashamed to be so weak, and held. his 
 peace. 
 
 “My son is dead. And I have been thinking, 
 Thomas, that it is wicked in us to go on in this way 
 any longer. I have therefore resolved to make a 
 -change in our affairs. A whole year now, we have 
 mourned for Ben. We shall continue to mourn for as 
 many years as we remain here. But we have also 
 hoped: that must be no longer. And you, Thomas, 
 have come to be a comfort to us.” 
 
 What a sick, desperate feeling was that which came 
 
204 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 over Macrae at these words! He could have gone 
 upon his knees, and cried, “If Ben is dead, I murdered 
 him.” But the old man himself prevented him. 
 
 “Yes, Thomas: we shall not soon forget your self- 
 sacrifice, and your energy in searching for our lost 
 one. I took you to my heart the day you returned. 
 I felt that you were given to me for a son, in place of 
 n Lot ih 
 
 ‘What is all this coming to?” said Macrae to that 
 faithful listener, himself. 
 
 ‘‘T have a proposal to make to you, therefore,” the 
 old man continued. “It is my habit to speak plain- 
 ly, and to do business in the clearest possible way. I 
 am too old, and too much broken now, to carry the 
 responsibilities which crowd upon me. I must have 
 help : a younger man must take my place, and it must 
 be done soon. Of all the young men in my acquaint- 
 ance, you are the one I should select, first and last. 
 With your quick, well-tutored intelligence, you can 
 easily master all the details of our business ; and I lay 
 the matter before you now, as one that has been much 
 considered, and with the full approbation of my wife. 
 I ask only one thing of you. Let the firm name 
 remain ‘ Hollins and Son’ as long as I live. When I 
 am gone, do what you please. Think it over, —my 
 son, —and tell me, at your own convenience, your 
 conclusion.” 
 
 It was no time to remain at Elmswoods. Macrae’s 
 heart was tugging at him: it all but spoke. The 
 library air stifled him. Had he been charged by Mr. 
 Hollins with all that his own conscience asserted of 
 
AT ELMSWOODS. 205 
 
 him, had he been dismissed with anger and contempt, 
 he could not have been more eager to get away, to be 
 alone. 
 
 _ Once in the open air, and out upon the road, he 
 "gave way to the pent-up storm within. He reproached 
 himself, he congratulated himself, he cursed the hour 
 he was born, he bade himself be strong and watchful. 
 
 No man in Macrae’s position, and with his strength, 
 would think of making a spring at such a proposition 
 as Ephraim Hollins had laid before him. A weaker 
 man might. Before he had reached Bridge Hill, 
 therefore, — for he chose the longest way home that 
 night, step number one in his progress was fully 
 determined upon. It was, to take his uncle into con- 
 sultation. 7 
 
 Next morning this was done. ‘The shrewd old 
 uncle saw the matter in only one light. It was simply 
 a choice of career for his nephew. The law muzght 
 bring prizes: “ Hollins and Son” had actual prizes to 
 offer. A Scotchman angles not where there may de 
 fishes, but where there ave fishes. The result of the 
 conference, therefore, was, that Macrae finished all his 
 papers in hand and gave them over to his uncle com- 
 plete, said farewell to law-books, and went to studying 
 ledgers at the mills. 
 
 The detail of the arrangement made by and be- 
 tween “ Hollins and Son, parties of the first part,” and 
 “Thomas Macrae, gentleman, party of the second part, 
 in the year of her gracious Majesty, and in ac- 
 cordance with the statute Geor. III. 34, e¢ a/,” and 
 all the rest of it, would be dull reading. We pass it 
 
206 | DOCTOR BEN. - iH 
 
 | 
 
 by, therefore ; summing it all up in this, that, any day 
 in October of the year after Ben’s disappearance, you’ 
 might have seen Thomas Macrae walking the mills, as 
 Ben Hollins had before him. You might have wit- 
 nessed Harper’s subservience to him, — always with a 
 slight mental protest ; you might have heard many a 
 sly joke at his expense among the older mill-hands in 
 regard to his “marrying that girl.” In brief, it was a 
 new Ben that had come into the business ; and more 
 mill-men than one thought there ought to have been 
 a feast at Elmswoods. 
 
 Even Mother Ballam had her word to say. ‘“ Wait,” 
 she said to Sandy and Mrs. Dart, “ wait till the han’ o’ 
 God is laid on yon young man !” 
 
 All that autumn and winter Macrae was again a 
 student ; studying machinery, and textures, and raw 
 materials, and all the intricacies of a great and pros- 
 perous business, — studying at Elmswoods house, also, 
 the labyrinth of an art deeper than any business. 
 
 His sonship there grew every day into more appar- 
 ent shapeliness. The old man and wife drew him 
 closer and closer to them, each striving to outdo the 
 other in efforts to make this man as much their son 
 as might be. | 
 
 At times he even seemed to have come very near 
 to the real life and soul of that household, that is, to 
 Betty Hartley. But it was as earth comes near to sun. 
 The attraction drew him towards her to a certain 
 point: there was a perceptible shudder, a movement | 
 of the elements, and away he went into space again, 
 towards the farther solstice of his orbit of love. 
 
AT ELMSWOODS. 207 
 
 It became his almost daily habit to dine at Elms- 
 woods. The waiting-maid set his plate without direc- 
 tion or question. In the December days, when the 
 winds howled bleakly, and the thick, driving snows 
 made night awful, he was even pressed to remain till 
 morning. The lowest of the seven heavens was ten- 
 dered to him, in the shape of a pair of slippers em- 
 broidered by a hand he worshipped, and laid by the 
 fireside, in the blue room,—the chamber directly 
 over the dining-room. From the window he looked 
 over towards Comfort Lodge many a morning, wish- 
 ing that its doors would open and invite him in. 
 
 “Patience! patience!” he exclaimed. “If this 
 - devil within me hurries me on too fast, I shall make 
 a fool of myself.” 
 
 Business called Macrae away from Millington exactly 
 once amonth. If Harper had had his wits about him, 
 after Macrae came to the mills, he would certainly — 
 have drawn conclusions. But Harper and many 
 others did not know that Macrae went to Toronto on 
 the evening express, and returned at noon next day. 
 They did not know that in the evening, or early in the 
 morning, he went to the Toronto post-office, and took 
 out one or more letters addressed to ‘“‘E. P. Hallowell, 
 Esq.” They did not know that he made little trips to 
 the towns near Toronto, —to Hamilton, St. Catherine’s, 
 and even, for a change, over the border to Niagara, 
 Buffalo, and Lockport. They did not know that he 
 always selected for these trips only such towns as pos- 
 sessed banking facilities, and that he invariably pur- 
 chased on these occasions a draft in some assumed 
 
208 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 name, indorsing it, ‘ Pay to the order of E. P. Hallo- 
 well,” and “ Pay to the order of Dr. Peterson.” 
 
 Being in ignorance of all this, Harper was not re- 
 sponsible, certainly, for the lapse of interest in Ben’s 
 case, nor for the general acceptance of Thomas Macrae 
 as Ben’s successor. In after times he blamed himself, 
 accused himself, averred that he “ felt it” all the time, 
 that “something. told him,” every day, “that Ben 
 Hollins was not dead, and that Macrae knew more 
 about it than any other living man.” 
 
 This was all very well, but certainly Harper never 
 took the trouble to say these things until all the good 
 which might have been set in motion by them had 
 been accomplished in another way. 
 
 These excursions operated upon Macrae himself as 
 a relief to the strain of his daily life at Millington. 
 For a long time, too, the letters from Hickory Hall 
 were monotonously unexciting. 
 
 “Your brother remains about the same.” 
 
 “Symptoms of improvement excited some hope in 
 us last week, but I am sorry to say that they have dis- 
 appeared.” 
 
 “There is no change for the better, nor, I am glad 
 to say, for the worse.” 
 
 The word “improvement” gave Macrae an occa- 
 sional shock, but he laughed at it. “Improvement! 
 Not much improvement for such a case as Ben’s, I 
 imagine. ‘Once insane, always insane,’ is a good 
 enough adage for me.” Thus he blinded himself, 
 and called it reasoning. 
 
 Invariably Macrae came back to Millington in 
 
 — 
 
AT ELMSWOODS. 209 
 
 better spirits. The dulness of his love-making was 
 relieved. He felt that he might begin afresh. He 
 knew the fierceness of his own ardor, and felt Betty’s 
 total want of any such feeling as love for him; but 
 when, out of very courtesy, she softened towards him 
 now and then, he believed that she was opening the 
 door of her heart a little, just enough to let the archer 
 in. But one single step on Macrae’s part, to take 
 advantage of what Betty intended as courtesy and 
 nothing more, locked the door again and barred it. 
 That heart was occupied, filled to overflowing with 
 sweet remembrance of the dead,—of him, that is, 
 whom Betty almost, and others altogether, believed to 
 be dead. 
 And, whether Betty Hartley’s words and deeds en- 
 couraged or depressed him, Macrae took more and 
 more courage out of the knowledge that in a few 
 months, as per agreement with Ephraim Hollins, — as 
 soon as he should have learned the business thor- 
 oughly, and affixed his signature to that formal docu- 
 ment in which he was named a “party,” —all that 
 once was Ben’s would be his. All except Betty, — 
 and why not Betty too? he asked himself. 
 
 Was it really love that drew this man? Or was it 
 that old spirit of gaining his end, of accomplishing a 
 ‘purpose, of having his way? 
 
210 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 THE ALDERNEY. 
 
 LTHOUGH loath to let Carney go, the Kimber 
 A family were thoroughly deceived by her John 
 Roak fiction, and yielded to her. Many persons in 
 their place and circumstances—and not necessarily 
 evil-minded ones— would have given Carney some 
 sort of verbal blessing, and packed her off; but the 
 Kimbers had little knowledge of those “airy noth- 
 ings” which so largely take the place of practical 
 and substantial things among politer and less genuine 
 people, and therefore gave Carney a paid ticket to 
 Toronto, a snug little sum of money, and, for words, 
 this sincere admonition, “And if you don’t find him, 
 Carney, come straight back to us.” 
 
 Carney reached Toronto just as the sun was send- 
 ing his last rays of kisses to the crosses on church- 
 steeples and towers. The numerous invitations hang- 
 ing on the walls, for the behoof of the tired and 
 hungry, she heeded not, for the very good reason that 
 she could not read one word of them. 
 
 The tide of incoming travellers was pushing its way 
 rapidly into the busier parts of the city, and Carney 
 could think of nothing better than to float along with 
 ‘it. Soon it spread itself out more and more widely, 
 
(HE TALDERNEY. 21% 
 
 and was forever lost in the great ocean of humanity, 
 leaving Carney as a bit of wood or of weed is left 
 upon the waters. She peered into people’s faces, 
 she looked in at the shop-windows; but there was 
 no greeting for her, no welcome, — not an intimation, 
 even, that there was any place for her among these 
 busy thousands. 
 
 At last she found herself in front of the new post- 
 office in Adelaide Street ; and, as she stood looking at 
 its long frontage, she was suddenly inspired to enter. 
 A man had just gone in, and Carney recognized that 
 man. She followed him, therefore, at a little distance, 
 saw him go to the “ General Delivery,” take out a let- 
 ter in a dark blue envelope, look at the address, and 
 put the letter in his pocket. 
 
 She went deliberately towards this man, moving 
 more and more rapidly as she saw him turning in 
 an opposite direction. Presently he disappeared be- 
 hind a light inside door. The door came to with 
 the muffled bang of rubber listing, exactly in time to 
 swing inwardly against Carney, and push her back a 
 _ pace or two, bruising her outstretched fingers. Twice 
 it swung in a decreasing arc, each time giving the 
 inexperienced and persisting woman a knock, and 
 eliciting from her remarks not at all complimentary 
 to doors that swing both ways. 
 
 At last she conquered this fiendish obstacle, and 
 placed herself on the other side of it, receiving 
 another reminder of its existence in the shape of a 
 blow in the back, which made her heels tingle, and 
 sent her half-way through the vestibule which it cov- 
 
212 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 ered. In the midst of a fresh objurgation, she remem- 
 bered that she was pursuing an object, and, looking 
 about her, found that her game was gone. The man 
 had disappeared altogether. 
 
 She now opened the outer door, and passed into 
 the street. There were men, numbers of them, hurry- 
 ing in and out to receive their evening mail, or pass- 
 ing to and fro; but the man whom Carney Dugan 
 wanted, the only one she cared to speak to, was gone. 
 Muttering, and shaking her fist, she resumed her wan- 
 derings. 
 
 At eight o’clock she was attracted by the open 
 stairway of a fine new building in Princess Christina 
 Street, West, and sat down upon the steps, wearied 
 out. Presently a gentleman of forty years came down 
 these steps, jingling a bunch of keys, and stopped to 
 look at her. An impulse of charity happened to strike 
 this man, all the more notable for that he had just 
 been inquiring of himself where he should find a 
 woman to rid his new building of its last accumu- 
 lation of carpenters’ chips. 
 
 “What are you doing here, my good woman?” 
 he asked. 
 
 “Tt’s lookin’ fur worruk, I am, sir, dhis blessed 
 day;.an’”— 
 
 “Can you sweep? and scrub?” interrupted Mr. 
 Blossom. 
 
 “Ts it sweep? Sure, I was born wid a broom in 
 me mouth,—in me han’s, I mane, an’ it’s all the 
 same. Yer anner’d ought to see dhe shweepin’ I 
 done in me own pairlor, whin I was kapin’ house. 
 
THE ALDERNEY. 213 
 
 An’ for dhe dust, I’d niver abide a bit nor speck big- 
 ger nor a tinp’ny nail.” 
 
 The recitation of Carney’s virtues as a housekeeper, 
 purely imaginary, would have stretched over whole 
 pages if Mr. Blossom had not been in too great a 
 hurry to listen. Breaking in upon her promising 
 speech, therefore, he asked, ‘How far away do you 
 live?” 
 
 “Will, sir, I tell you dhe solemn throot. At prisint 
 I’m stayin’ wid me son-in-law dhat kapes dhe big 
 hotel down beyant, be dhe railroad bank. But sure, 
 if yer anner wud hev a room in dhe house now, dhat a 
 body cud slape in, I’d be right here airly, to go at dhe 
 worruk.” 
 
 “A good idea!” thought Mr. Blossom. 
 
 “Only,” he said, “there isn’t such a thing as a bed 
 in the house.” 
 
 “ Niver mind dhat, sir! Ladies has ways dhat men 
 niver thinks of.” 
 
 “All right, then. Ill leave you to take care of your- 
 self. Here are the keys of the south hall, third floor. 
 You can sleep in any one of the rooms you like to- 
 night, and in the morning go to work on those rooms 
 first. Mr. Folliss wishes to move in on Wednesday 
 next.” Carney almost burst out at sound of that 
 name: her eyes twinkled, and her tongue trembled ; 
 but reflection came, and she was silent. 
 
 Good-naturedly taking the risk of leaving with Car- 
 ney a small sum of money to procure the utensils of 
 her new occupation on the morrow, Mr. Blossom went 
 homeward. And while this excellent, but for once 
 
214 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 not very business-like, man was being soundly rated by 
 his wife for taking in a stranger in such a fashion, 
 Carney, after a frugal supper of bread, was rolling up 
 
 her shawl and bundle for a pillow, and stretching her- 
 
 self upon the bare floor of a room which was soon to 
 be transformed into the cosiest of bachelor’s quarters. 
 
 Great was Mr. Blossom’s triumph over his critical 
 and suspicious wife, next morning, when he found 
 Carney hard at work, and doing her work, wwe will say, 
 in an unexceptionable manner. At dinner, - - they dine 
 at dinner-time in Toronto, not at supper-t me,— Mr. 
 Blossom was profuse in his account of Carr ey. 
 
 “Come and see for yourself, my dez:,” he ex- 
 claimed: “she is really quite a character.’ 
 
 Mrs. Blossom went down to “The Ald mey ” that 
 afternoon, and changed her opinion. 
 
 “On the whole, George,” she acknowl lged, “this 
 may be the very best thing that could hav happened. 
 So much better, at any rate, than one of - hese young 
 trollops, or even a middle-aged woman, with their 
 nahsty, prying ways. The gentlemen wi- really be 
 pleased, I know.”” Mrs. Blossom underm* ‘od bach- 
 elors to a nicety. 
 
 It was a congenial bit of occupation fer ~ is good 
 lady to fit out Carney Dugan with all tke ~e uisites 
 for housekeeping in one of the attics of “The \lder- 
 ney,” and also to deck her person in garm.nts suitable 
 to her station. For Mrs. Blossom had fially ge1e a 
 long distance farther than her husband in regar” to 
 Carney’s connection with the new building. “he 
 husband had only thought of her as a make-shift for 
 
THE ALDERNEY. 215 
 
 the cleaning-out of the rooms: the wife committed 
 herself to Carney’s establishment as a permanent fix- 
 ture. 
 
 “The Alderney ” was an experiment. It was built 
 for the accommodation of single gentlemen, for whom 
 public hotel life had no attractions, and boarding- 
 houses were not to be spoken of. Bly Folliss, Ger- 
 maine Parson, and Jack Brandon had engaged three 
 suites of rooms before a brick was laid, on condition 
 that no other rooms should be rented without their 
 consent, and, fer contra, that they should secure, or 
 do their best to secure, suitable tenants for the rest of 
 the premises. 
 
 The stipulations were faithfully observed on both 
 sides; and, within a month after the opening, twenty- 
 five gentlemen were installed in quarters which were 
 the envy of all bachelordom in Toronto, while Mr. 
 Blossom congratulated himself daily on the return of 
 an equal per cent on his investment. An experienced 
 chef, whose office was upon the ground floor, revelled 
 in the delight of figuring out just what and how much 
 twenty-five gentlemen would eat and drink daily ; and 
 counted his order-cards with a satisfaction equalled 
 only on Saturdays, when he again and again looked 
 over the entries in his bank-book. 
 
 * Other servants were duly provided, — younger ones, 
 for the most part; but Carney, without appointment, 
 drifted into the position of Mother Superior. And it 
 must be noted here, that a great change came over 
 the woman. From head to foot she was clad as she 
 never had been clad before. In one of Mrs. Blossom’s 
 
216 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 cast-off hats re-built for Carney’s use, in a respectable 
 woollen gown, with hands cleansed by frequent con- 
 tact with hot water, and with a deal of attention paid 
 by Mrs. Blossom herself to the smoothing of her rough 
 white hair, and to its confinement beneath tidy white 
 caps, you would hardly have recognized Carney 
 Dugan, formerly of Millington. She had become 
 Mrs. Dugan of Toronto, if you please. 
 
 The day that Bly Folliss moved into “The Alderney,” 
 he looked at this tidy Irishwoman twenty times, and 
 was puzzled. She made no sign of recognizing Folliss ; 
 and, in the vigor of his labor, Bly looked and forgot 
 with rapidity. Towards evening, however, he flung 
 himself into an arm-chair, and said, — | 
 
 ‘“Parsy! that woman,—she’s a necromancer, a 
 female Balsamo. She’ll be the Countess de Fenix 
 to-morrow, Mrs. Pellegrini next Monday, and the 
 Wandering Jewess by Christmas.” 
 
 “ How sop” 
 
 “Fave you noticed her, looked at her?” 
 
 “Not particularly.” et 
 
 “Then let me call her in. Observe her, and tell me 
 what you think.” | 
 
 Carney came, was duly reviewed by Germaine Par- 
 son, and passed out after dusting a table-drawer which 
 Folliss pretended to wish immediately attended to. 
 
 “Well,” said Parson, “if I hadn’t my full senses, I 
 should say it was the old woman at Si Kimber’s.” 
 
 “Exactly,” chimed in Bly Folliss. 
 
 “No, not exactly, at all. The name is the same, 
 but the woman is not. There are myriads of these 
 
LHS AL DERIVE Y. 217 
 
 Dugans. A little resemblance, that is all. Heigho! 
 [yawning] I sha’n’t distress myself much about it. 
 Plenty to do before I get to bed.” 
 
 Parson retired to his own apartments, and Folliss set 
 himself to arranging books. Presently Mrs. Dugan 
 came in again, and Folliss was tempted to question 
 her. It did not occur to him that any tact was neces- 
 sary, as may be seen from his first inquiry, which 
 was, — 
 
 “ How about the crazy man, Mrs. Dugan?” 
 
 “Which?” asked Carney. 
 
 “The crazy man, you know, up at Si Kimber’s. 
 You knew something about him, didn’t you?” 
 
 ““What’s dhe man sayin’?” said Carney. ‘ What 
 crazy man? An’ who’s dhis— who’s Gimmer?”’ 
 
 “Don’t you know Si Kimber? Aren’t you the 
 woman whom I saw up there, only a few weeks ago?” 
 asked Folliss. 
 
 “Me!” exclaimed Carney, “Me at Gimmer’s! 
 An’ where on dhe airth is dhat?”’ 
 
 Carney’s replies were made with such perfect dis- 
 simulation, that Folliss began to think, as Parson did, 
 that it was only a resemblance, after all. Moreover, 
 Carney was too old to turn pale or to turn red: her 
 withered vellum-like skin had not a particle of emotion 
 in it, and Folliss was completely deceived. 
 
 As if, however, to give his suspicions one last chance 
 for justification, he asked, — 
 
 “Tsn’t your name Carney?”’ 
 
 “Sure, sir,’ replied Carney, “I’m too old to be 
 called be anny nickname, dhe likes o’ dhat. It wud 
 
| 
 
 218 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 be betther to say M/rs. Dugan to me, sir, wid all re- 
 spect I say it. An’ besides, me name is Margaret.” 
 
 “Oh!” said Folliss; and dismissed the subject, 
 for the present,—for the present only; for Carney 
 Dugan never came in his sight without somehow sug- 
 gesting to Bly Folliss the crazy man, Si Kimber’s, 
 Thomas Macrae, and — general mystification. 
 
 All through the late autumn, the early winter, the 
 holidays, and down to a certain day in February, 
 Carney kept to a certain round of duties at “ The 
 Alderney,” saying little. For a woman who had abso- 
 lutely no correspondence, she made a remarkable 
 number of visits to the post-office. The “General 
 Delivery,” too, seemed to have especial attractions ; 
 and Carney became quite adept in handling the door 
 
 which swung both ways. Not once, however, in all 
 
 these months did she have so much as a second fleet- 
 ing glimpse of the man whom she had once almost 
 laid hands upon, and whom she was looking for. 
 
 On the February day before mentioned, Carney had 
 occasion to go across the town to visit a recent ac- 
 quaintance, a woman of her own nation, who dwelt in, 
 and was in fact proprietress of, a hostelry dignified 
 with the title of “The Prince of Cumberland House.” 
 Mrs. Brannigan was a woman of much ability and of 
 many sorrows. Left a widow long years ago, she had 
 seen her property grow in value, and her two sons in 
 vice. She held up her head, therefore, one minute, 
 and cast it down with shame the next. She had fallen 
 
 sy 
 
 in with Carney somehow, and Carney comforted her; 
 
 to that extent, that Carney’s visits at “The Prince 
 
THE ALDERNEY. 219 
 
 of Cumberland House” became very frequent. This 
 house was near the upper railway-station ; and on the 
 day in question Carney arrived just as the evening ex- 
 press from the west made its brief stop before going 
 on. The outcoming passengers jostled her, one with 
 especial rudeness. She looked up at him, uttered 
 a cry, —“ Misther Thom,” — looked at the rapidly 
 retreating traveller, stood one minute collecting her 
 thoughts, and then calling to a coachman standing at 
 the curb ordered him to drive her to the post-office. 
 
 * An’ mind,” said she, “ quick, do it in a jiffy!” 
 
 The other coachmen laughed. “Room! room!” 
 shouted one. “The royal carriage! Make way for 
 her gracious Majesty, the Queen of Ballimacrew !”’ 
 
 ' Carney contented herself with . firing back a few 
 choice bombs of speech; and the coach rattled on to 
 Adelaide Street, Carney calling out now and then, 
 “Faster ! faster !” 
 
 Once within the office, Carney quickly selected a 
 station for herself. Going up to the ‘ General Deliv- 
 ery,” she took a position inside the railing, turned her 
 back half way to the window, and waited. The clerk 
 saw her through the glass box-fronts, and, leaning half 
 out of the window, asked Carney what she wanted. 
 
 “T’m waitin’, I am, fur me masther. He’d be here 
 at siven o’clock, an’ I was to wait an’ go wid him till 
 he’d get dhe fish fur breakfast an’ ’”’ — 
 
 The clerk disappeared before Carney could finish 
 her speech, and she stopped with a grumble. “It’s 
 very good manners dhey tache in dhis schoolhouse ! 
 An’ me a-freezin’ dhe toes aff me a-waiting here.” <A 
 
220 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 voice struck upon Carney’s ear, and she looked up 
 eagerly. 
 
 “Letters for Mr. Hallowell, if you. please,’’ the 
 voice said. 
 
 “ Hallowell?” 
 
 6e E. PR 
 
 Mr. E.-P. Hallowell, that is to say, Thomas Macrae, 
 received four letters, all alike outwardly, all in blue 
 envelopes. Carney lifted her hand to touch him, then 
 a great fear came upon her: she hesitated, withdrew 
 her hand, and, instead, turned about and followed 
 Macrae. She went out through the side vestibule 
 immediately behind Macrae, and still neither touched 
 him nor spoke to him. On the sidewalk she stopped, 
 and let Macrae hurry away. “Better! better!” she 
 said to herself, and went immediately back to the 
 delivery-window. 
 
 “‘ Has me masther been here yet?”’ she asked. 
 
 “Who is your master?” 
 
 “He’s the dark gintleman, sir — E. P.”” — 
 
 “Oh !— Hallowell, is that the man?” 
 
 “Yis, sir, an’ a thousan’ thanks to you.” 
 
 “Same to you. Mr. Hallowell took his letters a 
 few minutes ago, and went off directly. I say, he’s 
 queer, isn’t he? Only comes once a month.” 
 
 “He’s dhat quare, young man, dhat dhe missis is 
 druv to death wid him. He pretinds to come afther 
 dhe letthers ivery day uv his blessed life; an’ 
 dhe missis is bed-rid, she is, or she’d come her- 
 selty’ 
 
 “Qh, ho!” said the clerk. ‘“Queer—I thought 
 
THE ALDERNEY. 221 
 
 so;” and, disliking the cold draught, he unceremoni- 
 ously closed the glass again. 
 
 Carney hurried to “The Alderney,” and knocked at 
 Bly Folliss’s door. 
 
 “Misther Fully,” said she, “wud ye be dhat good to 
 write fur me — on a piece uv paper?” 
 
 “What shall I write?”’ asked Bly. 
 
 “i,— P.—what’s dhis now? Holly —I think it 
 would be Holly —hill, mayhap. Dhat’s nigh or next 
 to it, annyway. I’ve something to do fur dhe gintle- 
 man, an’ I’d forgit his name, as sure’s me own’s Car 
 —what’s dhis I’m sayin’ ?— AZargare¢t Dugan. Dhim 
 cars is always runnin’ in me head, whin I’ve been to 
 Mrs. Brannigan’s, she lives dhat near to dhe station. 
 -Good-night, sir, an’ manny thanks.” 
 
222 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 CHANGES. 
 
 ips will have been perceived, that the events of the 
 preceding chapter occurred during the second 
 winter of Ben Hollins’s stay at Hickory Hall. And 
 now, to return thither, we have to note, that, as that 
 winter advanced, most notable changes were going on 
 within the institution. 
 
 Room after room was vacated. Many tearful and 
 yet joyous farewells were uttered at the office-door ; 
 and carriages were almost every day rolling down the 
 avenue with restored men and women who were going 
 home again. It was something like the breaking-up 
 of a school for the holidays. 
 
 Now, these especially good seasons for the cure of 
 the insane are strongly marked ; but there is no known 
 periodicity in them, no rule by which they can be 
 foretold. ‘The fact only is noted, put by for definition, 
 and,— mark the prophecy!—some day it will he 
 defined. 
 
 In consequence of the many departures, therefore, 
 and of the correspondingly few arrivals, a strange 
 silence reigned at Hickory Hall. The groups which 
 gathered in the grounds, or walked upon the frosty 
 avenues, became unusually small. The trio of mag- 
 
CHANGES. 228 
 
 nates grew sad, and were in danger of forgetting all 
 about “general paresis,’’ for lack of new patients to 
 condemn to that dire fatality. 
 
 In the general shower of good which seemed to be 
 falling, Ben Hollins was receiving sufficient to make 
 Drs. Peterson and Laidlaw rejoice. Flashes of intelli- 
 gence grew more frequent ; but, remember! they were 
 only flashes. The element of permanence was still 
 lacking. Lightning is very bright, but not a good 
 thing to depend upon for reading. 
 
 In the crisp atmosphere of December, Dr. Peterson 
 began to take Ben out with him in his carriage. He 
 held the doctor’s horse very reliably, when that func- 
 tionary had occasion to stop at one of the stores. ‘Two 
 or three concert-troupes came that way, and Ben was 
 made happy with the sound of sweet music. A stere- 
 opticon was brought to the town; and Ben was ona 
 pinnacle of glory while the yellow palaces, the purple 
 mountains, and other monstrosities floated before him. 
 
 Meantime, Dr. Peterson cared very little about the 
 music of the “ Protean Band,” or the glories of Profess- 
 or Photog’s “ unrivalled exhibition of the unsurpassed 
 landscapes of Italy, France, and the land of William 
 Tell.” He sat through these second-rate perform- 
 ances for Ben’s sake; and he made notes of Ben’s 
 emotions, of Ben’s sayings, and of his conduct. 
 
 In January two young men of the town called at 
 the office to invite the doctors to attend a spelling- 
 match at the town-hall, adding, that, if there were any 
 patients at the asylum whom they would like to bring, 
 they also would be made welcome. 
 
224 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 Dr. Peterson said, after these young men were gone, 
 “ Laidlaw, I shall take Ben.” 
 
 “What for?” 
 
 wLocspell”’ 
 
 Silosspelhes 
 
 “Yes. I have noticed that he is an authority on 
 that subject. The men in the convalescent ward 
 appeal to him every day, and I have never known of 
 his making one mistake.” 
 
 “Tt is a risk,” said Laidlaw. 
 
 “Not a great one,” replied Peterson. 
 
 “What if he should become excited ?” 
 
 “T shall watch him. To tell you the truth, I am 
 willing that he should be excited, up to a certain 
 point,” Dr. Peterson said emphatically. 
 
 “Is that point definite, determinable?” asked Laid- 
 law. 
 
 “As much so as the end of that line you are tracing 
 with your pencil. And, in one word, I am determined 
 to try Ben. We have been like watchmakers, you and 
 I: we have had Ben here a good many months; we 
 have taken him to pieces, so to speak, and put him 
 together again. I propose to wind him up now, and 
 see whether he will go, or not. If not, we must be 
 patient. You agree with me?” 
 
 Laidlaw replied, “With the slightest hesitation, 
 doctor, with a mere shadow of a doubt. You are 
 far beyond the rest of us, however, in origination, 
 Your diagnosis is always clear, your prognosis more 
 often justified than that of any other man in the 
 profession. I speak of facts now, I am not bandying 
 
CHANGES. 225 
 
 compliments. If you take Ben, I would like to go 
 with you.” 
 
 The evening came, and the town-hall was filled 
 with old and young. Hundreds of faces were uplifted 
 towards the stage, in anticipation of the glee to come. 
 For the highest and best in the town were to be there, 
 and show themselves off. The two coming candidates 
 for Congress were in the ranks; and puliticians who 
 could not spell at all sat among the audience, trem- 
 bling lest these gentlemen should injure their chances 
 by the introduction of this new element into the dis- 
 cussion of personal merits. But oh! lucky chance! 
 they both went down in the vain endeavor to thrust 
 an f into “ phlebotomy.” 
 
 There were lawyers, clergymen, doctors, school- 
 teachers, editors, merchants, barbers, mechanics, re- 
 porters, and young men and maidens from the high 
 school, from St. Brazennose’s College, and from Ma- 
 dame du Enna’s “ French, Italian, German, Spanish, 
 and — English School.” 
 
 Good old Judge Minturn had been requested to 
 “give out the words.” The judge is a pan-opticon, a 
 man who sees, comprehends, and devours every thing, 
 including words and definitions. His long, thin body 
 and limbs indicate the dryness of his daily, hourly 
 “sustenance. His jaws are always in slight motion, as 
 of one who chews the cud of unnumbered words and 
 definitions. His skin is, in color and substance, pre- 
 cisely like an old monastic volume: one look at him 
 will convince any doubter that the legend of the use 
 of the human cuticle, in ancient times, for manuscript 
 
226 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 purposes, is not merely possible, but entirely prac- 
 ticable. 
 
 The vocabulary of law, theology, anatomy, thera- 
 peutics, commerce, politics, astronomy, mythology, 
 
 geology, botany, — in brief, the whole verbal range, — 
 
 was within Judge Minturn’s grasp. He stood before 
 the two long lines of contestants, and delivered a genial 
 yet solemn speech, announcing the rules of the spell- 
 ing-match, and giving good advice. This was simply 
 sharpening his scythe, so to speak. Then, with a 
 
 reaper’s whirl, he sent a word among the spellers. 
 
 Down they went, one, two, three. From that point, 
 the contest went on briskly, and the fun waxed 
 warmer and warmer. The ranks thinned with more 
 rapidity than Cesar solemnly assures us those of the 
 Goths did when his light horse bore down upon them. 
 
 So simple a word as “Atticize’”’ slew scores. “‘ Fore- 
 flow ” —a word which any one can spell, even in pub- 
 lic — was treated to a parti-colored coat which made 
 
 it unrecognizable. -o-u-r was impossible, f-o-e-r the: 
 
 same, f-o-a-r no better; and the spellers even floun- 
 dered about with Az for a handle to their word. 
 Down they went, and the newest comers turned their 
 bewildered wits to the second syllable. F-1-o, f-1-o-e, 
 f-l-o-h, were pronounced in succession. Next day 
 any inhabitant of Hickoryville could have spelled 
 that little word correctly; but somehow it required 
 many attempts before the one who could do it that 
 evening was found. One solitary colored brother 
 was in line, near the foot. As he solemnly, but con- 
 fidently, gave it as his opinion that “F-o-f1-o would 
 
 mel 
 
CHANGES. 227, 
 
 fil’ the bill in Cincinnati or ‘Ole Bluegrass,’” the 
 house roared. 
 
 A politician spelled five words correctly. His turn 
 coming once more, the judge gave him—“ Corrup- 
 tion.’ ‘The speller’s eye happened to light upon the 
 burly form of an office-holder who had added several 
 mills to the local taxes of Hickory County ; and with- 
 out hesitation he sacrificed himself thus: ‘“ M-i-k-e, 
 cor; E-a, rup; g-a-n, tion, —corruption.” ‘The “ins” 
 hissed, the “outs” applauded; Mr. Eagan himself 
 finally quelled the riot by laughing until he was black 
 in the face. 
 
 Suddenly the audience became aware that the cli- 
 max was approaching. Of all the spellers, there re- 
 ‘mained only a judge of the Superior Court, an Episco- 
 pal clergyman, the principal of St. Brazennose’s, two very 
 bright young ladies — and a queer-looking creature 
 who stood with his arms dangling, his head moving 
 about as if purpose and attention were unknown to him, 
 and who had unbuttoned his vest and untied his cravat. 
 
 The judge surveyed this scattered company with 
 basilisk eye, and called out, “ Antiphlogistic.” 
 
 The clergyman took it up, “A-n, an; t-e”’— 
 
 “Next,” said the judge. 
 
 A sweet voice responded, “A-n, an; t-i, ti; £’’ — 
 
 pext,”’ 
 
 “A-n, an; t-i, ti; p-h-l-o, phlo; g-i-s-t, gist ; i-c, 
 ic, — antiphlogistic, oh, yes! ha, ha!” 
 
 The audience, struck with the humor of it, looked 
 at poor Ben, then at poor Mr. Episcopal Minister, and 
 burst into a responsive “ Ha, ha!” 
 
228 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 “ Fuguist,” called out the judge. 
 
 Another soft soprano suggestively, almost inquir- 
 ingly, offered “ F-u-g-e ” — 
 
 Poe xt 4 
 
 Proudly and promptly the diapason tones of Judge 
 Blaney, of the Superior Court, rang out, — 
 
 “ F-u-g-u-e”? — 
 
 “Next,” exclaimed Judge Minturn, poking his fin- 
 ger at his learned brother, and saying, “ Not exactly 
 in our line, Judge.” 
 
 The schoolmaster spelled the word correctly, as a 
 schoolmaster ought, and plumed _ himself visibly. 
 Next moment he glanced across the stage. His only 
 competitor was that strange-looking creature; and an 
 expression of contempt, almost of shame, overspread 
 the schoolmaster’s face. The spectators took up the 
 contrast between these two, and the schoolmaster was 
 looked upon as the easy victor of the evening. Nev- 
 ertheless, in physical appearance, Ben had unmistaka- 
 bly the best of it. Had the gleam of well-balanced 
 intelligence, that indescribable something which some 
 men have and some have not, and which is marked 
 upon men’s faces in an infinite scale of degrees, —had 
 this lighted up Ben’s countenance as it did only a few 
 years ago, the public would have made short work of 
 the comparison. 
 
 As it was, however, a chattering lady expressed the 
 public sentiment, probably, when she said to her 
 neighbor, ‘‘Isn’t it absurd? Why, that is one of the 
 patients from the Hall.” 
 
 And even so a great hush fell upon the audience 
 
CHANGES. 229 
 
 and the defeated spellers. Men and women grew 
 very grave, and craned their necks to see and hear the 
 coming contest. A flash of doubt, of pity, instantly 
 covered with judicial gravity, lighted up Judge Min- 
 turn’s face, and he turned and whispered to Dr. Peter- 
 son. The doctor stood up, to make himself heard 
 more distinctly, and said with all his voice, ‘‘ No, sir: 
 go on, if you please.” 
 
 Not for all the world would Dr. Peterson have with- 
 drawn Ben from the match at that moment. To his 
 mind, a principle of mental science was struggling 
 towards revelation. He might not succeed in grasp- 
 ing it, but he certainly was not the man to throw 
 away the opportunity. 
 
 Judge Minturn returned, therefore, to his task. 
 From the character of the words he now took up, he 
 must have intended to bring the work of the evening 
 to a close as quickly as possible. He became a very 
 catapult ; and it would seem an impossibility for child, 
 woman, or man, to stand long under the shower of 
 verbal bowlders hurled at the schoolmastér and Ben. 
 For ten minutes, however, they bore it well; until, in 
 fact, their success became monotonous. Some of the 
 audience even went out. 
 
 Then the judge called, “ Hygroscopicity.” 
 
 It was schoolmaster’s turn. He fidgeted a little, 
 and thought. Perhaps his brain was bewildered. So 
 had Ben’s been for a long time. 
 
 “Time is up,” said the judge. 
 
 “H-y, hy; g-r-o, gro; s-p” — 
 
 “Next,” said the judge; and the Schoolmaster sat 
 
230 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 down, wondering whereunto this might grow, and 
 
 building up in his soul a bitter grudge against that 
 abominable science, or art, or whatever it might be — 
 hygroscopicity. 
 
 All eyes turned now upon Ben. 
 
 “Oh, yes!” said he, “ you want to catch me, I im- 
 agine. Hygroscopicity! Oh, yes! A word of Greek 
 origin, I should say.” 
 
 Schoolmaster looked foolish. What would he not 
 have given for a knowledge of Greek roots and forms, 
 for a procession of Greek characters dancing be- 
 fore his eyes, and helping him to spell that dreadful 
 word ! | 
 
 “Spell it, then, my dear fellow,” said the judge 
 kindly and patronizingly. 
 
 “Oh, yes!” said Ben, “I'll try. I’ve never been 
 kicked by a goose yet.” 
 
 The spectators tittered, and Ben began, — 
 
 “H-y, hy; g-r-o, gro; s-c-o, sco; p-i-c, pic; i, i; 
 t-y, ty, —hygroscopicity. Ha, ha, what a devil of a 
 word !” 
 
 O Ben, Ben! for shame! But it was “the Giant’s ” 
 fault that you made this slip. 
 
 The judge waited a moment for the enthusiasm of 
 the audience to subside, and then called order, say- 
 ing, “The rule is — five words more.” 
 
 What words! where on earth did they come from? 
 Words heptasyllabic, words octosyllabic, words begin- 
 ning with an x which had succumbed, in pronuncia- 
 tion, to z. 
 
 “The gentleman has not missed a word,” announced 
 
CHANGES. 231 
 
 Judge Minturn ; “and Judge Blaney’s side, and Mr. 
 Hallowell, are the victors.” 
 
 Yes, Ben, thou art a gentleman, and would be if thou 
 hadst spelled “ bullsfoot ” with three 7’s. And more’s 
 the pity that a gentleman, nay hundreds of them, 
 should be brought to such a pass ! 
 
 Awake, science! Spend no more time and strength 
 in petty fightings over this theory and that. Coolly 
 weigh and test the theories! Cast out the rubbish, 
 and keep the gold! Press on towards the light! 
 Shall revelation cover only the good of men’s bodies? 
 Is there not some Jenner, some Harvey, in the future’s 
 womb, who shall discover the pulse of the mind, the 
 _ mental vaccination P 
 
 After returning to his office, and seeing Ben safe in 
 his room, Dr. Peterson took down a volume of records, 
 and looked carefully at all he had written there re- 
 specting case No. 2,361. He compared old entries 
 with newer ones; he looked at lengthy arrays of facts 
 in cases of other patients, and brought them into close 
 view by the side of the facts in Ben’s case. | 
 
 But to say that Dr. Peterson came to any conclu- 
 sion, by means of these studies, would be to say what 
 is not true. The true physician, whether of mind or 
 body, does not call theories conclusions. The quack 
 is ever ready to proclaim his theories, and call them 
 facts. A conclusion is a very easy thing to him, 
 prophecy mere child’s play. Unhappily, there are 
 some quacks with regular diplomas in their possession. 
 
 But Dr. Peterson did derive a great satisfaction 
 from his review of Ben’s case. Next day he studied 
 
232 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 his patient with even greater care than ever; and not 
 that day only, but constantly. 
 
 It was plainer and plainer that nature was doing 
 much for Ben Hollins, — Hallowell, as they supposed 
 him to be at Hickory Hall. “And I am nature’s 
 servant and assistant,’’ wisely said Dr. Peterson. 
 
 Ben kept up that solemn farce of the professional 
 medic ; and Dr. Peterson even tried to make use of 
 It, as he sought to employ any and every indication 
 of mental activity, encouraging and stimulating in one 
 direction, diverting in another. With delight he saw 
 Ben’s scope enlarging, even in this factitious exercise 
 of his faculties. 
 
 Not a week after the spelling-match an attendant 
 called the doctor from one of the other rooms in 
 Ben’s ward, and requested him to go softly to Ben’s 
 door. The door was slightly ajar, and Dr. Peterson 
 saw Ben whisking about the room with a pillow. One 
 moment the pillow would be up in the air, the next 
 moment it and Ben went tumbling and rolling about 
 upon the floor, sometimes Ben uppermost, sometimes 
 the pillow. At last, after great exertions, Ben seemed 
 to have conquered this pugnacious adversary, and 
 laid his pillow upon the bed; then wiping his per- 
 spiring face, and breathing hard, he turned to address 
 imaginary occupants of the room : — 
 
 “Well, me dear friends [like a true son of the 
 Dominion, he never said my], I had me doubts at 
 first, thinking, in fact, that your son ought to be sent 
 to a different institution ; but I think we can take him. 
 He proved to be a little violent when we brought him 
 
CHANGES. baa 
 
 into the ward, but that was only natural. At all events, 
 we can try him here for fifty or sixty years; and if he 
 doesn’t improve by that time, —I may as well be 
 candid with you,—there will be no hope for him. 
 No hope,—no hope,” continued Ben, slowly and 
 musingly. Dr. Peterson watched him, as he came 
 out of the room and sauntered away down the hall. 
 Again and again Ben was repeating softly to himself, 
 “No hope, — no hope,” his head bent downward, his 
 carriage indicative of a mental struggle towards the 
 comprehension of ope and no hofe. 
 
 Dr. Peterson touched Ben slightly, and asked, “ Doc- 
 tor, is there any hope for your new patient?” 
 
 The revery, the struggle, that is, with memory, — 
 _ just such a struggle as any man may fall into, any day, 
 only in Ben’s case it was more difficult than in yours, 
 —was broken. Ben stood irresolute one moment, 
 exclaimed, “Oh, I was near forgetting him!” and 
 bounded off to his room. Ben’s room was in a short 
 side-passage, which stood at a right angle with the 
 main hall. Thither Dr. Peterson followed him, in the 
 interests of science. But at this moment Ben’s tor- 
 mentress seemed to consider herself neglected, and 
 as Ben reached his door she whispered to him. With 
 a bound and a cry, Ben whipped the air with both 
 arms, exclaiming, “‘ Now, don’t you do that again!” 
 and scampered back into the hall. At the angle he 
 ran full tilt into Dr. Peterson. There was a terrible 
 upset : science was overthrown again, and Ben’s cure 
 once more postponed. 
 
 Ah, well! it is seldom any thing serious happens at 
 
234 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 Hickory Hall. Dr. Peterson lay upon the floor, laugh- 
 ing so heartily over his rencontre that he was obliged 
 to call up some self-control, or he would have screamed 
 outright, and that is not allowed in the convalescent 
 ward of Hickory Hall; and over the doctor stood 
 Ben, blushing, confused, full of regrets and apologies. 
 He stooped to lift the doctor up, and it occurred 
 to him to say, “You went down, sir, as if something 
 had struck you. You must have been kicked by a 
 goose, sir.” 
 
 “Yes, Ben,” replied the doctor; “and a pretty 
 powerful goose too.” . 
 
 “Ha, ha!” said Ben ; “ but you can’t spell Hyros — 
 what’s this, now?” 
 
 Some of the patients were gathering upon the scene 
 now ; and “ Merry,” always proud of his powers, took 
 up Ben’s words. 
 
 “Spell what?” he asked with a sniffle. 
 
 ** Hygroscopicity,” answered Ben. 
 
 “Pshah !”” snarled “Merry.” “I could spell that 
 standingon one leg! Pshah! You ought to hear daughty 
 spell, — backwards, forwards, crossways, any way you 
 like, — first syllable in the middle! Pshah! I was 
 marshal of the city of New York when I was only” — 
 
 “Now, don’t you do that again!” cried Ben, hurry- 
 ing away. 
 
 “‘T shall do it again, if I wish to,” replied “ Merry ” 
 angrily, throwing the words at Ben’s retreating figure. 
 “TY can be marshal of this establishment, if I say the 
 word, — and if you, doctor, will only let me go down 
 town, and get my teeth fixed!” 
 
BROUGHT T0 BAY. 235 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 BROUGHT TO BAY. 
 
 HE day following Carney’s second discovery of 
 
 Thomas Macrae in Toronto, she brought the 
 paper upon which Bly Folliss had written at her 
 request, and asked that gentleman to read it. 
 
 “Tt’s dhat haird fur me to remimber names, sir,” 
 said she. ‘An’ such a name as dhat! Wheriver did 
 dhe man get it? An’ why isn’t it Mac — something, 
 ‘an’ done wid it, like an honest man?” 
 
 With this exposition Carney went off, repeating to 
 herself, “‘ Hollyhill — Holly — ull, E. P.” 
 
 At the post-office, whither she betook herself at 
 once, she courtesied gravely to the clerk, and, doubt- 
 less by way of refreshing his memory, opened fire with 
 her questions of the preceding day, — 
 
 “ Has me masther been here the day? Dhe missus 
 is dhat hasty for dhe letthers, she druv me out, she 
 did.” : 
 
 “Your master? Oh! you mean that dark man?” 
 ~ queried the clerk. 
 
 *‘ Vis, indade, I do!” 
 
 “Let me see, what was his name?”’ 
 
 Carney hesitated, but was she lost? People who 
 hesitate always are, the proverb says. Not so with 
 Carney. 
 
i 
 
 236 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 “It’s yersilf that has a right to know dhe name,” 
 she said. ‘What do ye kape a letther-office for, 
 but to have all dhe names in creation afore yer vety 
 Cyaan 
 
 The clerk had found E. P. Hallowell’s name by this 
 time, down in the depths of a General Delivery mem- 
 ory, and turned to whirl one of the great revolving 
 stands around until he came to A It was easy 
 enough then to find Ha,—and next Aad. That box 
 was empty. 
 
 “No letters,” he called out to Carney. 
 
 “‘Good-day to you, thin, and thank you.” 
 
 The next day, and the next, and the next, Carney 
 was at the window for her “ master’s” letters. Stead- 
 ily the answer came, “No letters.” But in a week 
 there was a change. The clerk gave her a letter in a 
 blue envelope. With haste she returned to “ The 
 Alderney,” and knocked at Mr. Folliss’s door. 
 
 “Misther Fully, wud ye do me a kindness? Tell 
 me where is dhis letther from?” she asked. 
 
 She cunningly held her thumbs over the address, 
 leaving Folliss nothing but the postmark and the 
 stamp to look at. 
 
 “ Hick — hick — o — ville, — must be Hickoryville, 
 but it is very indistinct : the State mark is not readable. 
 The letter is from the States, isn’t it? Of course it is: 
 that is a United-States stamp.” 
 
 *‘ An’ where is dhat, Misther Fully?” 
 
 Folliss laughed, as he said, “I give it up, my good 
 woman. Hickoryville is a very uncommon name, 
 and I’m sure I never heard of the place before.” 
 
BROUGHT TO BAY. 237 
 
 Carney put the letter into her pocket, and retired 
 to her own quarters, where she sat cogitating, until 
 the darkness reminded her of her evening duties in 
 the halls below. 
 
 Carney was a logician only so far as cunning can be 
 called coincident with that higher exercise of reason. 
 Turn the facts over and over in her mind as she might, 
 she could see but two of them with any clearness. 
 First, Macrae was receiving letters at Toronto with 
 regularity, probably once a week. Secondly, as the 
 letters always looked alike,—she had noticed the 
 color of the envelopes, — they must be from the same 
 source always. Now, these letters might have refer- 
 ence to Ben, and they might not. “The might not” 
 was so far away from Carney’s thoughts, Macrae’s 
 crime so indelibly impressed upon her, that she leaped 
 to the conclusion that he had Ben in keeping some- 
 where in the States, and that somewhere was — Hick- 
 oryville. 
 
 But the States were to Carney zerra incognita, as far 
 away practically as Africa, to be classed in her geogra- 
 phy with Australia or India. Her reasoning, therefore, 
 came to an end, very much like the road to Si Kim- 
 ber’s. 
 
 Not so her persistence, however. The very next 
 week she was on the watch. Again came a letter, and 
 Carney received it from the hands of the willing and 
 unsuspecting clerk. 
 
 _ The next week came another. And Carney con- 
 __cealed and guarded the three treasures which had 
 fallen into her hands, looking at them daily, as if they 
 
238 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 might take voice, and tell her what she had not the 
 power to extract from them. 
 
 The fourth week, —it was now the early part of 
 March, — she appeared at the window again. 
 
 “Mr. Hallowell has been here himself,” said the 
 clerk. “And a precious row he kicked up too. 
 What’s the matter between him and ‘the missus’?” 
 
 “Didn’t I tell ye dhat she was just druv to death 
 wid him?” 
 
 “He was pretty mad when I told Kia that you had 
 taken out his letters; and you must not come any 
 more. He has forbidden our giving letters to any- 
 body but himself. So, if the letters are meant for your 
 missus, tell her to have them directed to her.” 
 
 “Thank you, sir: dhat I will.” 
 
 Musing as to what step to take next, she set out for 
 “The Prince of Cumberland House.” Going through 
 the public room, where men, for the most part ill- 
 
 favored ones, sat drinking and talking, Carney entered — 
 
 a little sitting-room, affected of an evening by Mrs. 
 Brannigan, the proprietress. Glancing about her, Car- 
 ney saw that the room was occupied, not by her crony, 
 as usual, but by two men, one of whom she recognized 
 as Tim, Mrs. Brannigan’s younger son, and the other, 
 to her amazement, as Thomas Macrae. 
 
 Speech sometimes became impossible to Carney, 
 but not for any great length of time. One minute of 
 surprise sufficed on this occasion; and she burst upon 
 the couple with the exclamation, — 
 
 “Vou here, Thomas Macrae?” 
 
 Macrae had merely looked at Carney as she entered : 
 
 oS 
 
BROUGHT TO BAY. 239 
 
 thanks to her new bonnet and gown, and her generally 
 bettered condition, he did not recognize her. But he 
 was startled at the sound of her voice. ; 
 
 “ What in — merciful goodness! Who are you?”’ 
 
 « Come out uv dhis, an’ I’ll tell you,” she replied. 
 
 Macrae advanced and took her by the arm, looking 
 
 _ her intently in the face, and saying in a low voice, 
 “Camey, is this you? I thought you were in Arboe 
 long ago, or at the bottom of the sea.” And he 
 laughed grimly. 
 
 “ An’ it’s at the bottom uv the say ye wish I was 
 now, isn’t it? O Thomas Macrae! whisht! come out 
 uv dhis, now. It’s no place for you an’ me to talk in. 
 ‘Come to dhe open street now.” 
 
 “Tt’s too cold. Say what you wish here.” 
 
 “ Dhen listen me ; an’ on your sowl, Thomas Macrae, 
 answer me throoly.”” Lowering her voice she asked, — 
 
 “Where is Misther Binjamin?”’ 
 
 It was like a call to judgment. Macrae’s blood 
 ran hot and cold. But he was not the man to be. 
 taken in any snare of Carney Dugan’s setting. Not 
 he: he felt himself immeasurably superior to this 
 poor woman — as who would not? 
 
 He looked loftily at her,— into her very eyes, — 
 
 _and laughed. 
 
 “Mr. Benjamin!” he exclaimed. “I had supposed 
 he was forgotten long ago. The dead generally are.” 
 
 “The dead?” repeated Carney. “Is Misther Bin- 
 jamin dead?” 
 
 “Ves, and buried; and the mourning almost worn 
 out, you foolish woman.” 
 
240 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 “Wan quistion more, then, Mr. Thomas: Where is 
 Hickoryville?” 
 
 Macrae grasped her arm again in agitation. 
 
 ‘““Where’s what?” he cried. “You have been 
 stealing my letters, then. Strange that I did not know 
 enough to suspect it! That stupid clerk, with his non- 
 sense about a servant and some anxious Mrs. Hallowell, 
 threw me off the scent. Brannigan! here, what shall” 
 be done with a woman who steals your letters?” 
 
 “Give her to Jim Doris, the cop that walks this 
 street, an’ tell him it’s wort’ ten dollars to put her out 
 of harm’s way,” replied the notorious scoundrel. 
 
 “T’ve a mind to do it,” said Macrae. 
 
 “You — don’t — dare, — Thomas Macrae,” replied 
 Carney. And the courage to do it oozed out of 
 Macrae’s very finger-ends. 
 
 “Come into the street, Carney: I want to talk with 
 you,” said Macrae. “Eight, Brannigan!” 
 
 “All right. Call it half-past,” replied Tim. 
 
 Instinctively Carney bent her steps towards her own 
 home; Macrae unconscious of this, and not caring 
 either. | | 
 
 Carney was the first to speak. She had less need 
 than her companion to plan and arrange her thoughts. 
 
 Solemnly she repeated her question, “ Where is 
 Misther Binjamin?” 
 
 “ Dead, I told you.” 
 
 “Who killed him?” 
 
 “Cock Robin, I shouldn’t wonder.” 
 
 “Thomas Macrae, — who — wint — to — Si Kim- 
 ber’s fur Misther Binjamin?” _ 
 
BROUGHT TO BAY. 241 
 
 Beeoid.” 
 
 “You did?” 
 
 “Yes; and who failed to meet me at Quebec, as 
 we agreed?”’ asked Macrae, assuming the aggressive. 
 
 “T did. An’ not my fault aither, Misther Thomas. 
 Dhey drugged me, dhey did, an’ sobbed me, an’ put 
 me in dhe jail.” 
 
 “Oh! they did? And served you right for dis- 
 obeying orders,” said Macrae. 
 
 “That’s neither here nor dhere, Misther Thomas. 
 Are ye livin’ in Taranta?”’ 
 
 “N—no.”’ Macrae hesitated, thinking that it might 
 be better to say “‘yes.”” But that would be perilous. 
 
 -“N—nore Is dhat dhe way an honest man speaks? 
 Thomas Macrae, it’s written on yer face, an’ on yer 
 spache, dhat you’re not telling dhe troot. What are 
 you doin’ wid Tim Brannigan?” 
 
 Pressed on every hand, Macrae waxed angry. In 
 fury he cried out, “See here! old woman, all this is 
 none of your business. You have no right to pry into 
 my affairs in this fashion, and I warn you.” | 
 
 “Bad luck to yer warnin’s, then, Misther Thomas. 
 It’s not Carney Dugan dhat cares dhe lift uv a finger 
 for them. Maybe I’ll go to warnin’ and threatenin’, 
 meself. Don’t be preachin’ to me, now.” 
 
 “Well, well, never mind, Mrs. Dugan,” said Macrae. 
 “Tl take it all back.” 
 
 “Take it back!” answered Carney. ‘“ Ye’d betther 
 take Misther Binjamin back, an’ yer own honor, an’ 
 dhe good name ye’re soilin’. ‘Thomas Macrae, I’ve 
 lived tree an’ sixty years, an’ manny’s dhe man I seen 
 
242 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 rooned an’ rooned fur dhe love uv women. Have ye | 
 touched dhat Hartley lass?” | 
 
 Macrae’s face turned scarlet in an instant, but the 
 night protected him. In a tone which could not — 
 deceive Carney, he pooh-poohed the very thought of © 
 touching the Hartley lass. But Carney took him up 
 on the instant. | 
 
 “ Kape yer han’s aff. You'll rue dhe day you touch 
 her, even if it’s at dhe very altar, an’ if dhe praste 
 blesses you dhere. Misther Binjamin will come back 
 some day, an’ she’ll fly you out uv dhe house.” 
 
 Carney came to a stop, as she finished this warning. 
 They had reached King William Street, and in another 
 moment turned into Princess Christina Street, and 
 were at the doors of “The Alderney.” 
 
 “You're not living here, are you?” asked Mica 
 
 “TIndade, I am. An’ a beautiful home it is; an’ 
 I’ve fine neighbors too. Will you come an’ see me, 
 Misther ‘Thomas ?”’ 
 
 “H’m!” he answered, “I think not. Now, see 
 here ! let me give you a piece of advice. Forget all 
 about Mr. Ben: he’s dead and buried, I tell you. 
 And forget me too. At any rate, don’t put yourself 
 in my way.” 
 
 Macrae tried to thrust money into Carney’s hand, 
 as he spoke. But she put it aside, saying, — 
 
 “‘Misther Thomas, I’ve money to lind, if you please. 
 I'll none o’ dhat.” 
 
 A young man walked rapidly past as she was speak- 
 ing, and entered the hall of the hotel. 
 
 “Who was that?”’ asked Macrae. 
 
BROUGHT TO BAY. 243 
 
 “ Misther Fullis,”” answered Carney, completing that 
 gentleman’s name, and pronouncing it much more 
 accurately than she ever did in his own presence. 
 
 “What! not Bly Folliss?”’ . 
 
 “Dhe very same. Do you know him? I'll tell him 
 you’re here, Misther Thomas. It’s good company you 
 want, an’ not Tim Brannigan’s.” 
 
 “For God’s sake, Carney’’ — Macrae began. His 
 quick intelligence placed a bar upon his tongue, how- 
 ever, and he left that sentence unfinished. 
 
 “T will call upon Mr. Folliss some time, Carney,” 
 he added. ‘And now let me ask one thing of you, 
 Carney. My letters, — give them up!” 
 
 “Vour letthers, Misther Thomas! Dhat’s twic’t 
 you said dhat. Who has your letthers?” 
 
 Pyvou!”? 
 
 “Me! your letthers! Misther Thomas, I’ve ne’er 
 a scrap nor tatter uv ’em.” 
 
 And measurably this was true. The letters were 
 that moment reposing in Mr. Bly Folliss’s desk, wrapped 
 in brown paper, and, for aught their custodian knew, 
 might be handkerchiefs, or a parcel of diamonds. They 
 were Mrs. Dugan’s property, in his eyes, and nothing 
 more. 
 
 Baffled, and fully comprehending that to ask again 
 for the letters would be only to court a similar defeat, 
 Macrae stood irresolute. Carney seized the occasion 
 to say good-night, and left him, knowing that she 
 would see Thomas Macrae again, and satisfied with 
 the fact that she had shown him where to find her. 
 
244 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 ALMOST. 
 
 ACRAE remained a minute or two before “The 
 Alderney,” filled with perplexity. 
 
 “That cursed woman!” thought he. ‘“‘ Why isn’t 
 she feeding the cuttle-fish? She and Folliss will do 
 me an injury yet. I’ve half a mind to give the whole 
 thing up, go to Elmswoods, and tell the whole story, 
 and try sea-water myself.” 
 
 Although by nature afraid of few things, and cer- 
 tainly of no man’s physical power, time had bred in 
 Macrae a new kind of timorousness. He asked him- 
 self now what reliance could be placed upen Carney 
 Dugan’s tongue? What if she should reveal the past 
 to Bly Folliss? What if she had already done so? 
 
 Then obstinacy came to his aid, the man’s charac- 
 teristic determination. “I won’t give it up, not yet. 
 I’li see Bly Folliss. Ill see the woman again, and Ill 
 
 silence her too!” he exclaimed, with clinched teeth. | 
 
 There was much to agitate this man to-night, — 
 shapeless dangers in Carney’s presence, in the possi- 
 bilities which might spring from her, balanced only by 
 
 the repeated assurance, in the past, of her reverence — 
 
 for his name, and a reliance upon the patent fact that 
 she had really been faithful to him so far; a startling 
 
| ALMOST. 245 
 
 spectre also of coming trouble which had risen out of 
 the pages of the letter he had that day received from 
 Dr. Peterson. Enough to make any man shake! 
 
 Macrae returned to Brannigan’s, and while waiting 
 for Tim read again this troublesome letter. 
 
 “We are sorry not to have heard from you.” (Dr. 
 Peterson was unwittingly galling his correspondent.) 
 “The favorable symptoms mentioned in our previous 
 letters continue. We hoped to have seen you a fort- 
 night ago... . The time is not far distant when, in 
 our judgment, it will be better to take your brother 
 away, and give him the benefit of travel. . . . The 
 last few days he has not been quite so well, but we 
 regard that as of only temporary consequence.” 
 
 - Macrae groaned aloud as he read. And something 
 
 must be done. If Ben should really recover, —ah! 
 what then? The very thought made him eager to 
 see Tim Brannigan, but when that pet of the police 
 came in Macrae turned pale. 
 
 Feverishly within, but calmly enough in outward 
 appearance, Macrae talked long with this man. They 
 planned and bargained, disputed, haggled, agreed, 
 hinted, misunderstood each other, went back again, 
 and covered the ground of all their plotting a second, 
 a third, a fourth time. It would sully these pages to 
 write it out in detail. 
 
 At one o’clock Macrae arose. ‘‘ Mind, now, —no 
 violence,” he said. ‘There is no necessity for that.” 
 
 Next morning Macrae betook himself to ‘“ The 
 Alderney.” Bly Folliss was out. Macrae therefore 
 slipped a card into Folliss’s letter-box, saying to him- 
 
246 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 self, “Just as well. I can see him next week. Now _ 
 for the woman.” But Carney was not to be found | 
 either. | 
 
 The passage of the night had brought a re-action 
 upon Macrae. His anxiety to see these two had 
 given way to a semi-lethargic carelessness. Was it 
 the symptom of despair, or of self-confidence? For 
 a time he had been weighted with the conviction, not 
 clearly shaped, but yet oppressing him, that these two 
 held his fate in their hands. He had ranged them 
 in the ranks of hostility ; but now, in proportion as he 
 saw them, in imagination, lifting their hands to deal 
 the expected blow, he dully, lethargically, stupidly 
 thrust Tim Brannigan before them to ward off the 
 stroke. 
 
 There was growing up in him, in fact, a great re- 
 liance upon Brannigan: he admired certain fertile 
 resources of mind and purpose displayed by him the 
 previous evening. 
 
 And, thinking thus, Macrae’s mind became clear 
 again. Only one question remained, — should he go 
 to Hickoryville at once, or not? Prudence answered 
 “yes.” On the other hand, that sentence in Dr. Peter- 
 son’s letter — “The last few days he has not been quite 
 so well’’ — suggested the safety of delay ; and Macrae 
 had reasons in plenty for listening to the suggestion. 
 
 This much settled, Macrae took the noon train for 
 Millington. ‘The dinner-hour found him in the draw- 
 ing-room at Elmswoods. It was a delightful hour to 
 Macrae. ‘The faces of all the occupants of Elmswoods — 
 beamed upon him with a calm confidence. Even 
 
ALMOST. 247 
 
 Betty Hartley was unusually chatty and kind, and, 
 when dinner was announced, took his arm with easy 
 grace. 
 
 Mr. Hollins was grave, even constrained, all the 
 time they were at table; but there was no mistaking 
 the tone of his voice, the care he bestowed upon his 
 guest’s comfort, the satisfaction that dwelt upon his 
 face as he looked at or spoke to Thomas Macrae. 
 
 The dinner over, this good man said openly, “ Ladies, 
 I have business with Thomas this evening: can you 
 give us the library?” 
 
 What is coming now? thought Macrae. He went 
 to the library, quaking, — not quite so strongly as on 
 a former occasion, but enough to make him very 
 wretched. Mr. Hollins did not speak at once. He 
 walked the floor, after his manner ; he sat at the desk, 
 looking over a bunch of papers; he whirled the re- 
 volving chair half-way around, and beat a tattoo with 
 his fingers upon the table. 
 
 Macrae pretended to read a newspaper, meanwhile ; 
 but telegrams and editorials were all one to him. It 
 seemed as if the first were all dated at Hickoryville, 
 and announced the immediate departure of Ben Hal- 
 lowell, George Hallowell, Ben Hollins, for Millington ; 
 and as if, in the second, the editor was expending all 
 the powers of language to expatiate upon “ the enor- 
 mous crime of Thomas Macrae.” He was flushed 
 with such thoughts and imaginings; and, when Mr. 
 Hollins at last spoke, Macrae started in his seat as if 
 a judge had commanded him to stand up, and say, 
 “Guilty, or not guilty.” 
 
248 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 “Thomas,” said Mr. Hollins, “I have received to- 
 day from my counsel the papers which I laid before 
 you six months ago. Our signatures will make you 
 full partner in ‘ Hollins and Son.’ You still have time 
 to withdraw, if you have any reason to be dissatisfied.” 
 
 “‘T have none,” Macrae almost gasped. 
 
 “You will remember that I gave my son a quarter 
 of the capital. I wish this to remain intact, as I said 
 before. I have now arranged to bequeath it to Miss 
 Hartley. I cannot forget, that, in two days more, she 
 would have been Ben’s wife. I am only recognizing 
 her rights, therefore.” 
 
 “Very true, sir, and very right,” said Macrae. 
 
 “You may take the papers, then, and look them 
 over again at your own convenience. I am ready to 
 sign whenever you are.” 
 
 A thought came to Macrae. “To-day,” said he, 
 “is the 2d of March. Sentiment is not business ; but 
 Monday week, the 13th of March, is my birthday. 
 Could we not execute these papers then?” 
 
 “Just as you prefer, my dear fellow. And now, 
 Thomas, I have something else to say. Perhaps I 
 may shock you.” 
 
 “Danger again!”’ thought Macrae. “Will he tell 
 me now, that Ben is coming home, partially restored, 
 and that I am to run the risk of no man can tell 
 what?” 
 
 “Perhaps it is an old man’s whim, Thomas,” con- 
 
 tinues Mr. Hollins; “but I have had an impression, — 
 
 growing daily in my mind, and these legal papers have 
 given it shape. I am on delicate ground, I know, 
 
ALMOST. 249 
 
 Thomas. Forgive me if I am too blunt. It grieves 
 me to look at Betty, and see her wasting all her sweet 
 young life. I thought to see her my son’s wife, and 
 the mother of his children. But God has willed other- 
 wise ; and I would like to see her well married.” 
 
 He stopped, perforce. The tears came, and a 
 thousand memories with them. He sobbed as only 
 a disappointed old man can, every gasp testifying to 
 the wound in his heart. 
 
 Macrae could not have interposed a word, had his 
 will to do so been ever so good. He could only sit 
 and wait, looking into the fire, and wondering, until 
 his aged friend grew calm again, and said, — 
 
 “YT have seen in your face, and in your attentions 
 to Betty, Thomas, that you are interested in her. I 
 know nothing of her feelings; but I have asked my- 
 self many times, what could be more natural than that 
 you two should build up a household together? You 
 are to be partners in one sense: why not in another?” 
 
 Macrae was overcome. Such complete fatherly 
 confidence made a boy of him. He unfolded the 
 story of his love for Betty, dating its beginning at 
 Nuremberg, depicting his grief when Ben secured the 
 prize he longed for, justifying himself, too, by asking 
 Mr. Hollins to bear witness against him if he had 
 ever heard one word from his lips in derogation of 
 Betty’s choice. It was music sweet to player and 
 listener alike. 
 
 “ But what shall I do?” heasked. “I fear to speak : 
 I dread a refusal. I may shock her, and set her 
 against me forever.” 
 
250 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 “Tn for a penny, in for a pound,” saith a wicked 
 old proverb, sometimes used in a good cause and by 
 good men. 
 
 “ How would it do, Thomas, for me to speak to 
 Mrs. Hartley on the subject?” asked the elder con- 
 spirator. 
 
 “Tf you would, sir,” answered the younger: “ noth- 
 ing would please me better. I have no fondness for 
 sentimentalism,”’— a pretty broad statement on the 
 heels of the birthday matter, but wrung from Macrae 
 by circumstances, — “and, if I am not mistaken, Miss 
 Betty will look at the matter practically. If an under- 
 standing could be partially reached between you and 
 Mrs. Hartley, perhaps the rest would follow. I shall 
 look upon you as a father, sir, if you will permit me.” 
 
 Oh, ice! ice! ice! There was not a ray of warm 
 spring sunshine in such love as this. The older man 
 could not perceive the twistings and windings of the 
 younger one’s thoughts. He was in the dark. He 
 was an inert mass of steel. He placed himself in the 
 furnace of good feeling, of kindly, fatherly interest. 
 He tempered himself, when well heated, with the drop- 
 ping of his own tears, and passed himself over to 
 Macrae’s hands, —a tool. And did this one scruple 
 to.use him? Not for an instant. His joy was un- 
 bounded. He left the house, and out under the stars 
 gave vent to his excitement which stifled him within 
 doors. He hugged himself, admired himself. He 
 drew gorgeous pictures of coming events, and apply- 
 ing the mentoscope to his little world beheld it magni- 
 fied to the dimensions of a universe, himself its sun; 
 
ALMOST. 251 
 
 - men, women, and children its planets; Ben Hollins a 
 comet wandering in space, in an eccentric orbit, and 
 visible almost never. 
 
 Something whispered in his ear. Perhaps it was 
 only the frosty limb of an elm creaking softly; but it 
 seemed to say, ‘Yes, yes, marry the girl you love, 
 Thomas Macrae, and then come down here! We 
 devils all had our own way up there. ‘There’s many 
 a sl’”— The sound died away, leaving Macrae cold 
 and shivering. 
 
 But as the town lights came in. plainer view he 
 gathered new courage, and struck his breast a sound- 
 ing blow, saying, ‘‘No shp for you, my boy! The 
 cup and the lip are close together now, and I can 
 foretaste the ambrosial drink. I’ve waited long and 
 patiently, Betty Hartley! Pour on, good people up 
 at Elmswoods! You are mixing liquor of the gods 
 forme. Pour faster: I can drink!” 
 
 Being so inclined to metaphor, the wonder is that 
 Macrae did not go on, and call to mind the well- 
 known fact, that people who drink so copiously some- 
 times trip over a pebble or a chip, and, falling, break 
 their precious necks. 
 
252 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 SYMPOSIA. 
 
 E hurry along now, for matters are approach- 
 
 ing acrisis. On the strength of letters from 
 
 “FE. P. Hallowell,’ Dr. Peterson decides that this shall 
 be Ben’s last week at Hickory Hall. Carney Dugan 
 is working herself up to action ; and this, therefore, is 
 the last week of her hesitation and blundering. It is 
 the last week of Thomas Macrae’s eager anticipa- 
 
 ne ep 
 
 tions ; the last week, also, of mourning for the dead at ~ 
 
 Elmswoods. 
 
 Do not conclude that Ben was well. Dr. Peterson’s 
 letter to the fictitious Mr. Hallowell has sufficiently set 
 forth his real condition. He was only getting well ; 
 and there had come to Ben, as to many patients of 
 his class, a time when the physician judged that his 
 cure would be hastened by contact with the every-day 
 world. Ben had given the doctor, of late, many 
 detached fragments of his own history. No one at 
 Hickory Hall could put them together: there was 
 no one to verify them. In the night he sometimes 
 moaned, and talked in his sleep. The burden of his 
 dream could not be defined by the watchful attendant, 
 but he reported the words Ben uttered to the doctor. 
 
 “ Betty,” Ben said on one such occasion, “ you’re 
 
SYMPOSTA. 253 
 
 surely not going to leave me! Tom is taking me 
 away. He talks of ships. We travel by rail night 
 and day: we are going far off. Don’t let him take 
 me, Betty! The cars are all burning —the sky, the 
 fields, the woods, the road! Let us run, Betty, run — 
 run!” 
 
 Half the patients in the ward are wakened by Ben’s 
 loud cry. The attendant finds him sitting up in bed, 
 frightened and quaking. 
 
 “What is the matter, Ben?’’ he asks. 
 
 «Well, I’m sure I don’t know,” answers the poor 
 fellow. ‘Some one was making a thundering noise, 
 I should say. It has given me a headache.” 
 
 There are to be festivities at Hickory Hall this 
 week. The three magnates have held a consultation 
 upon Ben’s case ; and as he has failed to run down as 
 rapidly as they prognosticated, and positively declines 
 ~ to show a single symptom of “n’ger’l p’resis,”’ they 
 have sagely concluded that Ben will not stay much 
 longer. Their lengthy experience has qualified them 
 to judge of these matters, and they frequently foretell 
 the departure of a patient before the attendants even 
 have an inkling of it. 
 
 Delorme is inspired to give Ben a send-off. Official 
 permission is obtained ; and immediately after break- 
 fast, on Monday, March 6, the atmosphere is full of 
 mystification. Delorme is hurrying to and fro. He 
 makes a trip to the town, and returns laden with pack- 
 ages. All day Sunday he had been laboring with pen 
 and ink; and now he receives an oblong bundle, evi- 
 dently from the printer. He shuts himself up, — locks 
 
DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 N 
 Sia 
 a 
 
 himself in, in fact, — and receives buckets of hot water, 
 and buckets of cold, through the smallest possible 
 opening of the door, following this up with a clatter of 
 dishes marvellously exciting to the curiosity of the 
 patients. 
 
 Seven o’clock comes, and Delorme stands at his 
 door garbed in his best. His gigantic figure, his white 
 hair, his beardless face, pale and almost womanly, his 
 long white hands, his lame foot, enveloped in one 
 towel more than usual, his enormous white cravat, 
 present a picture well worth seeing. His eyes are 
 anxiously fixed upon the hall-door. The knob turns 
 at last, and Matron Barmore appears with two of the 
 lady patients. Delorme greets them most graciously, 
 opens his door, bows them in, returns to the hall, and 
 locks the ladies up. There is hospitality for you ! 
 
 Presently four others come, for whom Delorme per- 
 forms the same ceremonies. As each guest enters, she 
 hands a ticket to the host, of which the following is a 
 fac-simile, except in this particular, that it is partly 
 printed, partly written ; — 
 
 DELORME’S PARTY. Bill of Fare presented separ 
 NMazch 2. ately. 
 
 Avmit {Hiss Skipking 220% Zara 
 at P. M. D. 
 
 The lady guests all secured, Delorme hobbles off to 
 Ben’s room, and calls out, — 
 
SYMPOSTA. Ze 
 
 “Come, doctor! the party is all ready.” 
 
 “Oh, yes !” answers Ben: “allready. I’m all ready.” 
 
 Delorme escorts Ben gravely to the scene of festivity. 
 At the door, he asks, — 
 
 ““Where’s your ticket, doctor?” 
 
 The attendant has taken care of that, and produces 
 the cabalistic card. Delorme’s key clicks in the lock, 
 and Ben is ushered into a scene of unparalleled gran- 
 deur. On the mantle, on the book-case, and on the 
 toilet-stand, are at least a dozen colored wax candles. 
 Flowers, too, are scattered about the room in graceful 
 shapes. ‘This last explains a visit made by Matron 
 Barmore in the afternoon. 
 
 In the centre of the room is a long table with a 
 white cloth alone visible upon it, but the undulations 
 and protuberances of this cloth indicate the presence 
 of dishes beneath. Never was there a feast before, at 
 which the removal of the cloth was the first thing on 
 the programme. Here the possibility of such an 
 improvement in social customs was established, and 
 Delorme gloried in it. 
 
 _ The cloth removed, the luxuries of many climes and 
 countries lay bare to the gaze of the wondering but 
 silent guests. 
 
 “Now, ladies and gentlemen, —at least, there’s one 
 
 gentleman,” — said Delorme ; ‘‘and I don’t know that 
 I introduced Dr. Ben to you, did I, ladies? Well, 
 never mind it now: it’s too late to go back so far. If 
 
 we go on that way, we shall never get to eating; and 
 I confess I am very anxious to begin. I couldn’t go 
 to tea this evening: so I propose we begin.” 
 
256 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 Delorme now opens the package from the printer’s. 
 It contains at least a hundred copies of the follow- 
 ing : — 
 
 HALF PAST SEVEN HIS ROOM. 
 
 NOT HIS BIRTHDAY. 
 
 idee Party. 
 
 — 
 
 SALMON. : APRICOTS. 
 PINE-APPLE. PRESERVES. 
 OYSTERS. SARDINES. 
 CAKES. Bon Bons. 
 MERINGUES. MOTTOES. 
 PICKLES. ORANGES. 
 BISCUITS. LEMONADE, 
 CHERRIES. LOBSTER. 
 CANDY. CRACKERS. 
 RAISINS. ) FRUIT. 
 CHOCOLATE. FIGs. 
 
 NORTH WING, MARCH 2, 
 
 HICKORY HALL, 
 
 Having given one of these enticing bills of fare to 
 each of his guests, the host addresses the company as 
 follows: “Ladies and — Dr. Ben, I have put down 
 the refreshments in the order I like them best. If 
 
\ 
 
 SYMPOSIA. on 
 
 any one prefers a different arrangement, I hope. you 
 will make yourselves perfectly at home.” 
 
 An hour is now spent in the most delightful social 
 intercourse. Do you ask whether this intercourse 
 consisted solely in an exhibition of the gastronomic 
 qualities of the host and his guests? No: there was 
 an uninterrupted fire of conversation, quite as rational, 
 if you please, as you would hear in any drawing-room. 
 
 Half-past eight was the limit of time set for De- 
 lorme’s party. Punctually the matrons bundled up 
 their charges; and thankful good-nights were ex- 
 changed. “The party’? was over; and Delorme, 
 tired out, and with the sweet consciousness of having 
 executed a hospitable duty, went to bed under the 
 table, as gentlemen sometimes do in the sane world. 
 
 Please accept next an invitation to tea with some 
 of the convalescent patients. The day shall be Tues- 
 day, the day after Delorme’s party. You shall not 
 meet a great crowd of unkempt creatures, a rioting, 
 growling, dangerous company. On the contrary, please 
 to imagine, first, a dining-room about the size of your 
 own; secondly, a family of eleven persons ;: for it is 
 the family idea, not the hotel or prison idea, which 
 prevails at Hickory Hall. 
 
 The men do not come in at sound of the bell with 
 absolutely military precision. Some are quite dilatory ; 
 but as there are reasons for this, as you shall presently 
 see, we make no circumstance of that. 
 
 The first to answer the bell—for that matter, he 
 has been pacing the hall for ten minutes, eagerly await- 
 ing the summons —is Biddle, one of the great trio. 
 
258 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 He scurries up to his place at the head of the table, 
 the seat of honor, his by right of many years sojourn 
 at Hickory Hall. Do not think of saying, “ Biddle, 
 may you live to be the head of this family twenty 
 years longer!” For you will drive the good humor 
 out of Biddle’s face with such a wish. He will leave 
 the table and his untouched food, and cry out, “ My 
 God ! is it not enough? I would like to die to-night.” 
 Why? Because he is at Hickory Hall? No; but 
 because the outside world is closed to him. At 
 Hickory he has his pass-key: he goes out and comes 
 in at his own will. If he chooses to go to the town, 
 or to roam across country in the woods and fields, he 
 is at perfect liberty so to do. His days pass happily 
 and comfortably. But send him a hundred miles away, 
 and you have transformed him in a day to an object 
 of pity. Never mind the reasons and causes of this: 
 such is the fact. Hickory Hall is home for Biddle. 
 
 His silvery hair, with curling ends, his big eyes, - 
 
 his nervous manner, his intelligent speech despite 
 the peculiarity of intonation which makes “n’ger’l 
 p'resis’ of “ general paresis,” have led many a visitor 
 to ask, “Who is he?” In truth, that often useless 
 question is very frequently asked at Hickory Hall by 
 persons from the outside world; and the answer, 
 “Smith of New York,” is explicit enough. When the 
 world rids itself of some of its wise saws, and learns 
 the foolishness of saying, “Once insane, always in- 
 sane,” and of holding the unfortunate in abhorrence, 
 these precautions will be laid aside. 
 
 Next to Biddle is seated “Johnny.” “Johnny ” is 
 
 “hae 
 
\ 
 
 SYMPOSIA. 259 
 
 a peculiar young fellow, —a good business man in the 
 even years, a denizen of Hickory Hall in the odd 
 ones. As he grows older, perhaps he will stay out 
 longer, until some day Hickory Hall will say “ Fare- 
 well to thee, Johnny!” forever; and he will settle 
 down into a steady, undisturbed life. Perhaps so, 
 perhaps not. Alas! that science cannot speak more 
 positively of cases of his class. 
 
 Perhaps you think that Biddle and “Johnny” give 
 weight to the “once insane, always insane,” theory. 
 There are exceptions to all rules. And the strangest 
 feature of all is, that, when at Hickory Hall, these two 
 are not insane. 
 
 But look at this frank-faced, gentlemanly neighbor 
 of Johnny’s. A fortnight ago it required two keep- 
 ers to prevent Mr. Dock from splitting his head open 
 against the walls. He ate buttons and pins surrepti- 
 tiously. Clothing and bedding were obnoxious to 
 him. To-day he goes where he pleases; he reads 
 the newspapers; he plays anybody, patient or visitor, 
 a game of billiards, with a discount. In a few weeks 
 you will find him at his business again, — writing great 
 piles of letters, directing the movements of an office- 
 full of clerks. 
 
 . This timid little man next to Dock is poor Payson, 
 —also of the Dominion. He is convalescent, he is 
 going to get well. You do not believe it? ‘This 
 shrinking, trembling creature, begging the attendant 
 to take him away from the table and lock him up, 
 whispering to each new-comer that “ Merry” is look- 
 ing for an opportunity to kill him,—he recover? 
 
260 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 Certainly. Please do not speak to him, nor look at 
 him long: it will cost him unimaginable suffering. 
 Payson’s silver flute is in the office. The day he asks 
 for it, the day he can be prevailed upon to break its 
 silence, Payson will bid farewell to a host of murder- 
 ous creatures of the imagination ; his wife will be sent 
 for; they will play and sing “ Home, sweet home ;”’ 
 he will grow bright and happy, will chat and smile as 
 gayly as any of you. Science has probed such cases 
 pretty deeply, simply because they present less diffi- 
 culties than some others; and it speaks with confi- 
 dence. 
 
 What is the matter to-night with Mr. Ball, Payson’s 
 left-hand neighbor? He is weeping bitterly. He 
 rises; and as he goes into the hall we hear him say 
 to the remonstrating attendant, “I can’t eat; I must 
 leave this house. All those men know my thoughts ; 
 and I think of so many awful, horrible things, —things 
 which I never dreamed of or heard of before, — that 
 I know the gentlemen despise me. I am ashamed to 
 look them in the face.”” Perhaps you can imagine 
 what this man suffers. ‘4 
 
 Delorme, whose seat is next, looks upon Mr. Ball’s 
 departure as a relief. He came to the supper-table 
 loaded with remains of last night’s “party.” Now he 
 has room to spread his multitudinous dishes over a 
 greater range of table. Biddle roars with laughter at 
 the mass of pickled oysters, canned salmon, raisins 
 and cakes. But that placid countenance shows no 
 sign of resentment. Delorme’s silvery voice only 
 responds, “ You may laugh, Biddle, all you like; but I 
 
SYMPOSIA. 261 
 
 wish you to understand that I can’t eat this corn- 
 bread. I’ve always been accustomed to high “ving, 
 and need something dedicaze.” Many years has De- 
 lorme been “accustomed ” to the corn-bread of Hick- 
 ory Hall; but memory makes light of that, and carries 
 Delorme back to a remoter period, when as boy and 
 man he had actually tasted the fare of more than one 
 lordly table in Europe, and had held his own with 
 titled men and dames, with diplomats and rulers. 
 
 We are at the foot of the table now, and here is a 
 character. Mr. Hommeau is of French descent, to 
 judge by his name. The patients have given him the 
 sobriquet of ‘“ Man-afraid-to-speak.” To judge by 
 this, he might be an Ojibway or a Sioux. He is as 
 grim and silent as the traditional red-man, at all 
 events. 
 
 One remark, however, Hommeau makes on all 
 occasions. The injunctions or requests, “Come to 
 breakfast,’”” “Come to dinner,’ ‘Take your bath,” 
 “Get up,” “Go to bed,” “Come out and take a 
 walk,” all are answered in the one phrase, — “I don’t 
 want to.” Put him in the bath, and he will splash all 
 day long, if you have a mind to leave him there. Ask 
 him to come out and dress, and he will reply, “I 
 don’t want to.” 
 
 Once seated at the table, after a long fight with the 
 attendant, — who pulls, pushes, leads, coaxes, cajoles, 
 commands, entreats by turns, but always gently and 
 patiently, frequently laughing at the absurdity of the 
 whole performance, — Hommeau is offered bread, tea, 
 coffee, butter, preserves, and cakes; but pushes each 
 
262 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 article away with the continual protest, “I don’t want 
 any.” 
 
 “Come, drink this tea,” says the attendant. 
 
 “IT don’t want to.” 
 
 “You must.” 
 
 *T sha’n’t.” 
 
 “Well, don’t, then. Don’t eat a thing!” says the 
 attendant, with a laugh. 
 
 Forthwith the unhappy man falls to, and eats raven- 
 ously. 
 
 This man has no inclination to violence, but the 
 scowl of everlasting protest upon his face almost sends 
 Mr. Payson into fits. And this protest is Hommeau’s 
 symptom. He carries it into every thing, and -defeat 
 disgusts him. Every night of his life he protests even 
 against going to bed; and, once there, vows not to go 
 to sleep. But the “sweet restorer” steals over him ; 
 and as Hommeau feels himself going, and as a last 
 protest for that cycle, he rolls over, cries out, “O 
 Gosh !’’ — and slumbers. 
 
 Slowly, and with an aspect of such inexpressible 
 suffering that it brings the tears to your eyes to look 
 at him, little Schmidt enters the dining-room. He 
 has been hanging back, standing at the door for five 
 minutes. Some one, either an attendant or a fellow- 
 patient, goes out to him, and invites him in. 
 
 “No,” replies Schmidt, “I cannot. I cannot eat. 
 I haf no money. I could not pay for my supper.” 
 
 We change the current of Schmidt’s thoughts. 
 We walk him down the hall, and at the farther end 
 say to him, as a business friend might say in Broad 
 
SYMPOSTA. 263 
 
 Street, at the hour when the business hive pours out 
 its bees, — 
 
 “ Come, Schmidt, come over and take supper with 
 me this evening.” An image of Montague Street, or 
 Grace Court perhaps, springs up in Schmidt’s mind ; 
 and he walks more lightly —not with alacrity, how- 
 ever — to the supper-table. 
 
 Look out! here comes an avalanche, the lightning 
 express, or a tornado! What is this rush? Oh! only 
 Ben, Doctor Ben. Until he has passed the door, you 
 would suppose that two persons are coming. But it is 
 only Ben, holding an animated conversation with him- 
 self. He comes in with flying colors. Ten minutes 
 ago he was scrupulously arrayed. Now he has hastily 
 made an additional toilet for tea, by letting loose cravat, 
 waistcoat, and cuffs, and fluffing up his red hair, until 
 he has the appearance of a very busy bandit. 7 
 
 “ Good-evening, Ben !”’ says some one. 
 
 “Oh, good-evening, to be sure, ha, ha! What’s the 
 matter with you ?” 
 
 “ What’s the news, Ben?” 
 
 Up into the air goes a spoonful of fried potatoes, 
 down comes the spoon with a clatter, over goes the 
 butter-dish into Delorme’s lap, and Ben whisks his 
 coat-collar around his ears, exclaiming to his female 
 tormentress, “Now, don’t you do that again, I tell 
 you!” 
 
 Delorme looks up in an injured fashion, saying, 
 “Well, Ben, I should say as much: don’t you do that 
 again. This is about the two-hundredth time you’ve 
 spoiled my pants.” 
 
264 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 But Ben’s little crisis has passed. He surveys the 
 slight ruin he has created, and blushes with regret, 
 offering profuse apologies, and saying, “All right, 
 Delorme: come over to—what’s the name of this 
 place, now? —and I'll fit you out.” 
 
 Seated next to Ben is the inventor of the chevalo- 
 cope. He is giving the patients the eighty-first part 
 of a lecture on the “ Preservation of Health.” His 
 topic for to-night is “Tea as a Preservative.” He 
 illustrates his discoveries. ‘Gentlemen, please ob- 
 serve: I place in this cup of tea, one teaspoonful 
 of salt,” — suiting the action to the word, — “next a 
 lump of butter, then a little mustard, a tablespoonful 
 of sugar, cream according to taste, and lastly the skin 
 of this baked potato. Ah! you have to eat fried 
 potatoes, the rest of you, don’t you? Well, I don’t 
 eat such truck as that. — Here! George, take this tea 
 out. It tastes like thunder, literally.” : 
 
 Last of all comes “The Major.” Major Fisher, 
 magnate, facile princeps of the trio. The Major is 
 general forager for the convalescents’ ward No. 1. In 
 spring and autumn are owing to him many dainty 
 dishes of trout and perch caught with his own hands ; 
 in summer, scores of luscious melons, and pockels 
 fuls of smaller fruits, gathered anywhere within a radius 
 of twenty miles. In September and October, the 
 dinner-table is graced with steaming dishes of that 
 delicious, but in this country not half-appreciated, 
 fungus, the Agaricus campestris, and often of other 
 edible varieties of the mushroom. 
 
 The Major knows everybody — townspeople, farm- 
 
SYMPOSIA. 265 
 
 ers, and navigators — for miles and miles about. He 
 can talk of business matters, he can advise on agricul- 
 tural affairs, he can teach a surveyor how to set his 
 theodolite, he can mount a locomotive and instruct the 
 engineer. And not with crazy talk, not with nonsense. 
 
 Let me whisper this to you. The Major has in his 
 day done some mighty works, built bridges which are 
 now renowned; he has laid out railroads which are 
 now paying seven per cent “ dividends,” and nobody 
 knows how much per cent in “additional stock ” and 
 other little devices for evading the law and making 
 fortunes. 
 
 Why is he not in his place? you ask. Because he 
 is better off in Hickory Hall. Is he content? Meas- 
 urably, yes. Generally, yes. At times he burns to 
 go out again in jack-boots, and plunge into the woods 
 and swamps, directing a thousand men where and 
 how to set ties and lay rails; but he shakes his head, 
 says, “No, that’s all over for me,” and goes to assort- 
 ing his last find of shells and minerals. 
 
266 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 A MERE PEEP AT DR. PETERSON’S PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 HILE we are at Hickory Hall, we may as well 
 
 make a day of it; and, having looked in at the 
 patients in the dining-room, we will go next to the 
 doctor’s office, which has attractions of another kind. 
 
 Chiefest of all these is Dr. Peterson himself. In 
 the prime of life, in good health, — as a doctor, of all 
 men, ought to be,—of a cheerful disposition and 
 gentlemanly manners, kindly in speech and act, Dr. 
 Peterson secures our respect and good-will at once. 
 Of the patients, he obtains even better interest on his 
 excellent capital; for, except in rare instances, they 
 Jove the doctor warmly. 
 
 Dr. Peterson is not at all given to boasting. The 
 atmosphere of his office is not heavy with promises. 
 He feels that he is stationed at Hickory Hall to doa 
 certain work. He is in no hurry to proclaim that 
 such a work can be done with mechanical precision. — 
 
 Is he, then, a mere empiric? Are all these patients, 
 these living men and women, committed to his care, 
 only so many alembics or crucibles, into which he is 
 to pack or pour crude materials, mumbling over them 
 a jargon of witch-words, and watching the passage of 
 minutes and seconds, in expectancy of some marvel- 
 
DR. PETERSON’S PHILOSOPHY. 267 
 
 Jous transmutation of insanity to soundness? If he 
 were, it would be well to keep clear of Dr. Peterson. 
 As he is not, it is a good thing to fall into Dr. Peter- 
 son’s hands, —that is to say, if you happen to be in 
 need of him; from which, after all, may God pre- 
 serve you! Amen. 
 
 While we are visiting him, a carriage stops at the 
 office-door. There is a sound of weeping in the doc- 
 tor’s private reception-room ; a tremulous female voice 
 quavers up and down the gamut of question, entreaty, 
 caution, and plain information. A little eaves-drop- 
 ping is justifiable on this occasion. We can hear 
 every word. 
 
 “Please, doctor,”’ says the trembling voice, “ please 
 don’t punish my daughter severely.” 
 
 “Punish her, madam?” responds the doctor. 
 “What shall I punish her for? Shall I put her under 
 the shower-bath, and let the water drip, drip, drip, 
 upon her poor head, until she curses man and God, 
 and falls down dead? No, madam, we are not brutes 
 at Hickory Hall. Or shall I put her in a dark dun- 
 geon, under ground, and feed her with food which the 
 very rats will snatch out of her hands? Madam, we 
 are not scoundrels here. Or shall I whip this girl? 
 O God! what pity that innocence and beauty should 
 “come to such a pass! Shall I prick and prod her 
 sweet young flesh with goads? Madam, we are not 
 devils.”’ 
 
 “Oh, no, doctor! I beg your pardon. But it would 
 break my heart if the poor child was to suffer unne- 
 cessarily. For two years we have kept her at home, 
 
268 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 for very fear of sending her to an asylum, and because 
 we know that such dreadful things happen in these 
 institutions.” 
 
 “You know it, do you? And how, pray? From 
 ‘the newspapers! Alas, madam! perhaps you and 
 they have cause. I have nothing to say on that point. 
 But let me tell you, you have lost two precious years. 
 I will not harass you; but it is my duty to say that 
 to-day your daughter might have been at home with 
 you, gladdening your hearts. But there, never mind 
 that! Leave your daughter here, in perfect confi- 
 dence. Come with me to the ward.” 
 
 A half-hour afterwards that same voice is heard 
 bidding the doctor good-night. The trembling and 
 sorrow of it are gone; it has become firm; and there 
 is even a sound as of a gentle, rippling laugh, at some 
 sally of the doctor’s, as she enters the carriage again. 
 
 The doctor returns to us with a smiling face. ‘One 
 more cure,” he says, “to the credit of Hickory Hall!” 
 
 A cure}? 
 
 “Decidedly. One of the banes of this hospital 
 life is the ignorance and prejudice of the people. 
 Think of that woman keeping her daughter under 
 lock and key two whole years, because she had heard 
 that patients were whipped and pounded and showered, 
 and mercy knows what !”’ | 
 
 “But, doctor, you do not deny that there is some 
 foundation for these feelings.” 
 
 “No, I do not deny it ; and I hate the very mention 
 of such facts, quite as bitterly as any one else. The 
 physician who admits such elements into his treatment 
 
 or 
 
DR. PETERSON’S PHILOSOPHY. 269 
 
 of the insane ought to be stripped of his diploma ; 
 
 and an attendant guilty of the barbarities which have 
 been thrust into the history of insanity should be hung 
 by the heels. There! would you express the case in 
 any stronger words? But, gentlemen and ladies, I 
 have ceased, long ago, to be at all actuated by my 
 feelings on this matter. This is the first time I have 
 uttered such sulphuric language in many years. Early 
 in my practice my indignation was aroused, and I 
 determined.to do what I could for the insane. It has 
 been terribly up-hill work, I can tell you.” 
 
 “You lack public sympathy ?”’ 
 
 “Do you not see for yourselves that the public is 
 still sleeping? A certain amount of the old barbarity 
 
 is laid aside, —yes. But the public must still have its 
 
 \ 
 
 dens for the incarceration of the pauper insane ; and 
 many a patient far above the pauper class finds him- 
 self thrust in there, also, through the meanness of 
 relatives and the indifference of officials.” 
 
 “Ts there any way of reaching such a state of 
 things ?”’ 
 
 “No way but to educate the public sentiment. The 
 newspapers touch it up now and then. I can hardly 
 think this is done merely for the sake of item-hunting. 
 On the contrary, some one’s sensibilities have been 
 touched. It may be only the reporter’s, or the reporter 
 may chance to represent the feelings and opinions of a 
 greater or smaller constituency. I like to read what 
 they write, therefore ; and I can tell you that they get 
 very close to the truth sometimes.” 
 
 “The politicians are against you, then?” 
 
270 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 “The politicians! They neither know nor care 
 enough about it to be either for or against us. ‘Their 
 man, Rafferty or Schlaeger, must have a place; and 
 these inhuman offices are numerous, and just the thing. 
 For my part, I wish the politicians would give these 
 henchmen each a beer-corner or a groggery instead, 
 and let them scatter death in that fashion, rather than 
 as keepers of the insane. For the amount of liquor 
 to be sold and consumed will aggregate about the 
 same, and it is a minor question whether it be sold in 
 one thousand places or two thousand.” 
 
 “Do you find, doctor, that public sentiment is be- 
 coming enlightened ? ” 
 
 “Measurably, yes. ‘The revealed horrors of the 
 past, however, have still their hold upon many minds. 
 Probably the majority of even intelligent people would 
 be quite as much astonished at the interior of Hickory 
 Hall as this lady who has just left her daughter here. 
 What do you think she asked me? With the tears 
 rolling down her cheeks, she. asked if she could rely 
 upon our letting her know at once, if her daughter 
 died under treatment.” 
 
 “That is downright absurdity.” 
 
 “Not a whit more absurd than a thousand other 
 questions which are asked here. She was aston- 
 ished when I proposed that she should come here 
 once a week, or once a month, at her own con- 
 venience, and see for herself whether her daughter 
 was alive.” 
 
 “To change the subject a little, doctor. Are such — 
 Institutions as yours growing in public favor?” 
 
DR. PETERSON'S PHILOSOPHY. 271 
 
 “Slowly, but surely. It takes time to bring about 
 such wide-sweeping changes in public opinion. But 
 the time is coming when the people will cease to be 
 under the control of bugaboos. Your question leads 
 me to express an opinion here, which I beg you to 
 consider. As matters stand to-day, hundreds hesitate 
 and delay to send the afflicted to the only places where 
 they can be intelligently treated and cured ; that is, if 
 cure be possible. And this for more reasons than one. 
 First, because of their fears for the unfortunate, their 
 fear that he will be abused and maltreated ; secondly, 
 because a ridiculous public sentiment still insists upon 
 branding the restored patient, as if he had been serv- 
 ing out a sentence. You see, the old idea, the crimi- 
 nal idea, the prison idea, still lingers in men’s minds. 
 Hundreds of valuable lives are lost, and the maniac 
 wards are twice as full as they need be, simply because 
 friends of the unfortunate postpone and delay action, 
 until the victim is at his worst.” 
 
 “Well, doctor, if I ever discover a sign of insanity 
 in myself, I shall certainly turn my footsteps in. the 
 direction of Hickory Hall.” 
 
 “Not quite so soon as that, my friend. There are 
 signs of insanity in all of us. My good old friend Dr. 
 Bushwick of Springfield, as honest a practitioner as 
 ever lived, held the view you have just pronounced ; 
 and I verily believe he would have liked to send all 
 Springfield here, from the mayor down. I said to 
 him once, ‘Doctor, you are positively insane on the 
 subject of insanity.’ ”’ 
 
 At this point, a dignified, sweet-faced lady of fifty 
 
2720. DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 years enters, and makes an announcement to Dr. 
 Peterson. | 
 
 “This is our evening,’ he remarks, turning to us, 
 “of etiquette. In other words, we are to have a 
 social gathering in the parlors. Will you give us your 
 company?” 
 
 “With pleasure,” we answer; and these formal 
 words, for once, turn out to have some literal, hon- 
 est meaning. 
 
 We find the piano open, card-tables set, te-d-#étes 
 and chairs arranged in groups, flowers from the doc- 
 tor’s greenhouses tastefully arranged in vases. 
 
 The company begins to enter, — first a silent lady, 
 a very vivacious and sparkling one, a timid young 
 man, a consequential old one. 
 
 Then “ Merry” stalks through the doorway, in full 
 expectation of the honors of the evening. He ex- 
 tends his hand witha magnificent air to Miss Bogrand, 
 chief matron, saying, “ Your servant, madam, Marshal 
 of the’’— “ Merry’s” limbs are not prepared for 
 this: perhaps they were braced up only to the level 
 of the mayoralty of Albany, and not strongly enough 
 for the marshalship of New York. He sways for an 
 instant, his arms cleave the air, and “Merry” goes 
 down in a heap. 
 
 Never mind! While “Merry” is picking himself 
 up, we look the other way,—at this sweet, bright, 
 engaging face which stands framed in the entrance. 
 Its possessor has held court in as stately halls and 
 drawing-rooms as ever you waltzed and promenaded 
 in. She is nameless now, for a time. Why? Because 
 
DR. PETERSON’S PHILOSOPHY. 273 
 
 _ stupid people and malicious people would delight to 
 whisper and pick at her when she returns to the outer 
 world. At present they only envy her, because they 
 believe her to be living luxuriously, and enjoying a 
 trip up the Nile or in the Holy Land. Stupid people! 
 
 Here comes dear Mrs. Oomooriah! Forty years 
 of service in heathen countries, a year or two of sim- 
 ple, gentle weariness at Hickory Hall, possibly a little 
 period of clear vision, and then an eternity of angelic 
 wisdom in the kingdom of God, —this is an epitome 
 of Mrs. Oomooriah’s past, present, and future. Hard 
 work and the broiling sun of Cathay’s plains have 
 turned her from the path of health for a little while. 
 Brand thee, good woman! The man who would do 
 that should be branded with hot iron after the fashion 
 of the rough old times whose notions he clings to with 
 such tenacity, and should walk the streets with the 
 word “Fool” upon his forehead, —if it be lawful to 
 apply that word to any human being. 
 
 Sprightly Miss Fort has also arrived, with her sis- 
 ter, who is visiting her. Seventeen long years has 
 she been afflicted. Strangely enough, of late she 
 has raved little: she has awaked to realities. Queer 
 ways she has yet, but on the whole she is vastly 
 changed for the better. The doctor and _ her sister 
 - have a scheme for this evening. Miss Fort is to be 
 invited to play. Once she was the best performer 
 in C-——., 
 
 Miss Fort receives the proposal doubtfully ; but her 
 sister quietly suggests that they play one of Mozart’s 
 sonatas, in dvo, and her eye lights up gladly. 
 
274 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 “Which one?” she exclaims, brightening. “Let 
 us play the third in F.” 
 
 Memory is a marvellous engine. Here we count 
 it a wonder that it should leap over seventeen years: 
 in eternity it will traverse thousands. 
 
 Miss Fort looks over the notes, changes her mind, 
 and declares for Mozart’s first, his symphony in D. 
 In an instant she is seated at the piano, whereat the 
 doctor’s eye glistens. 
 
 “Will you play primo, dear?” asks the sister. 
 
 sev es.U 
 
 She strikes the opening chord of the alegro some- 
 what hesitatingly; but the first chords inspire her. 
 She rings out the theme with its gradual crescendo, 
 giving its last triumphal notes firmly and powerfully. 
 
 She sinks to the soft reply, that strain which seems 
 
 like the singing of hymns in a castle-chapel by moth- 
 ers and wives and daughters, while their knights are 
 doing battle in the plain below. Then the burst of 
 another forze passage follows, sounding like a cry from 
 the field ; then a measured strain, as of men marching 
 slowly through the castle-gate, victors, but burdened 
 with their dead and dying ; a strain of triumph and 
 thanksgiving ; a crescendo of jubilee ; a piano of wail- 
 ing from the widows and fatherless. Now sounds 
 again a trumpet-call to muster ; again that same hymn 
 before the altar in the castle chapel; then the andanz, 
 a solemn, stately strain, calling to mind mailed men 
 and veiled women going forth to pay the last rites to 
 those who died for glory and honor; and, last of all, 
 the allegro molto of final joy and triumph. 
 
DR. PETERSON S PHILOSOPHY. 275 
 
 These made up a picture of sound which set Miss 
 Fort’s face ablaze with enjoyment and inspiration. 
 Mozart himself had more than once acted more like 
 a madman than did Miss Fort. 
 
 But, alas! we have no record of Mozart’s swinging 
 himself up to the top of the piano, after a perform- 
 ance, and dangling his feet there. This is what Miss 
 Fort did, and Ben is greatly amused. He quickly 
 makes a motion as if to give her the benefit of his 
 phrenological skill; but Miss Fort repels him proudly, 
 saying, ‘ You are not my barber, sir!” 
 
 “Oh ! very well, then,” replies Ben; and suggests, 
 quite mildly and forgivingly, that she had better take 
 two gallons of whiskey and four ounces of quinine be- 
 fore breakfast. 
 
 Some one strikes up some fair quadrille music now, 
 — possibly the Lancers, — and sets are formed. 
 
 “Come, ‘ Merry,’. take a partner,” says the doctor. 
 
 The deepest of basses replies, “‘ Ex—cuse me, doc- 
 tor. When I was marshal, I was the best dancer on 
 Manhattan Island. Oh, pshah! you ought to have 
 seen me dance! But my éee/h are out of order now.” 
 
 The dance goes on, however, without “ Merry ;” and 
 a lively, though very orderly, exercise they make of it. 
 
 Whist and euchre come in for a share of the flying 
 hours; and lively tongues discuss the events of 
 Hickory Hall, and of the world at large. The doctor 
 mingles freely with his patients, not solely for social 
 purposes, but for medical as well. In point of fact, 
 these social gatherings in the parlors are not unimpor- 
 tant test occasions. 
 
270 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 On the present occasion, not a few of the patients 
 hold their own the entire evening without one lapse. 
 Generally their conversation is quite rational. Our 
 Ben is uncommonly fluent and clear. You could 
 turn him off the track easily enough, as Miss Fort did 
 for a moment. But hold him to some rational sub- 
 ject, in a rational way, and Ben can talk as well as 
 most men. 
 
 “Where did you say your home was, Mr. Hallo- 
 well?” asks one of the ladies. Ben is off the track 
 immediately. Memory has not perfected her work in 
 him yet. So he replies, “Well, now, it was in a mill, 
 I’m positive. Betty and Tom and I lived there.” 
 
 “In a mill?” asks the doctor. “ Wasn’t it Mill- 
 ville?” 
 
 “No: it sounds like that too.” Ben was struggling 
 now with memory. Let the fight go on. He rises, 
 and paces the room a turn or two. Returning, he 
 takes the doctor by both arms, gazes into his face 
 earnestly, and cries trembling, “Do you know where 
 Millington is?” . 
 
 “No; but I will find out for you, Ben.” 
 
 This satisfies the poor fellow, and he becomes per- 
 fectly calm again. 
 
 Off the track! Yes: the bewildered eye, the flush- 
 ing cheek, the expanding nostril, the opening and 
 closing hand, were evidence of that. But memory 
 had given a fierce pull; and Ben was on the track 
 again, if not wholly, then at least to the extent of one 
 wheel. 
 
 For the perfection of the work, Nature and Science 
 
DR. PETERSON’S PHILOSOPHY. 277 
 
 are now working hand in hand. The deluding times 
 when the one sought to invoke,the other’s aid with all 
 manner of mouthings, with childish witchcraft, swing- 
 ing of censers, counting of beads, triangulation of 
 stars, and the mixing of blood of newts and new-born 
 babes ; the times also, when Nature, good, true, faith- 
 ful Nature, hung aloof from such Science, falsely so- 
 called, — are passed. 
 
 Science is content now to be the pupil of Nature, 
 and does not seek to be an old woman riding upon a 
 broomstick, sweeping cobwebs out of the sky. And 
 how much better for Science! How much better for 
 Nature! How much better for man ! 
 
278 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 BLY FOLLISS’S PARLORS. 
 
 N the parlor of Mr. Bly Folliss’s suite at The 
 
 Alderney, on Wednesday morning, March 8, were 
 
 three gentlemen, — Mr. Folliss, Germaine Parson, and 
 John — commonly called Jack — Brandon. 
 
 The room, a rather luxuriously furnished one, pre- 
 sented an aspect not exactly of confusion, but certainly 
 not of order. An easel, with big, sprawling legs, but 
 supporting a superb Verboeckhoven, had been set 
 aside, as far as possible, in a corner. Books, drawing- 
 tools, sketches, brushes, tubes, pitchers, glasses, cigar- 
 boxes, pipes, and all the litter, useful, ornamental, and 
 pestiferous, of a bachelor’s living-room, lay scattered” 
 about. In the centre of the room were four or five 
 boxes half covered with foreign, steamship, and rail- 
 way labels and marks, — to’a sort of ceremonial open- 
 ing of which Mr. Bly Folliss had invited his two 
 bosom friends. 
 
 Left an orphan almost the very day he attained his 
 majority, and receiving a fortune at his mother’s death, 
 Bly Folliss had never found a place in the working 
 world ; and domestic life had as yet been unattractive — 
 to him. The money he would have “squandered in 
 business,’ as he expressed it (and probably with quite 
 
 i 
 
BLY FOLLISS’S PARLORS. 279 
 
 as much truth as metaphor), or would have spent 
 “upon a wife, Mr. Folliss had to rid himself of in other 
 
 ways ; and, to his credit be it said, not a pound of it 
 went to the fostering or increase of this world’s vices 
 and miseries. 
 
 Folliss’s friend, Germaine Parson, on the other 
 
 hand, had a bare competence, and with this was pur- 
 “suing a thorough course of scientific study. Some 
 
 day Professor Parson will be heard of, unless character 
 
 and diligence count for nothing. 
 
 It was Folliss’s delight to spend his money upon his 
 
 ‘friends. The arrival of these boxes, with one excep- 
 
 tion, was the fruit of this generous-mindedness ; for 
 their contents were intended for Germaine Parson, 
 although the purchaser made believe they were for his 
 
 Own use. 
 
 “Come, Parsy,” exclaimed Folliss, “let’s attack. 
 
 Brandy, you have a good hand for a hammer.” 
 
 Jovially they went to work, bringing to light a 
 Browning spectrum apparatus, a set of Typen plates, 
 and a superb binocular with object-glasses an inch and 
 seven-eighths in diameter, with all the newest improve- 
 ments in rack motion and focusing screw, set in alu- 
 minium, and put up in leather. 
 
 Parson danced with delight, as he released from its 
 wrappings a new transit instrument, called diploido- 
 Scope, an instrument most beautifully and accurately 
 
 adjusted for marking time. 
 
 “Just what I have been wishing to see, Bly, ever 
 
 ‘since the English journals began to mention it. I tell 
 
 you, fellows, there are wonderful capabilities in this 
 
280 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 little thing. You may send your Beesleys and Jurgen- 
 sens to the British Museum, to be handed down to 
 posterity as specimens of the implements used by their 
 savage ancestors. This and the spectrum are going 
 to put into your vest-pockets a little thing not larger 
 than a coat-button, at a cost of not half a crown, which 
 will give the time of day infallibly. No breaking of 
 mainsprings, no running slow or fast, no winding up, 
 no bother about repairs.” 
 
 It is to be regretted that Parson has not yet com- 
 pleted that invention. We may as well wind our 
 watches a few more evenings. 
 
 Our time need not be consumed in further descrip-_ 
 tion of the unpacking of Folliss’s boxes. Rather let 
 us follow Parson to the window, where he is trying the | 
 range of the binocular. Brandon, meanwhile, wrench- 
 ing off the cover of the one excepted box whose con- | 
 
 tents were really for Folliss’s own use, discovers three _ 
 new suits of clothes. In an instant he is at Parson’s — 
 side. With a pair of Bly’s new inexpressibles, held | 
 
 out straight and stiff with the aid of two walking-sticks, 
 he peers out into the air, and cries, — 
 
 “What an instrument! By Jove! I can see Dr. | 
 
 McMurray picking grapes over at Niagara.” 
 Parson lets down the binocular at this, and Bly 
 Folliss also looks up at the scene. 
 
 A good-natured roar had barely reached its zenith, — 
 
 when a knock sounded upon the door, followed by 
 
 the appearance of Carney Dugan, armed with the 
 
 appliances of her occupation. | 
 *“‘T wants to clane up, Misther Fully,” she said. 
 
 | 
 
BLY FOLLISS’S PARLORS. 281 
 
 “No, sir-ee. You can’t touch a single straw here 
 this day. Don’t you see all these new machines and 
 things? If you were to touch one of them, and it 
 should go off, it would blow you to Russia. Look 
 out! Don’t knock that microscope over.” 
 
 “Ts dhat a mockeryscoop? An’ what’s it for?” 
 asked Carney. 
 
 For a reply, Bly set the instrument, and placed a 
 tiny specimen upon the plate. The old woman 
 looked through the tubes, as she was directed, held 
 up her hands in horror, and exclaimed, — 
 
 “Pether an’ Paul! is dhere sech bugs as dhim in 
 dhe house? An’ dhis a new house too! I’d be 
 goin’ to Misther Blossom, dhis hour, wid it. Am I to 
 clane up, Misther Fully?” 
 
 “Not a stroke, Mrs. Dugan.” 
 
 “Td shuit meself av Iwas you, Misther Fully ; an’ 
 if I’d dhe day to me own self, too, I’d have time, 
 mayhap, to see Misther Macrae,” said Carney, with an 
 inquisitive, searching look at Folliss. 
 
 Bly caught the word, and the expression upon 
 Carney’s face. But there was nothing responsive 
 in his own, nor even a word of advice to Carney as 
 to the spending of her time. He was completely 
 silenced. 
 
 _ Carney waited decently for a moment, and then 
 left the room, muttering as she went, — 
 
 “He wasn’t here, then, dhe liar!” 
 
 _ And as a matter of fact, Folliss had not thought of 
 Macrae for many days, nor had he as yet seen the 
 card dropped by his old friend in the letter-box. 
 
282 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 Day after day letters had been taken thence ; but the 
 card, a thin, flat, hardly tangible thing, lay snugly at 
 the bottom of the box. 
 
 For a time, Carney’s speech and its manner diverted © 
 
 Folliss from his immediate surroundings, and his two 
 friends caught him dreaming. 
 
 “What’s up, Bly?”? was Brandon’s first sally. “ Has 
 the dear old lady been proposing ?” 
 
 “H’m! Proposing! I should think so. Here’s a 
 queer thing: That old creature proposes to go and 
 spend the day with Mr. Macrae,” said Bly. 
 
 “Well, what is to prevent? Tell her to put on a 
 clean pinafore, Bly, and not to eat too much, and be 
 a good girl.” 
 
 “Stop your chaff, Brandy,” cried Bly. “You don’t 
 know a funeral from a picnic sometimes.” 
 
 “T wish I could get this out of my head,” added 
 Bly. “ Parsy, you remember meeting Macrae at Pat- 
 ton Junction, don’t you?”’ 
 
 “Ves; and I remember going up to Si Kimten s on 
 a fool’s eh partly on his account.” 
 
 “And you remember that old woman at Si’s, last 
 autumn?” 
 
 “Ves; same name as our Hausmutter : what about 
 Reon 
 
 “You're very bright, this morning, Parsy, — bright 
 enough to be on the bench. Come, if you are in a 
 questioning and not an asserting humor, help me out 
 of this,” said Hollies, 
 
 ‘State your case.’ 
 
 “T charged Mrs. Dugan one day with being the 
 
BLY FOLLISS’S PARLORS. — 283 
 
 same person we saw at Si Kimber’s, and she denied 
 (ag 
 
 “Not a finable offence,” said Parson. “The pris- 
 oner is discharged.” 
 
 “Hold on,” replied Bly. “Not quite so fast. 
 More times than I can recollect, I used to wonder 
 what Tom Macrae was doing at Patton. Just at that 
 time, if you remember, young Hollins was lost. Do 
 you remember what Debby told us about the Irish- 
 ‘woman’s agitation over that gold and onyx ornament 
 which Debby wore at her throat? Now, here is this 
 Mother Superior of ours’? — 
 
 A knock at the door broke Folliss’s sentence in 
 two. “Come in!” he cried; and the invitation was 
 responded to by a frowsy, coarsely-clad man, who 
 surveyed the company generally, and finally asked, 
 without any waste of words, — 
 
 “ Misser Fulluss ?”’ 
 
 Bly acknowledged his identity; and after some 
 fumbling the visitor produced a letter which Bly pro- 
 ceeded to read, the stranger standing cap in hand, 
 motionless. i 
 
 The letter was as follows : — 
 
 “M FoLu 
 
 Deer 
 Sir Decem the 2 nine. 
 
 We ben good del harrid or wold writ afore. Deb is sick, 
 verry. She maks out as she mus see yu rite off. Wat she 
 want fur to see you fur is moar as she will tel. Ef theys ben 
 anithin atween her an you, i wants to see you, to. Anef theys 
 ben anithin, by ginger (this sentence was crossed out). 
 
284 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 She says if you kant kum send up that other [here Si had 
 made awful attempts to spell a long word, and had given it up; 
 but evidently he meant “ gentleman ”]. 
 
 He’ll do, I disrember his naim. 
 
 Yure’s till nex. 
 J. KIMBER. 
 
 P.S. Ef anithin atween you an Deb Kimber, by ginger 
 [here Si changed his mind, apparently, and literally scratched 
 out this whole postscript]. 
 
 ‘““Mystery upon mystery!” said Bly, turning to his 
 companions. “ Listen-to this!” 
 
 Bly read the letter aloud to them, and asked, “ What — 
 does it mean?” 
 
 “That’s for you to say, by ginger,’’ responded Bran- 
 don. 
 
 Bly laughed a little, but at heart he was annoyed. 
 Turning to the messenger, he asked, — 
 
 “ How sick is Debby Kimber?” - 
 
 SAin tsicks® 
 
 “But the letter says she is.” ) 
 
 “Wait,” said Brandon: “this letter is dated Dec. 
 29.” 
 
 Taking up the subject at this point, Bly asked, 
 “Was Debby sick last December?” 
 
 “Iss ; h’awful.” 
 
 “Where did you get this letter?” 
 
 Cou imber, 2 
 
 “When?” 
 
 “TIsterdeh.”’ ee 
 
 “What do they want of me?” 
 
 “Dunno, zir.” 
 
BLY FOLLISS’S PARLORS. 285 
 
 “Ts there any trouble up there?” 
 
 “Dunno, zir.”’ 
 
 “Do they really expect me to come?” 
 
 “Dunno, zir.” 
 
 “Well,” said Be “what do you know?” 
 
 “ Dunno, zir.’ 
 
 Bly was perplexed. The sti to Little Bear at 
 this time of the year would be a dismal affair, and yet 
 Bly could not believe that the Kimbers would send for 
 him without good reason. 
 
 “Ah, that miserable young Algie Burnson!” he 
 thought. ‘Is it possible that Debby has been wor- 
 shipping his image silently, after the fashion of women, 
 for two years and more, and has she succumbed at 
 last? Is she seeking knowledge of the whereabouts 
 of Blankdom, that she may make a pilgrimage thither, 
 and bow down before the object of her adoration in 
 person? If that is the case,” continued Bly in his 
 thoughts, “I will put a stop to it; and it is worth a 
 journey to Little Bear Lake.” 
 
 Bly was very wide of the real facts of the case, as he 
 very soon learned. And, if he had known just what 
 Debby Kimber had ardently desired to say to him on 
 what she believed to be her death-bed, Bly would 
 have been quite as ready to go in December as in 
 - March. | 
 
 The impulse to do good was strong in this young 
 man. ‘True, he had never had opportunity to do any 
 _ thing great in that direction; but here might be the 
 
 _ Opportunity, and he embraced it. Turning to the 
 messenger, therefore, he asked, — 
 
286 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 “How can I get from the terminus to Kimber’s?”’ 
 
 “Dunno, ’less oi carries ’ee.” 
 
 “How?” 
 
 “Tn’s woggon. Woggon’s coomin’ a’ter me ’n you, 
 t’morrer.”’ 
 
 “Is Si coming over himself ?” 
 
 The messenger grinned as he answered, “’Im’s 
 afeard. Si’s goin’ t’timber, up lake, t’day. ’Im/’ll be 
 gone a wik.” 
 
 This was something of a relief to Bly, at all events ; 
 for the letter had a threatening aspect in part. 
 
 “Tl meet you at the station, then, to-morrow morn- 
 ing,” he said to the messenger. 
 
 “Night, zir,” was the whole of the man’s reply. 
 
 “What’s your name?” 
 
 “ Bogle, zir — Jim.” 
 
 The man departed, leaving the three bachelors sus- 
 pended between the serious and the ludicrous. Fol- 
 liss, however, was inclined to be quite grave; and, 
 out of consideration for their friend, the others post- 
 poned innumerable jokes which they had prepared to 
 pelt him withal. 
 
 “‘ Fellows,” said Bly, ‘the air is thick with mystery ! 
 What is to come of all these things? I can’t put this 
 Macrae matter together. There’s the postman! Parsy, 
 will you please open the box for me?” 
 
 Germaine opened the box, and brought Bly four 
 letters and a card. The card attracted his attention 
 first. He turned it over and over, and his face wore 
 such an expression that both his friends were alarmed. — 
 
 “No bad news, I hope, Bly,” said Jack Brandon. 
 
BLY FOLLISS’S PARLORS. 287 
 
 “ N—no, not bad news; but, see here, I’m getting 
 thoroughly shaken up. We were talking of mysteries ; 
 and here comes another one, the tallest one of the lot. 
 I can’t make it out. Look at that card!” 
 
 They looked as they were bidden, Brandon volun- 
 teering to remark, “Your friend is rather careless, I 
 should think.” 
 
 The card was one of Thomas Macrae’s, having his 
 name engraved upon it. Now, no man can always 
 keep his wits in full play. And, if you trifle with edge- 
 tools, you need not be surprised if you receive a sud- 
 den reminder of their sharpness. In a fit of abstrac- 
 tion, while instructing Tim Brannigan the preceding 
 week, Macrae had scribbled upon that card. He had 
 written ‘ Hallowell’’ in one place, “E. P.” in another, 
 “ Hickoryville” in a third. Abstractedly he had put 
 it into his card-case again. Foolishly he had dropped 
 it into Bly Folliss’s letter-box. 
 
 To Bly Folliss it was like the momentary shaking of 
 a lantern on a dark night. He thought he saw into 
 one of the mysteries which surrounded him; but 
 could he express his thoughts with any definiteness? 
 All he could do as yet was to assume that Thomas 
 Macrae was employing a fictitious name, and that 
 Carney Dugan was in possession of a letter. intended 
 _ for him, —a letter sent to him under that name. Well, 
 what then ? 
 
 Parson and Brandon were soon in possession of all 
 the facts, so far as Folliss could give them. Together, 
 the three went over and over them, with the unani- 
 mous conclusion that Macrae had some object in the 
 
288 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 assumption of a false name, and that Mrs. Dugan was 
 privy to it. And further, that, deny it as vigorously as 
 she pleased, she was identical with the woman whom 
 they had seen at Si Kimber’s. Of course she was! 
 They could all see it clearly enough now. 
 
 “Then I must find her,” said Bly, “at once. I 
 want to know what all this means.” 
 
 But Carney was not to be found. Again and again 
 Bly rang for her, but some of the other servants 
 always answered the bell. He sent to her room, even, 
 late at night: it was still tenantless. In the morning 
 came information that Carney had not been seen about 
 the building since the early part of the preceding day. 
 
 Bly was forced to take his departure for Si Kimber’s, 
 therefore, without the light he had half expected to 
 obtain from her, not only in regard to Macrae, but also 
 concerning matters at Kimber’s. 
 
 “Good-by, fellows,” he said rather dismally. “ This 
 ‘will be a fine lark if the Dugan and that frowzy-head 
 turn out to be mediums, and we get ‘The Alderney’ 
 filled with spirit-rappings, or some other crazy non- 
 sense.” : | 
 
 Two days elapsed, and the night between. On Fri- 
 day evening Bly returned ; and his friends were await- 
 ing him, according to agreement. A hot supper had 
 been sent up to Bly’s rooms by the chef: that de- 
 spatched, cigars were lighted, and Bly Folliss related 
 his adventures. & 
 
 We must let him tell his own story in these pages as 
 well, leaving it to some subsequent chapter to reveal 
 why Carney could not be found when most wanted. 
 
SEVERAL STORIES IN ONE. 289 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 SEVERAL STORIES IN ONE. 
 
 a IRST, you must know,” began Bly Folliss, 
 “when I entered the train, there were the 
 
 Adelon girls, and that booby Giles Barry dancing 
 about them. So I felt a little choice of my company, 
 and told frowzel-top to find a seat for himself, and I 
 would do the same. But, after we changed cars at 
 Patton, my guide thought he might as well be com- 
 panion and familiar friend as well, and squeezed 
 himself into the seat next me. And what do you 
 suppose was the first thing he said to me? 
 
 “¢Doos ’ee knaw Carney Dugan?’ 
 
 “<T know Mrs. Margaret Dugan,’ I replied cau- 
 tiously. . 
 
 ““¢ No, ’ee doan’t,’ was his next remark. ‘Ee knaws 
 Carney Dugan. She be the woman at Th’ Alderney.’ 
 
 “ Having nothing more to say, I looked out of the 
 window. ‘The fellow punched me presently, and says, 
 _* Doos ’ee knaw Cray?’ 
 “¢Cray?’ Tasked. ‘Who or what is Cray?’ 
 “« Muster Crae, ’im as Carney knaws.’ 
 “¢No, I don’t think I do,’ I answered. 
 “¢Tss,’ee doos. Bean’t naw use lyin’.’ 
 “T was on my dignity in an instant. I can’t help 
 
290 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 laughing to think how pugnacious I felt: only the 
 fellow looked so big and burly, that I thought, on 
 the whole, it would be the sensible thing to let him 
 alone. So I left the seat, and took another. 7 
 
 “Tn less than a minute he was at my side again, 
 sticking his elbow into me: he said, ‘Ee do knaw 
 Muster Cray, — Cray o’ Millenton, —I knows ’ee do.’ 
 
 “Then it came into my head that he was talking of 
 Tom Macrae, and I asked him if my surmise was 
 correct. 
 
 “< Tss,’ he answered. 
 
 ““Carney’s mad wi’m,’ he added after a long si- 
 lence. 
 
 “¢ Mad with whom?’ I asked. 
 
 “6 Wi Cray, 
 
 “¢What for?’ said I. 
 
 “Dunno, zir,’ was his characteristic answer. 
 
 ““*Ffow do you know, then, that she is angry with 
 him?’ I continued. 
 
 «Seed ’em las’ night.’ 
 
 OW ene 23 
 
 “«¢ Prince o’ Cummelun.’ » 
 
 “That, you know, is a miserable inn, near the upper 
 station. 
 
 “‘T questioned him right and left, then, but there 
 was little to be got out of him. The truth was, he 
 knew very little about the matter. Only he had known 
 Carney somewhere or other ; and seeing her at the inn, 
 and noticing so superior a person as Macrae hanging 
 about, and finally finding that this person and Carney 
 went off to the private parlor together and had a 
 
SEVERAL STORIES IN ONE. 291 
 
 _ lengthy interview, he had allowed his curiosity to run 
 rampant. Here we two were, therefore, trying to 
 pump each other; and dry work it was. 
 
 “There was a change in the atmosphere, however, 
 when we arrived at Si Kimber’s. Baffy and Debby 
 looked at me in astonishment. 
 
 “¢Why, Mr. Folliss,’ said Baffy, ‘what on airth 
 brings you up here this time 0’ year? There ain’t no 
 fishin’, nor huntin’, neither. We’re jest as glad to see 
 you, though; ain’t we, Deb?’ 
 
 “Tt struck me that Debby did not look so very glad. 
 She was pale and thin, and her hands had lost that | 
 tough, meaty look they used to have. She turned 
 upon me, as the poets say, a withering look of scorn, 
 and said, — 
 
 ««< Wasn’t you sent for?’ 
 
 “Ves? I answered ; ‘and here I am, Debby; and 
 very sorry to hear of your sickness.’ 
 
 “Oh, yes! you air drefful sorry, ain’t you? And 
 a precious long time it took you to get over cryin’ 
 about it, and start !’ 
 
 “¢Why, Debby,’ I said, ‘I got your father’s letter 
 yesterday, as this man here can tell you; and here I 
 am, by the first train.’ 
 
 “¢Visterday!’ she screamed. ‘ Didn’t you git 
 that letter till yisterday? The old fool! That’s jest 
 like par. He writ that letter las’ December, when I 
 thought I was a-goin’ to die. No wonder he went off 
 to timber this morning. He’d better not be around 
 here, I can tell him !’ 
 
 “Tt seems that Si knew as much. He had put the 
 
292 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 letter in his pocket, fellows, forgotten all about it, and 
 
 left the coat which contained it hanging all winter. | 
 Happening to find it on Tuesday, he intrusted it to 
 
 Bogle, old frowzy, who was. coming to Toronto to pur- 
 chase tools and supplies for the rafting-camp. 
 
 “Debby began to cry, and I couldn’t stand that. 
 So I asked Mrs. Kimber to get me up a supper, and 
 followed her into the kitchen to ask what all this 
 meant. 
 
 “* Well,’ she told me, ‘Deb’s kine o’ weak ever 
 sence she had the fever. You remember that ole 
 Irishwoman. And that thing Deb used to wear —up 
 here. And the crazy feller. Well, we couldn’t get a 
 thing out of the woman, only we could see she knowed 
 something about that poor chap. ‘Two or three times 
 she bu’st out a-mournin’ an’ cryin’ an’ takin’ on, sayin’ 
 
 there was misery enough in this world, anyway,— 
 
 which is true, Mr. Folliss, —and beggin’ God to forgive 
 her for makin’ more. 
 
 “*Well,’ she went on, ‘the old woman went away 
 
 to Toronto, and Deb got to thinkin’ and thinkin’. Old 
 Carney took a great fancy to you, I guess, an’ talked 
 about you so much, that Deb an’ me bet she’d hunt 
 you up. One day Deb says to her, ‘Mrs. Dugan, the 
 man that come up here after that crazy fellow asked 
 me if Mr. Folliss hadn’t ben here a-fishin’. He 
 looked to me as if he knowed Mr. Folliss.’ Well, 
 wild horses couldn’t ’a’ held her then. Go she would, 
 an’ go she went; an’ we ain’t heerd a word of her 
 sence.’ 
 
 ““She’s perfectly well,’ I said ; ‘and in a very com: 
 
 i 
 a 
 
SEVERAL STORIES IN ONE. 293 
 
 fortable home, too, Baffy. In fact, she found me out 
 long before I found her out. She is a servant at ‘The 
 Alderney,’ where I live, and takes care of my rooms.’ 
 «Well, now, I declar’!’ said Baffy. (You remem- 
 ber how she displays the palms of her hands on such 
 occasions, no matter whether they are covered with 
 dough or not.) ‘Well, now, goodness be praised for 
 that! She’s a good creetur, but an awful blunderer.’ 
 “Debby came in at this point, and finished the 
 story. She began by giving me a description of the 
 man who came for the crazy fellow; and, if it wasn’t 
 Tom Macrae, it was his twin-brother at least. 
 “Debby went on to tell me, that, after Carney’s 
 departure, she was constantly troubled in mind about 
 the affair: and the more she thought of it the stronger 
 was her feeling that there was something wrong, by 
 whom committed, and how, she was of course as igno- 
 rant as you and I are this minute; and all she could 
 determine was, that I ought to know what was going 
 on, and to take steps to find the sufferer. Then she 
 was taken sick, and grew nervous over the affair, in- 
 sisting finally that her father should send for me. 
 “Debby gave me the cuff-button. Here, — look 
 at it! The marking on the back does not shed much 
 light upon the matter, I confess. ‘B. H. to B. H. 
 Paris — Millington.’ I have heard that Macrae is 
 sweet on a Miss Hart — Hart — something or other. 
 As likely as not, some crazy man stole that button ; 
 and Macrae, like a true knight, set. out to recover it.” 
 _ “Yes; but, Bly, there are two B. H.’s,” broke in 
 Jack Brandon. “What do you make of that?” 
 
294 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 “Wait!” added Germaine Parson. “Do you re- 
 member the item I read you from the Toronto paper, 
 the day we returned from Little Bear, —the announce- 
 ment of the death of young Hollins of Millington?” 
 
 “Yes; but he has been dead and buried these two 
 years,” said Folliss. 
 
 “ Nevertheless, your friend Macrae may be the man 
 who killed and buried him,’ added Parson. 
 
 “Nonsense! Macrae isn’t of that sort. He’s a 
 
 gentleman, whatever else he may be.” 
 
 “But Hollins begins with H, my friend,” continued 
 Parson. ‘‘ Now, what was his Christian name?” 
 
 “T can tell you in just one minute.” 
 
 Bly Folliss was utterly unwilling to believe, even 
 yet, that Macrae had any criminal connection with 
 this matter ; but his thoughts were quickening, accord- 
 ing to a well-known law of mental action. He crossed 
 the hall, and knocked at the door of one of his neigh- 
 bors’ rooms, 
 
 “Granby,” he said, “ you aks young Hollins of 
 Millington, didn’t you?” 
 
 “ Certainly.” 
 
 “What was his Christian name?” 
 
 “ Benjamin.” 
 
 “Any middle name?” 
 
 6é N—no.”’ 
 
 Bly returned, and added this point to the still scanty 
 stock of knowledge, and Brandon grasped it at once. 
 
 “There you have it, —B. H., Benjamin Hollins, 
 to B., the girl, whatever her name was,—or veechy 
 vairsy, as Professor MacCulloch says. And you say 
 
 lh 
 
SEVERAL STORIES IN ONE. 295 
 
 your friend Macrae is reported as leaning in that 
 direction? ‘That settles it. There is a romance, — 
 love, jealousy, insanity, abduction, murder, remorse ! 
 Suicide would be a fair finish, now, wouldn’t it? or 
 a hanging?” 
 
 “Brandy,” said Parson, “you are an imaginative 
 man! What you don’t know, you can invent. You 
 will write a novel, the first thing you know.” 
 
 “Plenty of material’ — Brandon began to say. 
 
 “ Fellows,” interjected Bly Folliss, “we have arrived 
 at the end of our tether: we are at the blind end of a 
 cul-de-sac.” 
 
 “Then I shall get out,” said Brandon. “I’m going 
 over to Templeton’s.”’ - 
 
 Germaine Parson departed with Brandon ; and Bly 
 Folliss betook himself to his bed, but not to sleep. 
 He lay thinking of the mysteries which surrounded 
 him. Indistinctly, indefinitely, he felt that a hand 
 was pushing him on, a finger beckoning to him out 
 of the darkness to enter and search. He shivered 
 at the thought of looking in among dead men’s bones, 
 covered his head, and refused to take any more in- 
 terest in the affair. Of no use, however, was such 
 a resolve. The next minute he was thinking again, 
 going over and over the whole problem, gazing at it 
 as a bewildered schoolboy does at x and y and gz, in 
 the vague hope that they will write themselves and 
 their equations down, and leave him no labor to per- 
 form except to note that «=this, y=that, and z=the 
 remainder. 
 
 “Post laborem, requies.’ What on earth should 
 
296 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 put that into my head?” said Bly to himself, as the 
 clock struck two. “I haven’t thought of it since I 
 left it hanging over the door of old Dideron’s school- 
 room. No rest until I go to work, eh? Then I'll 
 begin to-morrow morning.’ 
 
 Bly was rewarded for this resolve by a gentle touch, 
 —not from any of the heathen gods, thank you: we 
 have had enough of that. It was the operation of 
 another of nature’s laws. His resolve removed the 
 exciting pressure upon the nervous system; and Bly 
 Folliss yawned himself into a healthy young man’s 
 sound, refreshing sleep. 
 
A CLASHING OF CONTRARY WILLS. 297 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 A CLASHING OF CONTRARY WILLS. 
 
 OR several days after Macrae’s evening interview 
 with Mr. Hollins, he did not make his appear- 
 ance at Elmswoods. He knew that delicate work was 
 going on there ; and he left it, for the present, to the 
 man whose fatherly interest in him had grown to such 
 strange but welcome proportions. Macrae was not 
 hasty, not even impatient, now. 
 
 On Sunday he made a visit at the house, waited 
 long enough for Mr. Hollins to offer him any informa- 
 tion or advice he might wish to add to what he had 
 already given him, and, receiving no intimation of any 
 change, took his departure. Ill at ease he was for a 
 while, but not discomfited. Such work, he reflected, 
 takes time. 
 
 The following Tuesday found him busy at the mills, 
 working with all his might, so that he might take time 
 for an extra visit to Toronto. Evidently the letters 
 which were referred to in his last advices from Hickory 
 Hall, and which he had failed to get, had contained 
 matter of importance. Those letters had unaccounta- 
 bly disappeared. He had charged Carney with 
 abstracting them, but the charge seemed almost pre- 
 posterous when he came to reflect upon it.)¢ (He 
 
298 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 thought now that the woman had not wit enough to 
 abstract them. And above all, although it seemed 
 impossible that Ben should really recover, an anxiety 
 sprang up in Macrae’s heart, which he vainly endeay- 
 ored to stifle. 
 
 It was useless to fight against this feeling. “ To- 
 morrow,” he exclaimed, “I will go to Toronto. If 
 they are sending letters weekly, I may as well have 
 them as early as possible.” 
 
 Macrae accomplished a great deal that Tuesday, 
 not at the mills only, but elsewhere. In the evening 
 he went to Elmswoods. Not a lady of the household 
 was visible: Mr. Hollins was found alone in the 
 library. Macrae felt a chill of disappointment coming 
 upon him, as he passed through the silent halls, and 
 entered into Mr. Hollins’s presence. The revulsion 
 of a feverish hope succeeded, when the elder man 
 held out his hand, with a cordiality which expressed 
 more than mere gladness at his coming. 
 
 “Well come, Thomas!” said Mr. Hollins. “T 
 have had no news for you until to-night. Of course 
 such a matter as the one I mentioned to you cannot 
 be pressed. We have all taken time for it. But Mrs. 
 Hollins tells me that Betty has asked to see her pri- 
 vately this evening, and that it is to consult with her, 
 doubtless, on the very matter which now concerns us 
 all so deeply. Thomas, this is a pretty dull way of 
 making love, for you; but circumstances have ren- 
 dered it necessary: and, if you win that girl’s heart, 
 she will make it all up to you in the warmth of her 
 devotion.” 
 
A CLASHING OF CONTRARY WILLS. 299 
 
 What ould have infatuated this old man to such an 
 estent? At the moment he was so speaking to 
 Thomar Macrae, Betty Hartley was weeping out her 
 very soul, and imploring Mrs. Hollins to support and 
 strengthen her. 
 
 The very mention of marriage with Thomas Macrae 
 had roused Betty to indignation. For the first time 
 in all her life, she felt that it was possible for the 
 daughter to be set against her mother. For, on the 
 very first mention of the subject by Mrs. Hartley, 
 Betty had fled frora her, and flung herself upon the 
 sympathy of Ben’s mother. 
 
 “JT would dic, Mrs. Hollins,” exclaimed Betty, “die, 
 rather than do such a thing. J am Ben’s wife, and no 
 other man’s.” And in her excitement and grief Betty 
 became even prophetic. “I know he will come back. 
 He cannot be dead. He is coming to claim me. It 
 would cover me with shame to allow Mr. Macrae to 
 even speak to me of marriage.” 
 
 “Well, dear child, you are certainly your own mis- 
 tress,” replied Mrs. Hollins. ‘We thought it would 
 be better for you, Betty, — that was all.” 
 
 “You? — you thought so too?” 
 
 “Yes, dear. But there, let it go now. No one 
 shall try to force you, dear child.” 
 
 There followed a scene of weeping and consoling. 
 “Mrs. Hollins, with her great motherly kindness cover- 
 ing all that household, called Mrs. Hartley in presently ; 
 and the mother and daughter were speedily put at one 
 again. 
 
 Down-stairs nothing was heard of this; but, while 
 
300 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 the ladies were enjoying the sweets of reconciliation, 
 Ephraim Hollins was giving Thomas Macrae new 
 courage, and painting in glowing colors an old man’s 
 _ bright anticipations for two young creatures who were 
 the pride of his heart. And, as Macrae took his leave, 
 the old man added, “ Wait patiently, Thomas, for a few 
 days! Somehow, I have great faith in Monday next. 
 It is your birthday: we are to sign the papers on that 
 day. We will do that here, in the library. And per- 
 haps that very day will bring us all a new happiness. 
 I feel it, —somehow, —that that is to be a grand day 
 for us all, Thomas. Good-night, and God bless you !” 
 
 Macrae walked down to Millington by the longest 
 route again, around by Bridge Hill. He could hardly 
 tell whether to be jubilant or depressed. He felt al- 
 most sure of his coming joy; but his anxieties whis- 
 pered constantly in his ear, “ Beware! Beware !! 
 Beware !!!” 
 
 On Bridge Hill he felt a shudder. “It is cold,” 
 he said to himself. The wind whistled across the hill ; 
 and the voice of a devil, whose company he had not 
 had for some time past, sounded wailing in its track, 
 “Warm enough down here, Thomas Macrae! Marry 
 the girl you love, do just as you please, and then come 
 and live with us. Oh, how merry we are!” 
 
 Macrae hastened on, and flung himself upon his 
 bed. It was a rare resort to him to drink; but he © 
 poured himself a great glass of cognac that night, and 
 drank it off. It set him on fire. He dreamed of all 
 horrible shapes, — of Ben drowning in mid-ocean, of 
 Carney rescued, and denouncing him as Ben’s mur- 
 
 “a 
 ie 
 oe 
 
A CLASHING OF CONTRARY WILLS. 301 
 
 derer ; of Betty offering herself to him, to be his wife, 
 his friend, his comfort, and, when he took her to his 
 arms, turning into a corpse, livid and hideous. 
 
 On awaking in the morning, Macrae was weak 
 enough. He trembled like one who has been badly 
 frightened. Again and again he exclaimed in lan- 
 guage which only desperate circumstances could have 
 wrung from him—he was becoming familiar with it 
 now. 
 
 His bath was stinging cold, but it served him a 
 good purpose. He took new life from it, — charged 
 his troubled dreams to the brandy, put up his hand- 
 bag, and went to Toronto as determined as ever. 
 
 From the station to the post-office Macrae walked 
 rapidly. 
 
 “No letters, sir,” said the clerk. 
 
 “None?” Macrae was surprised, but turned away 
 to reflect. ‘Nothing from Hickory Hall!” he re- 
 peated to himself. 
 
 He walked up Adelaide Street, slowly, meditating. 
 
 “Tt must be all right,” he concluded. “Ben is 
 dashing their fond hopes. He has gone back again. 
 May he go into the depths, and stay there !” 
 
 He walked on, another square, and looked at his 
 watch. “No need to see T. B. this time,” he mut- 
 tered. “TI can catch the 7.30, and get to Millington 
 at eleven.” 
 
 “Not to-night, Thomas Macrae!” said a startling 
 voice. A hand—a bony, skinny hand, whose touch 
 disgusted him—was laid upon his arm; and the 
 voice repeated, “ Not to-night. I want you, Thomas 
 
302 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 Macrae. You must listen, as yure life is in dhe 
 balance.” 
 
 This woman, who had again found Macrae, had 
 been wavering now for many months, as we well 
 know, between a half-romantic attachment for the 
 name of Macrae, and a weak sense of justice and 
 right; between a fear of danger to herself, and a 
 desire to set right again a wrong which her own fool- 
 ishness had contributed to bring about; between the 
 stupid indifference which comes of ignorance and 
 debasement, and the workings of a conscience whose 
 fires at best were fitful. 
 
 By degrees, and slow ones, she was working herself 
 up to action ; and Macrae was unconsciously assisting. 
 Seeing him now once more, she determined to appeal 
 to Macrae for the last time. She escaped from ‘The 
 Alderney,” as we have related, and from the turmoil 
 of microscopes and impossible bugs, and made her 
 way to the post-office. The clerk at the General De- 
 livery recognized her, and again gave her a letter 
 addressed to E. P. Hallowell, forgetting, in his amuse- 
 ment over Carney’s blarney, Mr. Hallowell’s order to 
 the contrary. Regretting his action a half-hour after- 
 ward, he still had no inclination to expose his own 
 carelessness when Mr. Hallowell himself came; and, 
 as it turned out, paid no penalty for what the authori- 
 ties of the office would have considered a misde- 
 meanor. 
 
 All day long Carney lingered in the neighborhood 
 
 of the post-office, hoping that Macrae would come. — 
 
 The early evening brought her desire to an issue ; and 
 
A CLASHING OF CONTRARY WILLS. 303 
 
 as Macrae stood under the lamp, taking the time, she 
 seized the opportunity. 
 
 “He has a meeting with Tim Brannigan,” thought 
 Carney ; and grasping Macrae’s arm, she uttered the 
 words which answered his thoughts as well as they 
 finished her own, — “‘ Not to-night, Thomas Macrae.” 
 
 Macrae now turned upon the woman, thoroughly 
 enraged, and cried, — 
 
 ““Woman, I will not be dogged and pursued in this 
 fashion. Go your way, and let me go mine!” 
 
 “It’s dhe way .to destruction, Thomas Macrae. 
 Will I stand an’ see you ate yerself up? What wud 
 yer father, an’ dhe mother that bare you, say to dhis? 
 Be reasonable, man, an’ don’t talk like a wild Frinch- 
 man !”’ 
 
 “ Leave me,” he continued. “Go, or I shall strike 
 you!” 
 
 “Strike me!” she answered, with dogged bold- 
 ness. “You strike me! Do it, do it wanc’t, Misther 
 Thomas, an’ I’ll rise dhe town on you.” 
 
 Carney was shaking with anger. She quelled the 
 storm, however, instantly, and once more addressed 
 Macrae. 
 
 “Again, Misther Thomas, I ask, — will you go to 
 Mrs. Brannigan’s wid me? An’ not to see Tim, mind, 
 but me.” . 
 
 Macrae was perplexed. He could not afford to be 
 violent to this gray-haired woman: his hands refused 
 to strike. 
 
 ““Come, then. And it must be for the last time: 
 do you hear?”’ 
 
304 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 “YT hear, Thomas Macrae; and God grant it may 
 be dhe last time and dhe best. O Misther Thomas!” 
 
 oat 
 
 she continued, lowering her voice to its gentlest tones, — 
 
 “if you knew dhe good I wish you, and dhe worruk 
 I’d do to save you! An’ it’s me gets all dhe haird 
 knocks.” 
 
 At “The Prince of Cumberland House ” it was not 
 difficult for Carney to arrange with her friend and 
 crony for the use of a suitable room where she could 
 be alone with Macrae; and for hours they sat there 
 together talking of Ben Hollins. 
 
 Macrae was surprised and annoyed to find that Car- 
 ney’s recollection of the events of two years ago was 
 minute and exact. They were impressed upon his 
 own memory forever ; but he had hoped, with a fatuity 
 which has ruined many a criminal, that Carney had 
 lost the thread of all that dismal history. » 
 
 On her part, Carney plead with him, and entreated 
 him to tell her where Ben was. She offered even to 
 shield the real criminal, by taking all the guilt upon 
 
 herself, if he would only let her restore Ben to his’ 
 
 home. 
 
 “Tt’s on me conscience, Misther Thomas. I’m not 
 guilty, God knows: it’s you, an’ you alone. But it’s 
 on me conscience that if I had spoke to Harper soon 
 enough, if I had been quicker to tell them all the 
 troot, if I had been in less of a hurry to go to Arboe, 
 dhis sorry would have niver been.” 
 
 Macrae undertook at last to deceive her, to lull 
 her conscience and her reason to sleep, by offering 
 again to send her over the sea. She was in arms in 
 
A CLASHING OF CONTRARY WILLS. 305 
 
 an instant. No, nothing would serve her now but 
 absolute compliance with the one demand she had 
 made, the achievement of the one object she had in 
 view. 
 
 Until midnight the battle raged, neither yielding. 
 Macrae could not place the secret of Hickory Hall in 
 the possession of this woman: Carney would not be 
 content with less. 
 
 At twelve o’clock Macrae arose, and asked Carney 
 to wait five minutes for him, leaving his hand-bag on 
 a chair as security for his return. He went into the 
 public room, and entered one of half a dozen little 
 cells ranged along the wall, cramped, dark, dismal 
 holes, where men were accustomed to eat in uncon- 
 - sciousness of the many imperfections of what was set 
 before them. Here he found Timothy Brannigan. A 
 brief conference between the two ended in Branni- 
 gan’s emerging from his retreat, and going to the 
 room where Macrae had left Carney. 
 
 Tapping the poor old creature’s shoulder with unne- 
 cessary severity, Tim said, “It’s time to go to bed, 
 Mrs. Dugan. You’re almost asleep in your chair.” 
 
 “Not yet, Tim, not yet. I’ve business to do.” 
 
 “Who wid?” 
 
 *Dhat’s my business.” 
 
 “Ts it wid Misther Hallowell?” 
 
 “ Misther who?” screamed Carney. 
 
 “ Misther Hallowell, you yelpin’ ould witch! Don’t 
 be r’isin’ dhe house at dhis hour! Come, get up! I’ll 
 show you where to sleep.” 
 
 “Wait, I tell you! He'll return.” 
 
306 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 “ That he won't,” said Tim, laughing. “ He’s 
 gone.” 
 
 “Gone?” cried Carney. “Gone to his death, 
 dhen. Oh dhe black ingratitude of men! His death 
 be on his own head, dhen! I may as well go home.” 
 
 “Indeed, an’ you’ll do nothing of the sort, Mrs. 
 Dugan. To say nothing of the lack of hospitality, — 
 and mother ’ud kill me for that to-morrow, — you’re 
 not goin’ out uv this house till I let you go. And 
 you'll make no noise about it, aither, or it'll be the 
 worse for you.” 
 
 Carney was thoroughly cowed by the ferocity of 
 this fellow, and allowed herself to be held as a prisoner. 
 She was placed in an upper room in a remote part of 
 the house, and the door was locked from the outside. 
 In the morning her breakfast was brought up, and she 
 was warned not to make a noise, and bring disgrace 
 upon her friend’s house, and at the same time cajoled 
 with the promise of a visit from Mrs. Brannigan. 
 
 All that day (it was Wednesday, March 8) she 
 waited, and in vain. Tim’s threats terrified her. All 
 day Thursday, too, she was still a prisoner. But 
 towards evening, while walking the floor, crying softly 
 to herself, her temper changed. She became enraged, 
 and, gathering up her dress, shook it violently. 
 
 “ Why didn’t I think of dhis?” said she. And from 
 the pocket of her gown she took a bunch of jingling 
 keys, —the keys to a score of doors at “The Alder- 
 ney.” One after another she tried them. At last, 
 with joy, she found one that turned the bolt: she 
 opened the door, and was free. 
 
A CLASHING OF CONTRARY WILLS. 307 
 
 Now she had no fears. She would walk out boldly ; 
 and if Tim confronted her, or hindered her, she would 
 “make a noise” that he never would forget. But 
 Tim was not in her way. She passed through the 
 halls, down the stairs, and out into the open street, 
 without let or hinderance. It was not many minutes 
 before she was safe in her own room. 
 
 Carney was all aflame now. She for the first time 
 fully comprehended that Macrae was wholly given over 
 to the prosecution of his object, and that it was useless 
 for her to interpose her pleadings and warnings. She 
 saw, too, that he would not scruple to visit his ven- 
 geance upon her. No such fear had occurred to her 
 before. But now he had spoken of striking her, and 
 had made her a prisoner. Her brain grew bewildered 
 with the intricacies and enormities surrounding her ; 
 and, wearied out, she fell asleep. 
 
308 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 CONFESSIONS. 
 
 T was at last Saturday morning, —the morning of 
 the r1th of March. Briefly the situation was this. 
 At Elmswoods were three elderly persons, calm and 
 settled in the conviction that one whom they all had 
 loved deeply, and whose memory was still green and 
 dear, was dead, — gone from their sight until the time 
 of “the restitution of all things,’’—and one young 
 woman, a little pale, with an anxious shade upon her 
 face, a firm, set look in her eye, as of one who is 
 struggling against pressure from without. She is made 
 of clay, this young woman, like all the rest of us. 
 With all-her conviction, with all-her genuine sentiment, 
 with all her love for Ben, she may grow plastic under 
 ‘this pressure, and submit to be moulded into a new 
 shape. It may become possible to erase the name of 
 Ben Hollins, written so deeply upon her heart, — not 
 completely, but leaving only faint outlines of the old: 
 writing, — and to place there in new and golden letters, 
 or in deep and solemn-looking characters, a new name, 
 —the name of Thomas Macrae. ~ 
 For they have conspired against her, all these com- 
 panions and friends, not meaning to harm her, but to 
 befriend her; meaning to open the doors of Comfort 
 
 x 
 
CONFESSIONS. 309 
 
 Lodge to her, and give her the very peace which their 
 great love desires for her. The reconciliation of Tues- 
 day last was only a ruse, a postponement. 
 
 And she, Betty Hartley, resists.and fights. She ar- 
 gues them down, she pleads, and sheds little rivulets 
 of tears; grows angry finally, and says, — 
 
 “Tt is of no use, mamma. In one word, I won’t, 
 there !” 
 
 That battle is ended. No blood is shed. ‘The 
 warriors have only blustered, beat. their drums, and 
 blared upon their trumpets, wheeled their horses upon 
 the field, and flashed their weapons in the sun. ‘They 
 hold a conference at last, and decide to commit the 
 whole affair to diplomacy. A mimic family imitation 
 of national combats. 
 
 Says Mr. Hollins, ‘We must not challenge Betty 
 any further. Let Macrae come now, and say his say. 
 Let him state his own case. If that is of no avail, 
 our dear girl must have her way.” 
 
 In Toronto Carney was.moving about among the 
 rooms at “The Alderney,” glowering and muttering. 
 Her whole soul was imbittered at every thought of 
 Macrae’s treachery to her. However weak her sense 
 of the injustice done to Ben Hollins, her own “ox” 
 had been “ gored” at last ; and Carney was indignant, 
 as her betters are under like conditions. 
 
 “T’]l have it-out wid him now, dhe liar, dhe thafe, 
 dhe — murtherer! An’ it’s Misther Fully’ll do it too,” 
 she said to herself and her dustpan. 
 
 Meantime Mr. Bly Folliss was sweetening his coffee 
 and peppering his morning chop with cogitations upon 
 
310 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 the very same subject. And, very likely at the iden- 
 tical moment of Carney’s conclusion, he threw a spoon 
 upon the table with a semblance of violence, and ex- 
 claimed, “I'll have it out with him! He must explain 
 that ridiculous card. He is up to some mischief or 
 other, and it will be a friendly thing to bring him up 
 with a round turn; and that Dugan woman is the one 
 to help me.” 
 
 At Hickory Hall Dr. Peterson was holding a consul- 
 tation with Laidlaw. . 
 
 “Mr. Hallowell writes,” he says, “that he will not 
 be able to come until next week, after all. Business 
 detains him.” 
 
 “Doctor,” says Laidlaw musingly, “I wonder if 
 there is any hocus-pocus in this. I don’t like the look 
 of it. You will have Ben left on your hands.” 
 
 “No, I think not. Mr. Hallowell is travelling, you 
 know ; though, now that I think of it, he seems to be 
 travelling in a rather small circle. By the way, did 
 you look up this Millington of which Ben speaks?” 
 
 “Yes: there is a Millington in Illinois, one in Michi- 
 gan also, and a Millerton on the Harlem Railroad. 
 There is a town in Canada whose name is spelled in 
 the ‘Guide’ M-i-l-apostrophe-t-o-n.” 
 
 “The very place !”’ exclaims Dr. Peterson. “One 
 of the drafts for Ben’s expenses came from that very 
 town. Laidlaw, I begin to be seriously troubled about 
 this matter. I shall telegraph there’ again.” 
 
 The doctor’s hand was upon his bell in another 
 instant ; and before many minutes a boy was sent off 
 with a despatch to this Canadian town, and others also 
 
CONFESSIONS. * 311 
 
 to the towns in Michigan and Illinois. They like to 
 be as well informed as possible at Hickory Hall. But 
 the answer came from all points, “No such person as 
 E. P. Hallowell here.” 
 
 At Millington Thomas Macrae happened to be at 
 the station sending off some business despatches, and 
 heard the click of the key, all unconscious that the 
 words which the operator was receiving had reference 
 to himself, all ignorant that he had come so near to 
 being struck literally by lightning. 
 
 Dr. Peterson had nothing to rest upon now but Mr. 
 Hallowell’s assurance that he would come for Ben the fol- 
 lowing week. He dismissed his suspicions, as who does 
 not when repeated efforts bring suspicion to nothing? 
 
 They were anxious to get rid of Ben at Hickory 
 Hall, — not out of any animosity towards him, as you 
 can readily imagine, but for his own good. Dr. Peter- 
 son wished him to see the world again. He had faith 
 in the awakening powers of familiar sights and sounds. 
 He believed — nay, new —that Ben was on the road 
 to full health. Science had done much for him: the 
 rest could be intrusted to Nature, which had taken 
 kindly interest in the patient, and was gradually open- 
 ing for him the doors of life. Admirable Science! 
 adorable Nature ! 
 
 A knock, a familiar knock, upon Bly Folliss’s door, 
 a hasty “‘Come in,” and two employés of Nature were 
 together. 
 _“Misther Fully, wad ye give me a quarther uv an 
 hour?” asked Carney. 
 
312 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 “A half-dozen of them, Mrs. Dugan, on one con- 
 dition, — namely, that you will employ them in telling 
 me what I wish to know.” 
 
 “‘Dhat’s dhe very business I’m on, dhis perplexin’ 
 day, Misther Fully. But, Misther Fully, don’t be lettin’ 
 dhim two harry-skarries in” — 
 
 Bly laughed heartily at the notion of Germaine Par- 
 son being a “harry-skarry,” but assured Mrs. Dugan 
 that the interview should be uninterrupted. 
 
 fi Dhey’ll be comin’ to see dhe mockeryscoops an’ 
 dhe plagueyscoop an’ dhe bugs ; an’ I’ve a bug meself 
 to show you, Misther Fully, dhat’ll rise dhe hair off 
 yer head.” 
 
 “All right! The harry-skarries shall not come in. 
 Here ! put this card on the door-plate, please.” 
 
 Bly wrote upon a card, “Jn at noon;” and, when 
 Carney had placed it, he locked the door, withdrew 
 the EoY, and sat down for what he called an “ out-and- 
 outer’ with Mrs. Dugan. 
 
 “Misther Fully,” began Carney, “av ye sana take 
 a letther out uv dhe pos’-offy, what would dhey do to 
 your” 
 
 “Your own letter?”’ 
 
 “Well, I don’t say dhat.” 
 
 “Tf it was some one else’s, Mrs. Dugan, you could 
 be arrested and punished.” 
 
 “Oh, me! But suppose dhere was almost murther 
 in it?” 
 
 “But you see, Mrs. Dugan, it would be a 
 crime ’’ — . 4 
 
 “T don’t see anny thing about it, sir. Dhat’s what 
 
CONFESSIONS. 313 
 
 throubles me: I’m as blind as a fish.” For a moment 
 she hesitated, and then asked, — 
 
 “Ts it a crime to do good, Misther Fully?” 
 
 Bly tapped the arm of his chair a moment, while he 
 replied, “ N-n-no, not if you do it in the proper way.” 
 
 Quick as thought Carney handed Bly a sheet of 
 paper. There was no covering, no outer address, to 
 warn him. It was, in fact, the last of Macrae’s letters 
 from Hickory Hall, the one which Carney had ab- 
 stracted on Wednesday, — the one which Macrae both 
 desired and dreaded to receive, and whose non-arrival 
 had lulled him into a deceptive security for the 
 moment. 
 
 “ Misther Fully, I’m not dhat aisy in readin’ dhat 
 one uv my age ought to be. Would ye A/aze to read 
 dhat for me?” 
 
 But Bly’s suspicions were awakened. Blundering 
 Carney had herself aroused them by her palaver. 
 
 “Ts this your letter?’”’ he asked. 
 
 Blundering took refuge in falsehood, its first cousin. 
 
 “ Yes,” she replied. “ Read it, read it for dhe love 
 of mercy, Misther Fully! It’s dyin’ I am wid grief 
 an’ —ohoo! ohoo!” 
 
 Here followed a flood of tears, the overflow of which 
 melted this young man’s tender, soluble feelings and 
 suspicions at once. 
 
 ‘All this,” he thought, “may be true. The poor 
 creature may be suffering, and I may be the one to 
 relieve her. Mighty respectable-looking writing, how- 
 _ ever, for such a woman’s correspondent! Perhaps it is 
 
 US a 
 
 _ a lawyer’s. 
 
314 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 Bly was rising in importance and dignity, in his own 
 eyes, during this course of reflection. He began to 
 look upon himself as quite a patron of the poor and 
 the oppressed. And now, as he held the letter out of 
 his sight for a moment, this new sense of responsibility 
 took shape in his mind. His youthful romance con- 
 cocted an authoritative commission to investigate 
 Carney Dugan’s case — a commission, which might be 
 put down in writing something after this fashion : — 
 
 “KNOW ALL MEN BY THESE PRESENTS: We do hereby con- 
 stitute an Inferior Court, to be held this day and hour, in the 
 chambers of one Bly Folliss, at ‘The Alderney’ so called, in 
 the city of Toronto, and Province of Ontario. And we do name 
 and appoint the aforesaid Bly Folliss to sit as Judge of the said 
 Court. The Clerk will cry, ‘Ohoo, ohoo!’ as softly as possi- 
 ble, the same in order not to excite two harry-skarries who are 
 coming up the stairs two steps at a time.” 
 
 Nature made this appointment, in despite of all 
 forms and order of law. 
 
 “Hark ! Misther Tully,” whispered Carney. “Bugs 
 is nothin’ to what’s comin’. Leave ’em go!” 
 
 The two sat in silence, while Brandon and Parson, 
 
 outside, read the “In at noon” card, commented 
 briefly thereon, and went on to their own quarters. 
 Whereupon the Judge of the Inferior Court called the 
 case, and began to take evidence. The paper in his 
 hand came first, of course. He read, — 
 
 “ Dear Sir,— As you will have perceived from our last 
 advices, our hopes have been growing of late. Your brother 
 has for some time been showing signs of returning health. We 
 are happy now to confirm any pleasant anticipations which 
 
 2 
 
CONFESSIONS. 315 
 
 you may have derived from our previous letters, and to an- 
 nounce to you, that, in our opinion, you had better come next 
 week prepared to take your brother away. We hope every 
 thing for him from renewed contact with the world, and from 
 travel especially. 
 
 “With congratulations, we are, dear Mr. Hallowell, 
 
 “ec ” 
 
 “Mr. who!” exclaimed Bly Folliss, springing to his 
 
 feet. “What do you mean, Mrs. Dugan, by asking 
 _me to read this letter? It is not yours. Where did 
 
 you get it?” he continued. 
 “T got it in dhe pos’offy, Misther Fully ; an’ I’d as 
 good a right to it as him, anny day. Dhere’s murther 
 
 in it, an’ lyin’, an’ thievin’. It isn’t his brother, at all. 
 
 It’s Misther Ben Hollins, it is.’’ 
 And now the floodgates of Carney’s language were 
 
 “open. She poured into Bly’s ear a tale which aston- 
 
 ished and shocked him. The hour of noon sounded ; 
 
 y 
 
 _and Bly removed the card upon his door, placing there 
 
 another, postponing his opening to visitors. For Car- 
 ney was voluble, circumstantial, roundabout, discur- 
 sive : her own trials and troubles, from the far-off Arboe 
 days down, mingled with the sorrows of Elmswoods 
 and the crimes of Thomas Macrae. 
 
 And all that afternoon Bly Folliss sat with open 
 eye, and never wearied. He waited patiently for every 
 detail. He asked questions, set Carney on the track 
 when she wandered ; employed the minutes when she 
 
 yielded to her propensity to wail, in thinking and in 
 mourning, in wondering how such a man as Thomas 
 
 _ Macrae could have sunk so low. x 
 
316 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 You or I would have put on our hat, at the finishing 
 of Carney Dugan’s story, and started for the nearest 
 telegraph-office, to send word to Ben Hollins’s father, 
 eh! Perhaps so, perhaps not. ‘To Bly Folliss other 
 considerations came into prominent view. This man, 
 Macrae, had been his friend. To pursue this matter 
 in hot haste would be like asking Macrae to stand 
 upon a box of gunpowder, and holding him there, 
 while Carney Dugan, or some other agent, applied 
 fire. 
 
 “Ah!” said Folliss, “very likely that would blow 
 me up also, and the Dugan, and the whole lot of us!” 
 
 The Judge of Nature’s Inferior Court felt the need 
 of counsel. He sallied forth, therefore, to obtain it, 
 looking for two friends who had been twice disap- 
 pointed that day when looking for him. 
 
 At seven o’clock the three came together as by one © 
 impulse in Folliss’s rooms, — Bly pre-occupied and * 
 anxious, the others curious, and disposed to chaff | 
 their host, and to call him a man of mysteries. 
 
 In no t:mor for pleasantries, Bly informed them 
 that there was serious business on hand; and, for the 
 second time that day, went over the ground covered 
 by Carhey’s revelations, closing his narrative with a 
 request that his advisers would speak their minds 
 freely and fully. 
 
 There were many questions to be asked, much sub- _ 
 sidiary information to be gleaned concerning Macrae’s 
 character and previous history, a deal of talking, of — 
 condemning, to be indulged in before these two were _ 
 prepared to pronounce their opinion upon the one — 
 
 | 
 | 
 | 
 a 
 | 
 
 j 
 
CONFESSIONS. Pe WA 
 
 important point, —upon what was to be done, not by 
 Macrae, or by Mrs. Dugan, but by Bly Folliss. 
 
 The longer rolls of the clock-bell sounded before 
 this conference came to an end. With the easy- 
 going method of youth, the unanimous conclusion 
 was reached, that Ephraim Hollins of Millington ought 
 to be apprised of Macrae’s suspicious behavior, of the 
 presence at Hickory Hall of a patient who is called 
 “Ben,” and of the name of Macrae’s correspondent. 
 Further, that, as it was now practically Sunday, Mon- 
 _ day morning would be the proper time for communi- 
 cating with Mr. Hollins. 
 
 The Lord’s Day following was a day of quiet and 
 rest. Around Macrae a slightly hazy atmosphere of 
 security had gathered. No news from Hickory Hall 
 seemed almost the same as good news. After morn- 
 ing service at St. Peter’s, Mr. Hollins spoke to him 
 - of the morrow; and Macrae read volumes of hope 
 in the old man’s face as he said, “I sincerely trust, 
 Thomas, that you will have more articles than one to 
 sign on your birthday.” 
 
 In ‘Toronto they rested also, — Mrs. Dugan in her 
 way, the three friends in theirs. 
 
 At Hickory Hall there was quiet. You would think 
 that all days ought to be alike there. Not so: the 
 peculiar holiness of the Lord’s Day envelops even 
 Hickory Hall. The “Giant” occasionally storms one 
 of the enemy’s outer works, or has a skirmish ; but reg- 
 ular pitched battles are deferred until Monday, or at 
 Teast until twelve o’clock of Sunday night. “Uncle” 
 Babbage is invariably “ Elder” Babbage on this day, 
 
318 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 and preaches a great many sermons, which are, as 
 he describes them, “short, but brief.” 
 
 Only in one known place within the range of our 
 story was the day ruffled. Si Kimber returned to his 
 home much earlier than was expected. About eleven 
 o’clock Sunday morning Debby spied him sitting on 
 the identical log which Ben had once occupied. Go- 
 ing to him, she looked him over with a ludicrous 
 mingling of scorn and respect. 
 
 “You're a perty feller, you air,” she said. 
 
 “Wot be the matter wi’ me?” Si asked, hanging 
 ‘his head, looking at his boots and his hat, and affect- 
 ing to regard her remark as directed towards some 
 defect in his attire. 
 
 “You're a perty feller, you air. Ef you was a-goin’ 
 to keep that letter all winter long, why didn’t you go 
 an’ keep it forever? that’s what I want to know. 
 Goin’ an’ gettin’ that young Folliss up here, sech 
 weather as this, —lucky for him it’s ben a-thawin’ so, 
 —an’ then runnin’ away! You feel nice, don’t 
 Vere 
 
 “ Wull, now, Deb, doan’t ye say a woord. I be that 
 dashed wi’ it all, I’m a reg’lar porpuss.” 
 
 “Two nice things you’ve done, par, anyway. Ef 
 you'd ’a’ sent for Mr. Folliss when I ast you to, mebbe 
 that crazy feller’d ben well by this time.” 
 
 “Him well, Debbe? Naw, naw, they kind doan’t 
 do that.” 
 
 “ Pshaw, par, wot a ole’”?—said Debby, finishing — 
 her sentence with a contemptuous snort. 
 
 “Nother thing I can tell ye,” she continued: “ Mr. 
 
CONFESSIONS. 319 
 
 Folliss was that mad, you’ll never see him at Little 
 Bear agin, now you believe it.” 
 
 This was pure exaggeration on Debby’s part, and 
 intended only to bring her “par” down. He came 
 down like a squirrel with a load of buckshot under his 
 skin. He became wretched, inconsolable, and vowed 
 he would go to Toronto and make it up with Bly, if 
 it cost him the profits of all next year. 
 
 Whereupon Miss Debby became more gracious to 
 him, and in the gloaming sang him a dozen psalms, 
 out of a browned old volume whose title-page de- 
 clared that these productions were “more plain, 
 smooth, and agreeable to the text, than any hereto- 
 fore.” Let us all be thankful that we did not live in 
 the “ heretofore.” 
 
 This, for instance, was one of Debby’s offerings to 
 her father’s wounded feelings : — 
 
 “O Lord my God, if it be so 
 that I committed this, 
 If it be so that in my hands 
 iniquity there is: 
 
 Then let the foe pursue and take 
 my soul, and my life thrust 
 
 Down to the earth, and let him lay 
 mine honour in the dust.” 
 
 Thus that Lord’s Day came and went. To-morrow 
 is to be Devil’s day. 
 
320 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 ANOTHER DAY, THOMAS ! 
 
 ONDAY, the 13th of March, is come. The 
 
 day opens grimly, — cold, raw, and wet. The 
 clouds hurry across the sky; now and then one 
 blacker than its fellows dipping downward towards 
 and very near the earth, changing every instant the 
 form of its ragged edges, opening great mouths in its 
 huge side, like a very shark hungering to devour and 
 consume. What would it have? Human victims? 
 They are ready. In every city and town, on country 
 roads, in prisons, on battle-fields, there is carrion 
 enough. Find it, sharks of the sea, sharks of the air, 
 find it; gorge yourselves with it; eat, devour, con- 
 sume all evil, root and branch, consume each other, 
 and leave this world purer and better ! 
 
 As the sun goes higher, the clouds pass away ocean- 
 wards, trooping to some Titanic sport in the realm 
 of tempest and gale. The west wind gives place. 
 The south sends warmer currents, the sky becomes 
 genial, the sunlight is gentle. Men hold up their 
 hands towards the day-ruler, and say, “ That feels like 
 summer — almost.” 
 
 The atmospheric change put Thomas Macrae in 
 high spirits. He took it as a good omen. 
 
 * 
 
AB 
 rt 
 
 ANOTHER DAY, THOMAS! 321 
 
 And so in very truth it was, but those for whom it 
 was knew it not. Betty Hartley, looking out of win- 
 dow, saw the jagged March clouds disappearing in the 
 far east, welcomed the sunlight, felt a passing wish 
 that so might the griefs and perplexities of life fly 
 away from her, and never once thought of there being 
 “omens in the air.”’ 
 
 In scrupulous manly toilet, at eleven o’clock, — the 
 hour agreed upon between Ephraim Hollins and 
 Thomas Macrae,—the two met in the library at 
 Elmswoods. The one was ready to proceed to busi- 
 ness, the other had something to say. 
 
 “Mr. Hollins,” said Macrae, — prophetically as it 
 happened, —“T shall never tell you how deeply all 
 your kindly interest has touched me. I wish now to 
 ask one further favor of you, before we proceed to 
 sign the papers. May I see Miss Betty first?” 
 
 A vague fear came into Ephraim Hollins’s mind: 
 but it was accompanied by a procession of possibili- 
 ties, by the sudden sense of what a net Macrae’s feet 
 would be in if he were bound to a business partner- 
 ship with him, and yet should fail with Betty ; by a 
 remembrance of the fact that such failure sometimes 
 unfitted men for business; by the truth, in a word, 
 that all hinged upon Macrae’s acceptance or rejection 
 
 _ by this girl; and he bowed to Macrae’s will, as if 
 
 some mightier hand had stayed him. He admired 
 Macrae the more for the proposition: it seemed. a 
 very master-stroke on Macrae’s part. 
 
 _ They were brought together in the drawing-rocia 
 with some little show of stratagem on the part of. the 
 
322 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 elders ; Macrae being ,eager yet subdued, poor Betty 
 tremulous. She had successfully resisted the attacks 
 of those skirmishers, — her mother and Mrs. Hollins, 
 she had beaten them back; and here was the 
 enemy at last, in force. He numbered but one, but 
 Betty trembled as if there had been twenty thousand 
 Macraes. 3 
 
 There was not the slightest opportunity for that 
 reading of soul which enables two loving hearts to 
 melt into each other, and have done with all the dis- 
 agreeables of proposal and acceptance. Macrae never 
 once thought of taking Betty’s hand, turning the 
 whites of his eyes up, and murmuring or whispering. 
 He had come for business, and the business spirit was 
 upon him. It was as if, in Blackstone, he had read a 
 chapter on the “ Forms of Contracting Matrimony,” 
 and now proposed to apply its teachings literally and 
 legally. He would, and did, begin with a statement 
 of facts. ‘Then followed evidence and deductions, — 
 finally the pleading. He was eloquent from first to 
 last, especially in his closing speech. His words 
 would have melted a heart of stone. Strangely, they 
 only hardened the gentle heart of the girl, who now, 
 out of very pity, listened to him to the end. 
 
 “QO Mr. Thomas,” she then said, “I cannot give 
 you that which is another’s! Do not, I pray, think 
 me romantic. But I do not believe that I am free; 
 and, if I were, it would be years before I could marry. 
 Go into the partnership with Mr. Hollins, do, pray, 
 and — and” — | 
 
 “ Mother! Betty! Mother! Betty!” Accry, an 
 
ANOTHER DAY, THOMAS! 323 
 
 old man’s voice, strengthened, cleared, made thrilling, 
 as if some message of mighty import was borne upon 
 it, resounded through the halls. That cry penetrated 
 to every part of the house. Doors were flung open, 
 pale women looked out, and, from up stairs and down, 
 ladies and servants came trooping to the library. At 
 the entrance to this room stood Ephraim Hollins, his 
 eyes eagerly straining to catch the first glimpse of his 
 wife, while his feet refused to carry him farther. He 
 held a paper, a little oblong sheet ; and it shook and 
 rustled as if it had voice, but could not articulate. 
 
 “‘What is it, father?” asked the frightened wife. 
 
 “Come, mother, come quickly! Ben, Ben, Ben! 
 Here, read! O God! how good God is!” 
 
 The old man dropped upon the floor, not fainting, 
 but almost hysterical. 
 
 Betty Hartley was on the spot very quickly, and 
 Thomas Macrae near her. 
 
 Gasping, laughing, crying, all in a breath, the old 
 man held up the paper to Betty. 
 
 “There, Betty, read it aloud! read it quick, girl! 
 again and again.” 
 
 In a moment more he was upon his feet again, and 
 flung his arms around Macrae’s neck, sobbing. “O 
 Thomas! my son was lost, and is found again. He is 
 not dead. They have found him at last, at last!” 
 
 Macrae grasped the paper, and devoured it at one 
 look. It was a despatch from Bly Folliss, brief, and 
 to the point. | 
 
 “Do you know that your son is at Hickory Hall, 
 Hickoryville, State of ry 
 
324 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 A swooning girl was gently lifted in the arms of Mrs. 
 Hartley and Mrs. Hollins, and laid upon a sofa. Joy 
 had set the blood to running too fast in her young 
 veins. Not too fast, perhaps, after all; for this faint- 
 ing does not do such girls much harm. 
 
 A few minutes of lethargy, a few of keen suffering, 
 and then we laugh. But in this case it was Betty who 
 laughed. 
 
 ‘“‘T knew he was not dead,” she said, so sweetly, so 
 firmly, that they all looked upon her as a prophetess 
 indeed. 
 
 Macrae stood in a dazed, shocked, stupefied condi- 
 tion, until Ephraim Hollins took him bythe hand, 
 saying, “ Another day, Thomas, another day !” 
 
 “Ves, another day,’’ answered Macrae. 
 
 “ And this is your birthday, too, Thomas.” 
 
 “Tt is my death-day,” thought Macrae. 
 
 “And Ben’s birthday too,” said the old man. 
 “Mother, we will celebrate this day hereafter as Ben’s 
 birthday.” 
 
 “Father,” responded the wise womaiff, “ meantime, 
 let us have our son at home again.” 
 
 She stopped, turned pale, and asked, “ Hickory 
 Hall! What is that?” . 
 
 Macrae, the only one who could have answered that 
 question, had taken advantage of this brief passage 
 between the father and mother to leave the house. He 
 felt that there was no longer a place for him within 
 the walls of Elmswoods. 
 
 Once out in the open air, he filled it with bitter 
 cursings. He turned sick at thought of the undefined 
 
\ 
 
 ANOTHER DAY, THOMAS! 325 
 
 future. A homeless, placeless feeling enveloped him: 
 he saw himself an outcast, a by-word. 
 
 He reached the road ; and there, under cover of the 
 tall hedge, he shook his fist at the great house, and 
 almost cried aloud, ‘Curse you, curse you all! You 
 shall not have him yet!” 
 
 A new purpose sprang up in him. He hurried 
 down the road: he locked himself in his room, drew 
 out packet after packet of papers, and committed them 
 to the flames. He put up clothing enough to last for 
 a fortnight, and sent it to the station. He drew a 
 check covering the entire amount of his balance at 
 the bank, and burned the rest of his check-book. This 
 check was in his uncle’s favor ; and next morning that 
 gentleman was greatly surprised at receiving it in his 
 mail, with a brief note, requesting him to have the 
 amount transferred to his own account, and to await 
 further advices from him. 
 
 Upon his table he left a note for his landlady, con- 
 taining money enough to liquidate all his obligations 
 to her, and informing her that the contents of the 
 room were her own, except the books, which were to 
 be sent to the “ Young Men’s Library.” 
 
 At Elmswoods, meantime, there was also much 
 bustle and occupation. A portmanteau was packed 
 for Mr. Hollins ; and he made himself ready to go at 
 once to the States, in search of his lost one. 
 
 A hurried visit to surgeon Braddock on the way to 
 the station ; a dozen words from that gentleman, giving 
 Mr. Hollins the briefest, but yet sufficient, information 
 concerning Hickory Hall and its location; a few 
 
326 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 scratches of the surgeon’s pen, turning off a letter of 
 introduction to Dr. Wilding, Dr. Peterson’s predecessor, 
 dead two years ago ; a glance at his watch; a hurried 
 drive to the station, —and Ephraim Hollins took his 
 place among the passengers in the eastward express at 
 three o’clock. 
 
 Almost at the moment of starting, schedule time, 
 the driver of the “Coburg, No. 83,” leaning out of 
 the cab-window for the conductor’s signal, exclaimed, 
 “‘ Going east, Mr. Macrae?” 
 
 “Ves, Barney: I have a fancy to ride in the cab if 
 you have room for me.” 
 
 “Certainly. Take the bell-side if you please. It 
 will keep you warm to ply the rope.” 
 
 “Not the first time either, is it, Barney?” 
 
 Macrae had made many a trip in just this fashion. 
 He had a passion for it years before, and had made 
 acquaintance with several of the engineers on this 
 road. He was popular among them for some reason 
 or other, and an especial favorite of Barney Easton’s. 
 
 “Going through?” asked Barney. 
 
 “Yes: business up at Barrie. Must get up there 
 on the morning mail ; too late to catch this afternoon’s 
 Aeh gen | 
 
 Macrae was laying a train of evidence for a possible 
 law matter of the future. He was thinking, reasoning, 
 plotting, now, with all his coolness and clearness. 
 Again and again he spoke to Easton of the Northern 
 Railway, asked what sort of town Barrie was, and if 
 he knew A and B and C. 
 
 It was but a slight affair; and, as matters went, it 
 
ANOTHER DAY, THOMAS! 327 
 
 proved to be of no consequence. It is mentioned 
 here, only as an instance of the now ceaseless scheming 
 ofthisman. Not an opportunity for manufacturing evi- 
 dence — small evidence, intended to throw dust in the 
 eyes of men in certain possible events — was neglected. 
 
 At Toronto Macrae lingered upon the engine until 
 the rush of passengers had subsided. The darkness 
 of early evening shielded him. He made no inquiries 
 for his trunk. A run to the “ Prince of Cumberland,” 
 only one square off, a quick thrusting of a card into 
 an envelope, and a direction to the bar-keeper to give 
 it to Tim Brannigan, — the card having on it the words, 
 “Look out! Be on hand any moment,” —this con- 
 sumed fifteen minutes. In five more he was again at 
 the station, this time to take his seat in a coach fora 
 night journey. 
 
 Four seats in front of him sat an old man, looking 
 weary and excited. This old man turned more than 
 once during the evening, and looked Thomas Macrae 
 full in the face, once a little attentively. “That young 
 man,” he thought, “is of a type not seen often in these 
 northern latitudes. The snow and the north winds 
 bleach and redden: it is the tropical sun which browns 
 and blackens.” 
 
 Macrae had thought of all these contingencies ; and, 
 while he took good care to be Thomas Macrae as far 
 as Toronto, he became something else from that point 
 on, — George Smith, James Macdonald, anybody but 
 Macrae or Hallowell. He had studied that subject in 
 Quebec, and had made himself quite an artist in the 
 matter of disguises. 
 
328 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 And now, kind reader, while these two are travelling 
 towards Hickory Hall, I ask a favor of you. I am 
 not of the stuff to throw red pepper into your eyes: 
 will you please blindfold yourself, therefore, and take 
 no note of the mile-posts, stations, changes of cars, 
 and other indications of the route? Let the journey 
 continue, no matter how long, no matter in what 
 direction, no matter on what road or roads. 
 
 It is at last one o’clock on a March night: a luke- 
 warm spring rain is drizzling, slowly dropping, soaking 
 all things, its damps penetrating into offices and cars 
 and beds. An old man descends wearily from an in- 
 coming train, and asks a porter when the next train 
 departs for Hickoryville. 
 
 “First one, 5.30; next, 8.01.” 
 
 “ How long a journey is it?” 
 
 “One hour.” These railroad men never say “ miles,” 
 but “hours” and “ minutes.” 
 
 A young man also alights, grasps a sleepy hotel 
 porter by the arm, slips a half-dollar into his hand, and 
 says, — 
 
 “See that old gentleman? Take his hand-bag, and 
 get him to your hotel at once.” 
 
 The porter is a little surprised. He would have 
 done his duty without extra incentive, but the half- 
 dollar makes him exceeding dutiful. He grasps 
 Ephraim Hollins’s luggage, and shouts,“ This way, sir!” 
 
 Before he could gather up his sturdy Canadian 
 resistance, Ephraim Hollins found himself seated in 
 a wet, reeking “’bus,” rattling over as vicious a pave- 
 ment as ever was laid. 
 
ANOTHER DAY, THOMAS! 329 
 
 Presently the porter opens the door, and calls out, 
 ‘ Bunkum House, sir,” and hands him into the office 
 of “the only first-class hotel in a 
 
 The old man goes to his bed mechanically. The 
 porter is doing his thinking for him,—so much, at 
 least, as pertains to his immediate wants. 
 
 “ Wake me for the 8.01 train,’’ says Mr. Hollins. 
 
 “ Yes, sir — cert’nly, sir.” 
 
 Meantime the younger man perambulates the great 
 waiting-room at the depot ; he refreshes himself where 
 he can; he smokes his Fumar or two; he is weary, 
 enraged, broken down, re-invigorated, sick at heart, 
 revived, all in such quick alternations and successions 
 that he feels the very life bounding in him at a rate 
 which suggests old age. He looks in a mirror to see 
 if gray hairs are perceptible, and then laughs at him- 
 self. 
 
 The weary hours drag along. At: last, however, 
 there is a feeble announcement, “Train for Here, 
 There, and Hickory.” 
 
 Cautiously he looks through the one coach. No 
 Ephraim Hollins there. A second time, even, he scans 
 the faces of the eight or ten passengers, looking for 
 disguises. 
 
 “ Peste /”’ he says to himself. ‘ What need for Mr. 
 Hollins to disguise himself? ”’ 
 
 Every man in the car, except himself, goes to sleep. 
 He takes advantage of this, and in a trice becomes 
 once more, not Thomas Macrae, but E. P. Hallowell. 
 
 Hickoryville at last, and daylight. 
 
330 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 A RACE. 
 
 T Hickory Hall they are ready for business at 
 
 half-past seven A.M. At that hour Mr. E. P. 
 Hallowell was announced. He greeted the doctor 
 cordially, and had a hearty, taking way of making 
 excuses for so early a call. Not an allusion did he 
 make to the missing letters, not an unsafe question 
 did he ask. On the whole, the interview was a pleas- 
 ant one ; and it may as well be acknowledged that Dr. 
 Peterson was carried away with this man of the world, 
 and even admired him. 
 
 A little after eight Ben was sent for. He shuffled 
 into the office in his fashion, gazed about for a 
 moment, looked at the visitor with opening eyes, cried 
 out, “O Tom, Tom! where is Betty too?” and flung 
 himself into his old friend’s arms, weeping and sobbing. 
 
 Dr. Peterson, accustomed as he was to emotional 
 exhibitions, turned away, and trimmed a rose-bush in 
 the bay-window, his fingers trembling, some of his 
 nerves tingling. 
 
 Macrae — or Hallowell—turned to the doctor to 
 say one word anent “Tom.” 
 
 “A pet name, doctor, which all my brothers and 
 sisters have called me by ever since I can remember.” 
 
A RACE. 43% 
 
 Could Dr. Peterson deny it? Can even a scientific 
 man be expected to know every thing? the thoughts 
 of a man? the spirit of a man? his heart and reins? 
 Ben’s use of the name, therefore, actually passed for 
 a corroboration of the doctor’s belief in his “im- 
 provement.” It was a going back into the realm 
 of reality, of the living, truthful, practical past. 
 
 Mr. Hallowell was in haste, it seemed. He was 
 anxious to take a train at 9.05 southward. So Dr. 
 Peterson ordered his own carriage up, saying, — 
 
 “Tt want Ben —you see he has a pet name, too, 
 Mr. Hallowell—to go down in better style than in 
 that lumbering railroad carryall. I shall see you off 
 too.” 
 
 Two attendants were set to work upon Ben’s trunk ; 
 and at the proper time a party of men, gathered about 
 the doctor’s carriage, gave vent to their sorrow at 
 Ben’s departure, in a fashion not usual in this world, 
 but none the less affecting. 
 
 “Uncle”? Babbage thrust a paper, quite secretly, 
 into Ben’s hands. 
 
 “‘A bagatelle,” said he softly. “A mere bagatelle, 
 Ben! My check for three million eight hundred and 
 seventy-five thousand dollars and ninety-eight cents, 
 to pay your little extras !”’ : 
 
 “Merry” looked sadly on, standing a little apart, 
 balancing himself, and at last remarked, “I, too, had 
 horses, and a carriage —pshah! you ought to have 
 seen that carriage ’’ — 
 
 As the carriage rolled away, poor little Schmidt fol- 
 lowed it with his eyes, —his gold spectacles, rather, 
 
332 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 —and quietly said, “I am more meeserabble, efery 
 day. Meestare Merry, do you t’ink that I shall efare 
 go home?” 
 
 “Foo-foo !”’ laughs “ Merry.” “I, too, had a home 
 and a wife—pah! what sort of a wife is she, to 
 leave me here, and destroy my business !”’ 
 
 The little drama of leave-taking is over. Its first 
 act, a few kind words to Ben; its second, third, 
 fourth, fifth, and the very epilogue, an exhibition of 
 the egotism of insanity. Consider, all egotists! Lit- 
 erary egotists, financial egotists, religious egotists, all, 
 of whatever profession or sort, — think a little ! 
 
 Safely seated in the South-bound train, Macrae 
 glows with triumph. And what a triumph ! 
 
 To give zest to it, to exalt it, to abase it, to degrade 
 it to the semblance of a brutal, contemptible crime, 
 the connecting train from the west comes bounding 
 up to the very side of the coach in which Macrae and 
 Ben are about to take their departure for the unknown. 
 It is two minutes past nine. An old man carefully 
 steps to the ground, looks about, calls a carriage, and 
 disappears. Macrae pales a little, but he makes no 
 sign. Dr. Peterson sees this old man also; and dis- 
 cerns from his questions and gestures that he is 
 probably asking about Hickory Hall. If so, it is his 
 business to be there. 
 
 There is a cordial hand-shaking, Ben says, “ God 
 bless you, doctor!’ and the doctor repeats, “God 
 bless you, Ben!” 
 
 The doctor goes away with that blessing ringing in 
 his ears, the conductor of the train waves his hand 
 
A RACE. 333 
 
 and in two or three minutes more the last rattle of 
 wheels is heard at Hickory station. 
 
 In the office at Hickory Hall Dr. Peterson finds 
 Ephraim Hollins, pacing up and down, impatient. 
 He opens his business at once, saying, — 
 
 “This despatch will serve to introduce me, doctor.” 
 He hands Bly Folliss’s telegram to Dr. Peterson. 
 
 “And this letter,’””»— surgeon Braddock’s, — “ to 
 explain my errand here still more explicitly.” 
 
 “T see it all, sir, at a glance,” said the doctor. “I 
 have been deceived. Can you endure ashock? Are 
 you strong enough, sir, to bear one stroke more ?”’ 
 
 The old man trembled. Piteously he held up his 
 hands, and almost abjectly he asked, “Not dead? 
 My son is not really dead? ‘These new hopes are not 
 to be crushed like the old ones?” 
 
 “No, your son is not dead. I must break it to you 
 
 gradually, sir. Be strong, and we will right this mat- 
 ter. Your son is gone.” 
 
 “Gone!” screamed the disappointed father. 
 “How? and whither? When?” 
 
 “Not half an hour ago. We must be wide awake, 
 sir,” said Dr. Peterson, tapping his bell. 
 
 Rapidly he told the old man the circumstances of 
 _ Ben’s coming, and of his departure. 
 
 “‘T saw the tickets which Mr. Hallowell purchased 
 
 “at the station,” he said: “they were through tickets.” 
 
 “Here !’’ he added to the boy who had answered 
 the bell. “Take these despatches as fast as your legs 
 can carry you. Ask Felcher to send them immedi- 
 ately.” 
 
+7 ie DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 These messages were sent to the chief of police 
 of , and to the conductor of the train, asking for 
 the arrest of two persons, — sufficiently described, — 
 on such a train, or on its arrival at ¢ 
 
 Then the two in the office at Hickory Hall went 
 into a multitude of details. We need not spell them 
 all out: we know them already. 
 
 At last Mr. Hollins said, “ But this man who took 
 Ben away! I can imagine almost any one bringing 
 him here, to relieve himself of the care. But this 
 constant paying his charges, and the final abduction 
 of my son, —these are mysteries to me!” 
 
 “‘T will describe him: perhaps you may be able to 
 detect him,” said the doctor. 
 
 With anatomical, physiological accuracy and clear- 
 ness, the description was given. Step by step, feature 
 by feature, hue by hue, a complete image was built up 
 in Ephraim Hollins’s mind. He bowed his head 
 upon the desk, and groaned. “O Thomas! Thomas 
 Macrae !”’ 
 
 “Your son called him ‘Tom’ this morning, sir.” 
 
 “Tt is he! I wish there were a doubt of it,” an- 
 swered the old man. 
 
 Not a word did he say of Betty Hartley or of the 
 partnership. For very shame he kept silence. It was 
 not necessary to parade all this before the doctor. 
 
 At noon a despatch came from the conductor of 
 the train: “I think, but am not certain, that two per- 
 sons left my train at Hillbury Junction.” 
 
 “What am I to do?” asked the suffering old man. _ 
 
 “Remain here, Mr. Hollins, at least until we hear 
 
A RACE. 335 
 
 from It is not at all certain that the two per- 
 sons referred to in this despatch are the ones we want. 
 Should they be found in , it will be necessary for 
 one of us to go on immediately ; and I think it will do 
 you good to go, and reclaim your son, and hand this 
 rascal over to justice.” 
 
 “Say nothing harsh of him, doctor, I beg. Not yet, 
 not yet,” said Mr. Hollins. 
 
 Poor old man! his love and respect for Thomas 
 Macrae clung to him yet. 
 
 He remained at Hickory Hall all that day. He 
 visited the wards, he heard a!l about the chevaloscope, 
 and discovered who it was that positively did not 
 “run away with Charlie Ross.” He looked over Ben’s 
 room, and filled it with gentle, subdued lamentations. 
 He even asked, when night came, that he might be 
 allowed to sleep there. He saw poor Payson, recog: 
 nized him, and was shocked to hear him complain to 
 the attendant, “Take me away! hide me! That is 
 Ephraim Hollins of Millington! He is come to kil’ 
 me. He carries knives, I tell you, and revolvers. 
 He is the avenger of blood. Hide me!” 
 
 The old man’s heart was torn by such sights and 
 sounds ; but his intelligence rose superior to that, and 
 he looked gladly upon the convalescents, talked with 
 them, and with the doctors and attendants about 
 them. In the evening a flood of light came over hin. 
 
 “Doctor,” said he, “if I had had the sense, the 
 knowledge, the consideration, I ought to have had, 
 tlhhese wretched sorrows would not have been.” 
 
 Dr. Peterson said nothing. 
 
336 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 In the morning a tardy despatch came from ; 
 announcing that no arrest had been made, no such 
 persons as Dr. Peterson described been seen. 
 
 And why? Simply because Thomas Macrae was 
 wide awake. He had indeed purchased tickets for 
 , and had taken particular pains to have Dr. 
 Peterson see them. But Macrae did not intend to use. 
 them. Instead, he paid the conductor, in greenbacks, 
 the fare to a point twenty miles distant, where another 
 road crossed the one upon which he and Ben were 
 travelling. Trains both ways connected with their 
 train within an hour. Quietly he took Ben out upon 
 the platform at the Junction. Not another passenger 
 disembarked. There was no one, in fact, to take note 
 of them, but a hard-worked, indigent creature, who 
 was depot-master, express-agent, telegrapher, switch- 
 man, postmaster, — and it might be said truly, popz/a- 
 tion of Hillbury Junction. 
 
 Soon they were whirling away again, this time 
 south-westwards. Through a rolling country, a vast 
 mingling of extensive plains soon to be alive again 
 with nodding wheat and plumed corn, of hills standing 
 out of and amid the plains, snowless already, and of 
 forests black and dead, standing like great stacks of 
 bayoneted guns to-day, to-morrow to put on the green 
 of a new springtime, to wave with life, to remind you 
 of a great army after bivouac, and again on the march ; 
 through towns and cities, villages and hamlets, they 
 went ; by the side of brooklets swelling with the pride 
 of flood-time, tearing seaward with their temporary — 
 abundance ; along the banks of sluggish inland rivers, 
 
 + 
 
A RACE. 337 
 
 moving lazily as if in protest, not deep enough to be 
 navigated, not clean enough even to quench one’s 
 thirst. 
 
 To Ben the panorama presented sixty delights every 
 hour: to Macrae it was purgatory. On and on they 
 flew, for many hours. Three times they “ doubled,” — 
 that is, changed cars, and went off in some new direc- 
 tion. Macrae studied his guide-book well. He had 
 planned out a geographical arc with many twistings 
 and turnings, with the instinct of a cunning fox pur- 
 sued by honest dogs. Ever his thoughts turned to 
 one point, a point agreed upon already between him- 
 self and Tim Brannigan. But “no violence! now, no 
 violence !”’ he kept repeating to himself. 
 
 As the days wore away, — for this journey consumed 
 a deal of time, — he became accustomed to that word, 
 “violence,” and he fell to thinking of Brannigan. 
 
 “Tet him do what he likes!” he said: “why should 
 pel care ?P”’ 
 
 A favorable spot was reached at last, —a great city, 
 where he felt secure. He telegraphed to Toronto, — 
 
 Goods will be delivered at Rochester on Monday. 
 I. B. MANN. 
 
 “Goods!” sniffed the Toronto operator, to whom 
 Tim Brannigan’s name was not unknown. “Jimmies 
 and skeletons, probably !”” Nevertheless, the despatch 
 was duly delivered. 
 
 On now to that agreed point. It was early on 
 Monday morning, that Macrae and Ben left the cars, 
 -—half-past six o’clock, an hour when few are stirring 
 
338 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 in that dismal station. ‘The incoming of a train cre- 
 ates a slight ripple. Rumpled.women and tumbled 
 men alight and disappear. A clatter of trunks is 
 heard, a whistle or two, and the train moves on, leav- 
 ing silence again behind it. 
 
 At the same moment two villanous characters were 
 holding consultation in a train coming eastwardly. 
 One of these was Tim Brannigan ; the other an equally 
 debased and miserable creature from Fly Street, Buffa- 
 lo. There were a thousand such men in the slums of 
 Canal and Rock Streets, and around “the Points” at 
 large, to pick and choose from; but Tim Brannigan 
 only wanted one, and took this one because, as he 
 expressed it, he “‘ knowed all about Rochester.” 
 
 “You go down Lake Avenue,” said this Buffalo 
 villain, ‘till you come to the end of the horse-railroad. 
 Then you turn down a road towards the river. Fol- 
 low your nose around a sharp turn, and you go down 
 the hill to Buell’s landing. My eye! wi’at a place for 
 a lark! A feller could slip off there, an’ never know 
 wat hurt him. Feller ’t’ I used to know slid down 
 there one night, an’ them police act’ly got out a war- 
 rant for him, an’ was a-goin’ to hev him ’rested; an’ 
 there he was, a-layin’ among the rocks, deader’n a 
 pine-board. An’ he was a nice feller too!” 
 
 Brannigan ought, as per agreement, to have been 
 in Rochester on Sunday. “Goods on Monday” was 
 intended to cover that. But Mr. Brannigan was ac- 
 customed to having his own way. He had had too 
 good a time in Fly Street to tear himself away, and 
 considered that the early express of Monday would 
 
- 
 
 A RACE. 339 
 
 bring him into Mr. Hallowell’s company soon 
 enough. 
 
 Not finding Brannigan in waiting at the station, 
 Macrae determined to visit a low establishment in 
 Front Street whose name Brannigan had put him ‘n 
 possession of. 
 
 But what to do with Ben? A bright thought, — 
 Ben must be hungry. He took him into the railway 
 restaurant, therefore, ordered a thoroughly respectable 
 breakfast for him, bade him stay until he returned, — 
 counting still on Ben’s old habit of implicit obedience, 
 — paid for the breakfast in advance, and went out. 
 
 He was hardly out of the station, when a small man, 
 all lungs and with very little head or leg to speak of, 
 went the rounds, bawling in a way to make you utterly 
 deny St. James’s assertion that “the tongue is a /¢//e 
 
 -member.”’ 
 
 “ Charlotte train! all aboard for Charlotte! Goin’ 
 on this train?’ he asked, poking Ben with his stick. 
 
 Ben was off his balance in an instant. Confusion 
 spread itself over and through him. He arose from 
 his chair, and stared through the open door. 
 
 “This way, be sharp now !” cried the official bawler. 
 “Train’s almost off.” He pushed Ben through the 
 gates, almost dragged him across the tracks, and never 
 let go until he had landed him on the platform of the 
 
 ‘Charlotte passenger-car. 
 
 With the consciousness of having done his duty in 
 a fashion which ought to make the whole directory of 
 the road proud and happy, the bawler returned to the 
 restaurant. 
 
340 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 “That fellow didn’t get his breakfast,” said a waiter. 
 “‘ Paid for too.” 
 
 “S’pose I eat it for him, then,” said Bawler. “ Pretty 
 bad night for him, I reckon,” he added. “ Awfully 
 dazed !” 
 
 “ Crazy!” said the waiter. 
 
 “Crazy?” asked Bawler doubtingly. 
 
 Macrae was gone longer than he anticipated. On 
 his return, great was his surprise not to find Ben. A 
 half-dozen queries put him in possession of the facts, 
 however, and he found himself face to face with this 
 question: Should he drop the matter now, and seek 
 the future in some distant berth or should he follow 
 Ben? 
 
 If safety had been his only consideration, he would 
 have chosen the first of these alternatives ; but Macrae 
 
 was now possessed of a spiteful, hating demon. He 
 
 had nore revenges than one to wreak before he would 
 stoop to think of himself. The heart of this man had 
 become perverted: his judgment went with his heart 
 simply because they had been companions so long. 
 
 It was no difficult matter to follow Ben. Charlotte 
 is the port of Rochester at the mouth of the Genesee, 
 and but seven miles distant. A carriage would take 
 him thither almost as quickly as the rail. He learned 
 all this in ten minutes. And, just as he was leaving the 
 station to go on this errand, the early express from 
 
 as 
 
 the west came in, and Tim Brannigan whirled himself 
 
 into Macrae’s arms. 
 There was a hurried consultation between the two, 
 ending in the ordering of a carriage. 
 
A RACE. 341 
 
 “Who is this?’’ asked Macrae, with reference to a 
 man of repulsive aspect, who hung back, but had some 
 evident purpose in keeping not far from Brannigan. 
 
 “A friend of mine,” answered that worthy. 
 
 “ Dismiss him.” 
 
 “Can’t do it: ’twouldn’t be safe.” 
 
 This was more than Macrae had bargained for; but 
 when was it ever known that a man with such an object 
 as Macrae’s did not get more than he bargained for? 
 It was of no use to resist. He took his place in the 
 carriage, and his two companions followed. 
 
 At Charlotte, Brannigan had a plan of action. 
 
 “Go you over there, and stay, Mr. Hallowell. I'll 
 find him if he’s in the town.” 
 
 Ten minutes thereafter Tim and his companion were 
 in intimate discourse with an old acquaintance. It 
 came about, we must say, quite by accident. 
 
 “ Brannigan, is that you?.” were the words which 
 startled him, and set him to thinking that he was not 
 out of reach of Toronto eyes, and must mind his 
 goings and comings. 
 
 “Oh-h, Misther Porty!” he replied, “ what’s up?” 
 
 “ Nothin’ ain’t up, partickler,” said this nondescript 
 half-Yankee, half-Canadian ; ‘‘ nothin’ excep’ fust trip.” 
 
 “What are ye goin’ to be captain uv dhis year, 
 
 _Misther Porty?” 
 
 ’ 
 
 “¢ Ontario Belle,’ same as las’ year.” 
 
 “Ts she a brig?” 
 
 “ No: aschooner. See her out there?” 
 
 The “Ontario Belle” was rocking in the stream, 
 two of her men rattling the blocks with a lazy pull. 
 
342 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 “It’s. murdherin’ cowld for a trip, isn’t it?” asked 
 Tim. 
 
 “Cold? No, man: the ice is almost all out. We’ve 
 got a joker aboard too: you’d laugh your sides out 
 to hear him.” 
 
 “ A joker?” asked Tim Brannigan. “ What’s dhat?” 
 
 “A kind of a crazy feller that came down on the 
 train this morning. Says he lives in Toronto, and so 
 I’m goin’ to take him over.” 
 
 Brannigan pricked up his ears at this, and winked at 
 his friend. Surely crazy men, running about at large, 
 and coming from Rochester on that particular train, 
 could not be very numerous; and here must be the 
 object of their search. 
 
 New elements entered then into Mr. Brannigan’s 
 calculations. Here was a chance for a stroke of busi- 
 ness. Ben was safe on board the vessel. What reason 
 could he, Brannigan, give to Capt. Porty for delivering 
 up Ben to him? Better, thought Brannigan, to per- 
 suade this Mr. Hallowell that Ben is utterly out of his 
 way, get the reward of my pretended misdeed, — or 
 cajole the money out of him some way, any way, — 
 send the Buffalo man home, and then— make some- 
 thing else out of Ben hereafter. The plant was too 
 good to be lost. 
 
THE FIRST ARRIVAL. 343 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 THE FIRST ARRIVAL. 
 
 N this chapter, much ground — and some water — 
 
 must be covered with few words. 
 
 First, it must be related briefly, that Ben was the 
 subject of many good-humored comments on the 
 Charlotte train, and that this ticketless and penniless 
 traveller went to his journey’s end right royally. His 
 confusion became less, however, as he stepped upon 
 the platform, which is at once railway-station and 
 steamboat-landing at Charlotte. The place was 
 strange to him, but there was at least quiet. 
 
 Presently a little knot of idlers, railroad-men and 
 sailors, gathered around him. Now, Ben had an un- 
 mistakable Canadian air,—his speech bewrayed him 
 also. And, as if to lead him on, the name of Toronto 
 was spoken in his hearing, as it may be heard almost 
 any minute on that dock. 
 
 “Oh, yes !’”’ said Ben: Toronto, to be sure; I think 
 _ Tom said we lived in Toronto.” 
 
 This interested Capt. Porty. The captain had not 
 a bad. heart: he could even do a charitable act, and 
 not ask any one to say “thank you.” Capt. Porty, 
 therefore, offered to take Ben over the lake. The 
 “Ontario Belle” was to sail that very afternoon. 
 
344 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 Secondly, a gap in our narrative must be filled up, 
 by the return of Ephraim Hollins to his home. Cast 
 down, disappointed, grieved at the heart, not only by 
 the loss of his son but by the vileness and ingratitude 
 of another, he yet rose far above any little criticism 
 of all humanity. He was not the man to sour against 
 the whole world because of one sorrow or of the dis- 
 covery of one bad man. 
 
 And as for Ben, Ephraim Hollins had faith to be- 
 lieve in the ultimate recovery of his son. He was 
 alive: that was a great point. 
 
 The affair was quickly laid hold of by the papers ; 
 the police took it up, by or without request; a sub- 
 stantial reward was offered for information ; all asy- 
 lums were notified, steamships were searched ; in fact, 
 every copse and cover into which the fox and his 
 prey might have retreated was. penetrated, except the 
 “Qntario Belle” schooner, plying between Toronto, 
 the port of Genesee, Sodus Bay, and Coburg. The 
 hounds came within one hundred feet of her, but 
 there was water between them and the scent. 
 
 Thirdly, it must be related that Tim Brannigan 
 sought an interview with Thomas Macrae, — that is to 
 say, Mr. Hallowell,—at Charlotte, two hours after 
 their arrival there, and entertained that gentleman 
 with a circumstantial account of an accident which 
 had settled the whole business. According to Bran- 
 nigan’s fiction, Ben had wandered about after the 
 arrival of the train, gone out upon the light-house 
 pier, been blown off into the water, and drowned. 
 Mr. Brannigan’s imagination was not wholly consist- 
 
THE FIRST ARRIVAL. 345 
 
 ent with itself in this romance: but jaded, worn, 
 tired Thomas Macrae strove to be satisfied with the 
 story as it was told him; and_ having, for peace’ sake, 
 paid his rapacious but so far legally innocent partner 
 a goodly sum of money, he returned to Rochester. 
 
 Why and wherefore, no man will ever know; but 
 Macrae took train for Suspension Bridge that same 
 evening, and thence travelled to Toronto. No raton- 
 ale of such a step has even plausibility to support it, 
 except this: that he had determined to play once 
 more the game of conscious innocence. If Ben were 
 really dead, after all, and not by crime but by acci- 
 dent, what might not happen even yet? As a de- 
 spoiled bird will linger around the nest whence her 
 eggs or her young have been ravished, so Macrae 
 seemed drawn to haunt the border-land of his crime, 
 to lie in hiding, in some sort of ambush, waiting and 
 hoping. 
 
 And his revenges too: they, perhaps, were sweet 
 to think of! He was not done with Tim Brannigan yet. 
 
 Fourthly, we have another word to say as to this 
 same Brannigan. He, the Buffalo villain, and Capt. 
 Porty determined to make a day of it. Money hap- 
 
 -pened to be plenty. The means of “making a day 
 of it’’— that sort of day—are also to be found in 
 _ Charlotte. 
 
 By noon Mr. Brannigan was in a state compared 
 with which Ben’s was sanity itself. Capt. Porty, how- 
 ever, kept his head, and, at the time of Mr. Branni- 
 gan’s total collapse, witnessed something which excited 
 his alarm. 
 
346 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 Two Rochester policemen came upon the scene. 
 They took note of Capt. Porty and his companions, 
 and finally asked questions. They were sounding an 
 honest man, however, and discovered that fact in- 
 stantly. They even believed Capt. Porty when he 
 averred that Tim Brannigan was one of his men, and 
 that he was anxious to get him aboard the “ Ontario 
 Belle.” And these innocents lent a ready hand in 
 the difficult business of carrying the helpless fellow to 
 Capt. Porty’s boat. 
 
 As to the Buffalo individual, he was the only game 
 left for the officers; and on the principle of “take 
 what you can get, when you cannot find what you 
 want,” they escorted that poor, guileless man to the 
 stone building up the river. 
 
 The day following, at almost any hour of the morn- 
 ing, Brannigan came on deck in a bewildered, mis- 
 erable condition. 
 
 Said he to the captain, who was also helmsman of 
 this noble craft, “ Where wuz you yestherday, Misther 
 Porty?”’ 
 
 ‘‘Where was I?”’ answered the captain. “I think 
 it’s where was you, Misther Brannigan. With the 
 police a-hunting that Buffalo chap up and down the 
 streets! And what better could I do than to put. you 
 aboard this schooner, and take you out of mischief?” 
 
 A great cake of ice struck the schooner’s fore-quar- 
 ter, and the shock sent Brannigan all abroad. “Oh, 
 murther!” he groaned, “anny place on dhry land 
 is betther nor dhis. And dhe rollin’, Misther Porty— 
 what a head it gives me! And how mortial cowld it 
 
THE FIRST ARRIVAL. 347 
 
 is! And — in dhe name of all dhe saints in T’ronty, 
 who’s dhat?”’ 
 
 Ben’s head was visible just above the deck of the 
 protruding little cabin. 
 
 “That?” said Capt. Porty. “ That’s the crazy 
 chap.” 
 
 “What crazy chap?” 
 
 “The one I told you was on board, yesterday.” 
 
 The captain’s attention was called forward. Slip- 
 ping a leash around his tiller, he left Brannigan to his 
 woes and to meditation. 
 
 Towards evening Tim’s wits were considerably 
 sharpened. 
 
 “‘Misther Porty,” said he, “do you happen to know 
 dhe widdy Buckler, in King’s College Square?” 
 
 “‘ Never heard of the lady.” 
 
 “What ! not dhe great widdy Buckler? She’s richer — 
 nor ole Budger himself.”’ 
 
 “ Much good that does you an’ me, Tim.”’ 
 
 “No; but don’t be in sich haste, now. She had a 
 crazy boy, an’ he’s runned away. There’s a reward 
 on him: I don’t know the sum exactly; but in my 
 opinion it’s yours and mine, Misther Porty.” 
 
 “You mean mzne, don’t you, Tim?” 
 
 “No: I mane what I say, — yours azd mine.” 
 
 Capt. Porty was one of your easy-going, unpersistent 
 -men. Rather than quarrel, he would give up a point 
 
 any day. So Tim had his way. 
 We must now take a look at “The Alderney.” 
 Here were three young gentlemen, whom the Toronto 
 , young ladies knew as “the Amicable Triad,” the “ Ho- 
 
348 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 ratii,” and under numerous other sodrigueds ; and whom 
 we know as Bly Folliss, Germaine Parson, and Jack 
 Brandon. Discoursing they were, according to their 
 custom, of things in the heavens and things in the 
 earth, occasionally mentioning even girls. 
 
 The talk was drawing near to the exhaustion point. 
 Its last refuge was the unusually early opening of spring. 
 Picking up the new binocular, Brandon levelled it 
 towards the lake. 
 
 “There’s a schooner coming in !”’ he exclaimed with 
 an amount of interest which it may be difficult for 
 dwellers by the sea or in agricultural regions to under- 
 stand. 
 
 You must know, then, that dwellers on the Great 
 Lakes look for the first vessel as the denizen of the 
 country looks for the first robin. It is the sign of 
 coming summer. And although old Winter sometimes 
 swoops down upon them with Jack Frost, and gives 
 them an additional nip or two, the lake people laugh 
 him to scorn. 
 
 This year, in the violent gales of February, the ice 
 had broken in Erie, and had gone crashing and grind- 
 ing past the crazy wharves of Waterloo. Following it 
 was a long procession of frost-bowlders from St. Clair 
 and Huron, pouring into the Niagara, and rolling on 
 with impetuous haste, as if eager to taste the salt of 
 ocean before final dissolution, perhaps to meet their 
 cousins, the bergs, from the still farther North. 
 
 With a tumult always grand to witness, they sweep 
 
 down the accelerating current, bounding over the falls _ 
 
 into the seething caldron below. Rising and falling: 
 
 SL ee - 
 
THE FIRST ARRIVAL. 349 
 
 there in fierce contest, such of the floes as are not 
 ground to ice-dust sail on until caught near De Veaux, 
 where they accumulate, and stand a while in grim 
 silence. ‘The on-coming tide presses more and more 
 tightly upon them, until, with a roar as of April 
 thunder, the “ice-jam,” as the natives call it, gives 
 way, and there begins a new race towards Ontario and 
 ocean. 
 
 Sounds of calking-irons are now heard: steams of 
 pitch and tar perfume the air not unpleasantly. There 
 is an opening of office-doors along the docks, a brush- 
 ing-up of ledgers, desks, and sample-boxes.  Shrill 
 whistles of tugs cry out, “ Here we are!” and all the 
 signs of reviving trade greet you. 
 
 Some little overplus of this interest came even into 
 Bly Folliss’s rooms at “ The Alderney.” 
 
 “Tor a walk, fellows, let us go down to the wharf,” 
 said Parson. 
 
 One look at the vessel, as she clumsily took her 
 berth, was enough for these young gallants. They 
 were turning away, in fact, when Folliss’s attention was 
 called to a singular-looking couple leaving the schooner. 
 One looked like a gentleman ; the other might be any 
 thing but a gentleman. 
 
 These two passed close to Bly Folliss; and one of 
 them, — the gentleman, — from having acquired some 
 nautical lore on his voyage probably, addressed 
 him, — 
 
 “Oh, yes! where do you hail from?” 
 
 There was a look in the eye, a something in the air, 
 of this gentleman, which excited Bly. He felt that 
 
350 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 here was one of the unfortunate, and he gave his pity 
 without asking. 
 
 The companion of this pitiable man was for pressing 
 forward. Grasping Ben’s arm, he said, ‘Come on!” 
 
 The action was objectionable to Folliss. It betrayed 
 haste: it was accompanied by an insolent look and 
 tone. 
 
 “Stop!” said Bly. ‘Who is this?” 
 
 “Who is it?”? answered Brannigan. ‘Who wud it 
 be but dhe widdy Buckler’s son, an’ me a-thrampin’ 
 dhe wide world for him, to bring him to his disthracted 
 mother !” 
 
 Turning to Brandon, Bly said, “It came into my 
 head” — 
 
 “Oh, yes!” said Ben (for of course it was no 
 other) ; “oh, yes! you want your head examined, 
 chez 
 
 And quicker than thought Bly’s hat was off, and 
 Ben looking for his “ veneration,” “secretiveness,” and 
 “comprehension.” 
 
 The loungers about the wharf took in “the fun” of 
 
 the situation, and a dozen heads were uncovered for 
 
 the manipulation of the “doctor.” That title still 
 clung to him; and he finally arose to the full dignity 
 of it by waving his hand, and advising them all to 
 take “two gallons of whiskey and four ounces of qui- 
 nine before breakfast,”’ which the idlers thought would 
 be great fun. 
 
 Bly Folliss had no desire to court unnecessary 
 trouble. Brandon was pulling his sleeve, and bidding 
 him “come out of this ;’’ Parson had sauntered away a 
 
THE FIRST ARRIVAL. 351 
 
 few steps; and Brannigan was anxiously looking for an 
 opening in the crowd, that he might hurry Ben away : 
 but still Folliss lingered. ‘This man interested him. 
 
 “T say, Jack, there isn’t much to go upon, but some- 
 how I connect this man with young Hollins. I never 
 saw him more than once: I wish I could recollect 
 him more distinctly. Let’s see this through.” 
 
 Instantly he turned upon Brannigan, and asked, 
 “Are you sure that this is widow Buckler’s son? 
 Isn’t he young Hollins of Millington?” 
 
 The effect of this question upon Brannigan was the 
 same as that of a round of grapeshot upon a com. 
 pany of soldiers at breakfast. It hurt him, it aston- 
 ished him, it scattered him. 
 
 “What is your name?” asked Bly of Ben. Bly 
 was getting his guns in position now, and had ammu- 
 
 nition in abundance. , 
 “‘ Well, now, as to that I couldn’t exactly say; but 
 if Tom Macrae was here, now— Oh! they call me 
 
 Ben sometimes.” 
 
 ~ “Enough!” said Bly. “Here, you””— He turned 
 to look for Brannigan. The custodian of “ widdy Buck- 
 ler’s son’? was turning the corner of the street with 
 rapidity. 
 
 “The interest in the arrival of the first vessel was in- 
 deed slight in comparison with that which Ben’s arrival 
 occasioned. The winter ice of Ben’s life was going out 
 rapidly now: soon it would disappear altogether. 
 
 The gorge was yet to be passed, and then our Ben 
 shall find calm waters, shall be forever beyond “the 
 winter of his discontent.” 
 
352 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 THE GORGE. 
 
 ARNEY DUGAN witnessed the arrival of the 
 three discoverers and Ben at “The Alderney” 
 with an astonishment which produced at once a singu- 
 lar effect. Instead of rejoicing, she began to lament. 
 Give this kind of people a death in the family, and all 
 the bottles in the neighborhood are speedily filled, to 
 be as speedily emptied again, and there are sounds of 
 revelry: give them a returned son or daughter, and 
 you would imagine, from the wailings and howlings, 
 that dire calamity had overwhelmed them. 
 
 The gamut of Carney’s cries on the present occa- 
 sion need not be traversed. It was not melodious to 
 the ear, nor was there any harmony in it to satisfy the 
 mind. 
 
 Folliss wearied of her do-re-mi after a while, and 
 put an end to it thus :— 
 
 “The question is, Mrs. Dugan, what are we to do 
 with him?” 
 
 “It’s yourself as’ll be takin’ him home to his father, 
 Misther Fully,” answered Carney. 
 
 “Tt’s meself as’ll do nothing of the sort, ma’am,” 
 promptly spoke the young man. 
 
 Bly had a vision of an old gentleman gushing over 
 
 Ta | 
 
THE GORGE. aus 
 
 him with tears of gratitude, and possibly having hyster- 
 ics. He was not fond of “that sort of thing.” He had 
 his plan, therefore, and was coming to an announce- 
 ment gradually. Wisely, and yet foolishly, he arranged 
 the final step of Ben’s restoration to his home. And, 
 by the way, how nearly the wise and the foolish in us 
 are allied !—almost as close together as the sublime 
 and the ridiculous, which are separated by that one 
 celebrated step. 
 
 “Mrs. Dugan,” said Folliss, “you are the best per- 
 son in this company to do this office for Mr. Hollins. 
 Come, now, don’t stop to cry about it. Go and get 
 your best raiment on, and we will put you on the 
 train, with a blessing.” 
 
 “ An’ when, Misther Fully?” 
 
 “This very evening, —the seven o’clock train, — 
 seven something. You will reach Millington at eleven 
 or twelve, — the very best time: there won’t be such 
 a commotion as there would be in the daytime.” 
 
 About five o’clock that afternoon, Harper had occa- 
 sion to go to the telegraph-office at Millington. As he 
 ‘stood conversing with the operator the click was heard, 
 which is the same to a telegrapher as “I want you,” 
 or “I say,’”’ would be between the uninitiated. 
 
 “Toronto,”’ the operator said. 
 
 “Wait a minute, Harper! A message is coming 
 - for Mr. Hollins.” 
 He wrote, and handed to Harper, this: — 
 “ Your — son — will — be — sent — to — you — on — the — 
 
 seven-thirty — train. 
 «“ Bly — Fo.tt.iss.” 
 
354 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 Harper had the contents of this message before it. 
 rightful owner, against the law, against propriety ; but 
 law and propriety go to the wall in such cases. 
 
 Harper flew to the mills. Mr. Hollins was still at 
 the office. No son, no new partner, was there to help 
 him; and aged as he was, sick and sore at heart, 
 business demanded him. He read the message, and 
 _ cried out, “The horse, Harper, quick ! and come with 
 me to Elmswoods.” 
 
 Down in Toronto the six-o’clock bells had rung, 
 and Ben had been regaled with a kind of “high 
 living’’ which would have delighted Delorme’s soul 
 only to look at, much more to taste. 
 
 The sun set at ten minutes past six; but they have 
 a genuine twilight in Toronto, and at seven it was still 
 light enough for the Adelon girls and Giles Barry and 
 all their flock to be parading; and, truth to tell, Bly 
 was.a little scrupulous about being seen with Ben. It 
 is dreadful — awful—to be seen by the Adelon girls 
 under such circumstances ! 
 
 Furthermore, Carney had come into the possession 
 of so many detached portions of Mrs. Blossom’s and 
 other ladies’ wardrobes, that, when arrayed in full 
 multiform, — uniform would be a wholly inappropriate 
 word, —she was quite a bird-of-paradise to look at. 
 The Adelon girls would have danced their pretty little 
 feet off if they had seen the “Three Monks” on the 
 street with Carney Dugan. 
 
 “We will go on,” said Bly, therefore, “and you fol- 
 
 low with Hollins, Mrs. Dugan.” 
 
 -_ 
 
THE GORGE. 355 
 
 As she set off with her charge, Carney felt anxious 
 and hurried. Ben, on the contrary, was neither. He 
 had contracted a habit, also, during his period of 
 aberration, of keeping a step or two in the rear of any 
 one with whom he was walking. 
 
 At the corner where you turn out of King William 
 Street into Coeur de Lion Street, Carney turned to 
 look at Ben, and to quicken his pace. He was no- 
 where to be seen. 
 
 She stood gazing into space for one minute, then 
 lifted up both hands, and made a speech to ‘he by- 
 standers : — 
 
 “Tt’s but wan man in dhis whole wurruld could ’a’ 
 done dhat; an’ it’s Thomas Macrae. Oh—h—h! 
 Thomas Macrae, it was all lookin’ fair an’ best for you, 
 an’ now ye must go on murtherin’, an’ desthroyin’, an’ 
 hangin’ yersilf, an’ Misther Ben, an’ ivery wan uv us! 
 Oh—h—h, the day dhat I live to see dhis !” 
 
 She ran to the station as rapidly as her poor old 
 limbs would permit. “ Bod luck, — bod luck!” she 
 cried. “ He’s gone, — he’s gone, Misther Fully.” 
 
 “Bad luck!” exclaimed Bly Folliss. “It’s bad 
 luck for you, old woman.” 
 
 He suspected treachery on Carney’s part at 
 once. 
 
 “But you can’t prove it, Bly,” said his temperate 
 friend, Germaine Parson. “Let her alone. Come! 
 The police must have the case now, and at once.” 
 
 “T wish I hadn’t sent that despatch. It’s awfully 
 cruel on old Mr. Hollins.” 
 
 And so it was. Waiting, waiting in an ecstasy of 
 
356 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 joy: dashed to the ground, at eight that evening, bya 
 second message. It was too much to be borne. 
 
 Ephraim Hollins was at Elmswoods, and had Harper 
 and two of the mill-men with him, when the second 
 despatch from Folliss was brought in. He read the 
 words of postponement, and sank to the floor. 
 
 Jean-Jacques says that ‘souls know no sex.” And 
 men do, for a fact, become exceeding womanly when 
 offices of the soul are confided to them. These three 
 sturdy workmen, therefore, lifted Ephraim Hollins 
 very tenderly, and bore him to a sofa. One rang the 
 library bell; and, in the tide of women which flowed 
 in at the summons, among ladies and servants these 
 three men mingled, not as men, but as vying with the 
 others in gentle offices. 
 
 We are on the wings of the wind now. We fly back 
 and forth like electric sparks. From Elmswoods to 
 Toronto is one minute of distance and time. Perhaps 
 Germaine Parson will some day evoke out of the 
 diploidoscope a means of transporting the bodies and 
 portmanteaus of men in a similar fashion. 
 
 Your pardon is asked: once more the necessities 
 compel me to take you into disreputable company. 
 Thomas Macrae had been at ‘‘ The Prince of Cumber- 
 land House” for a day. Tim Brannigan was there 
 also. The two had now new plans of evil. Macrae’s 
 mind was disordered with hate, and with that species 
 of self-condemnation which is not satisfied with re- 
 pentance, but which must needs increase and intensify 
 itself with new injuries to others. He determined to 
 speak his mind to Bly Folliss, to give Carney a speci- 
 men of his vengeance, and then to fly. 
 
THE GORGE. 357 
 
 For this double purpose he kept a watch upon 
 “The Alderney.” Great was his astonishment when 
 he saw Ben Hollins enter, in the company of Bly 
 Folliss and his two friends. He hurried to the “Cum- 
 berland,” and charged Brannigan with the worst of 
 treachery. But Tim was. coolness itself compared with 
 Thomas Macrae, and assumed such an air of aston- 
 ishment, and repeated his story of the drowning with 
 such detail and vehemence, that finally Macrae was 
 thoroughly deceived, and fell into a belief that Tim 
 had been misled at Charlotte. 
 
 Again they entered into partnership; and, for his 
 own reasons, Brannigan was as active in the business 
 as Macrae himself. Separately they approached the 
 scene of operations, — Princess Christina Street, West. 
 And as the twilight came on, Macrae’s heart leaped ; 
 for the door of “ The Alderney” opened, and Bly Folliss 
 stepped out upon the street. “Oh for five minutes 
 with that fellow!” thought Macrae. But Germaine 
 Parson and Jack Brandon followed Folliss; and 
 Macrae, perforce, stood still. 
 
 But there is no need that this man, in his extremity, 
 should possess the genius of a plotting Richelieu. 
 Events, times, and circumstances are doing his work 
 for him: they have arranged themselves in most satis- 
 factory order. The poor little figment of a fear of the 
 Adelon girls sends Folliss and Parson and Brandon 
 out of the way; and here comes Ben Hollins, shuf- 
 fling along behind that stupid, blundering old woman, 
 and walks straight into Macrae’s hands. 
 
 A mere touch upon the shoulder, a whispered, 
 
358 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 “Come, Ben!’’ a quick movement around a conven- 
 ient corner, a quiet, rapid walk, an entrance into some 
 by-passage of Mrs. Brannigan’s hotel, and all was 
 accomplished. 
 
 Mrs. Brannigan had from time to time been some- — 
 what disturbed at the repeated visits of this superior 
 man, for men of his class did not commonly register 
 at her house. She was not slow to discover his slight 
 intimacy with her son; and she had ample reason for 
 suspecting that young man, even if he was of her own 
 flesh and blood. 
 
 This evening she found new cause for alarm. Who 
 was this whom they were bringing into her house? 
 Another gentleman. 
 
 But what was the strange look, what the peculiar 
 manner, what the indecision in attitude and gait, 
 which her quick eye detected in the new-comer? 
 And why should they hustle this young man out of 
 sight in such haste? 
 
 She watched them, therefore, very closely; and as 
 the two did not return from the up-stairs regions, 
 whither they had gone, she examined the key-board, 
 remarked a certain number, and listened at the door 
 of a certain room. They were whispering, talking in 
 the lowest discernible tones; but Mrs. Brannigan 
 gathered enough to excite her ire. Without scruple 
 she knocked, and volubly demanded admittance. She 
 denounced Macrae to his face ; he, meantime, pie : 
 to get her attention. | 
 
 “Come out of this, now, and down-stairs wid you © 
 both!” she exclaimed. “The house is bad enough ; 
 
THE GORGE. 350 
 
 but it’s no place yet for the hankerin’ (?) of murdhers 
 and abdications and such wickednesses.” 
 
 As they filed into the public room, the helmet of an 
 officer of the law came within Tim Brannigan’s vision ; 
 and that worthy swung himself lightly out of a window, 
 and disappeared. Macrae, however, had never liter- 
 ally run away from anybody, and did not know how 
 to begin. 
 
 Mrs. Brannigan eagerly addressed the officer, and, 
 for emphasis’ sake, laid hands upon Macrae, crying 
 out, “ Dhere’s mischief a-brewin’ here, Misther Sixty- 
 eight ; an’ it’s not my Tim as is in it, but dhis gintle- 
 man!” 
 
 “Oh, no, mim!” answered No. 68. “Not at all, 
 mim: your son is too much of a h’angel, he is, for 
 
 any o’ them doin’s. Why, I’ve knowed ’im, myself, 
 
 any time these five year.” 
 
 As a fox-mother might defend her young one, even 
 with the feathers sticking to his lips, Mrs. Brannigan 
 replied, on Tim’s behalf, “Yes, an’ never knowed a 
 thing again’ him, neither !” 
 
 “No, mim/” said Bobby. “ He never does noth- 
 in’, Ze doesn’t.” 
 
 No. 68 had not come there to converse with Mrs. 
 Brannigan. He had a tolerably accurate description 
 
 _ of Ben in his head, and recognized him at once; but 
 
 Gp 
 
 he would have liked very much to see Tim Brannigan 
 also, who needed only the small amount of describing 
 which Bly Folliss and his friends had been able to 
 give. 
 “T want a boy to go of an errand, Mrs. Brannigan,”’ 
 said No. 68. ; 
 
360 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 Boys were numerous in that region, and one was 
 forthcoming instantly. No. 68 scribbled upon a piece 
 of paper, “Come with barrier” — meaning probably 
 the boy. 
 
 “Take that ’ere dockymunt to Mr. Folliss at ‘Th’ 
 Alderney,’ young feller; an’ don’t you let no grass 
 go to seed on the way, now. You want to be back 
 here in about four minutes !”’ 
 
 Macrae saw signs enough of the approaching storm. 
 He sauntered watchfully towards the door, not liking 
 after all to face Bly Folliss, if that gentleman had been 
 sent for. And, as for No. 68, he cared little for Mac- 
 rae’s motions. Nothing had been said to him about 
 Macrae. It was only Ben and Tim he wanted. Bly 
 Folliss and Germaine Parson had no knowledge, 
 indeed, of Macrae’s presence in Toronto. 
 
 Macrae reached the door, and opened it, undis- 
 turbed. Even Mrs. Brannigan said not a word to pre- 
 vent him; for, if he was arrested, what might he not 
 say, or be compelled to say, to the hurt of her son 
 Time 
 
 As he went out into the darkness, he stumbled over 
 a great package, a bale of goods, a body, something 
 lying upon the door-step. He uttered an execra- 
 tion, and turned to look upon the thing which had 
 thrown him head foremost to the sidewalk. It was a 
 woman. 
 
 “ What’s the matter with you, woman?” he asked. 
 “ What are you lying there for? Are you drunk?” 
 
 —<Dhe matther wid yerself, ye uncivil billy-goat! 
 
 What size boots are ye thrampin’ aroun’ in, like a 
 
 xt 
 
 | 
 
 | 
 
THE GORGE. 361 
 
 _ roarin’ lion? Oh, murther, but me ribs is all in 
 ‘splinters wid ’em! Take yer han’ aff me!” 
 
 Macrae recognized Carney ; while she, doubled up 
 with pain, was not even looking at him. He laid a 
 vigorous, fierce hand upon her arm: he was minded 
 to twist and bend it, to take her by the throat and 
 suffocate her. 
 
 He, too, was grasped while these awful temptations 
 _ were struggling to come to the birth as full-fledged 
 deeds: he looked up, and his eye met Bly Folliss’s. 
 
 “You here, Tom?” said Bly. 
 
 “Why not?” he gasped. “What right” — 
 
 “Never mind that, Tom. Let go! you are hurting 
 that old woman. Now, Tom, see here, old fellow, 
 your game is up. The whole thing is out. For old 
 times’ sake, Isay— Go! Cut and run for it, just as 
 hard .and as far as you can; and TJ, for one, will say 
 nothing. Take my advice, Tom.” 
 
 But the man was infatuated now with anger and 
 chagrin, with the overthrow of all his patient plans. 
 He stopped to parley. 
 
 “Are you going in here, Bly?” he asked. 
 
 Ves, Lain: 
 
 “ What for?” 
 
 “To take charge of young Hollins, and restore him 
 to his parents.” 
 
 “You shall do no such thing, Bly Folliss. He is 
 under my charge; and I was on my way home with 
 him, and sent him over the lake with a responsible 
 man, agreeing to meet him here. And you and your 
 cronies must needs interfere; and here I am now 
 
362 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 suspected of all sorts of misdeeds, and the police set 
 upon me! And this miserable old creature here dogs . 
 my very footsteps. She is housemother, down there ~ 
 at your imitation Carleton, isn’t she? And it’s you, 
 probably, who inspire the old witch.” 
 
 “Tom, don’t be foolish: will you go to Millington 
 with me to-morrow morning?” asked Folliss. 
 
 “That’s my affair.” 
 
 “Very well, old fellow.” 
 
 Macrae’s blood was up. For very shame he would 
 follow Bly Folliss into the tavern now, if he died for it. 
 
 No. 68 had just finished a very interesting conver- 
 sation with Mrs. Brannigan as they entered. 
 
 From a very beaming remark upon the relative 
 merits of allspice and “the leastest little sprig of cinna- 
 mon-bark,”” — which latter article was floating upon a 
 mixture whose last drops he was just swallowing, — 
 No. 68 had branched off to a question as to what 
 “that ’ere gentlmn as jest went out was a-doin’ 
 herer.”’ 
 
 The hostess assured him that he was only a friend 
 of her son Tim’s. No. 68 volunteered to say that he 
 “looked a leetle more genteeler than them kind of 
 folks generally does,” — leaving Mrs. Brannigan’s 
 mind in distress, —and asked what “the gentlmn’s 
 name”’ was. 
 
 “ Machin,” responded Mrs. Brannigan, relying en- 
 tirely upon information of her precious son. 
 
 “Oh, ho! Machin—eh? Well, that settles it.” 
 
 No. 68 was in the act of scrawling something in his — 
 note-book, when the party of gentlemen entered. He 
 
THE GORGE. 363 
 
 sprang to his feet at once, and advanced towards Mac- 
 rae. 
 
 “Mr. ’Allowell,” said he, “ you’re wanted !” 
 
 “Wanted !”” whispered Macrae. 
 
 “Yes. You're a spictitious character. The banks 
 is a lookin’ around for you. You ain’t took no money, 
 you know ; but the banks has been set up to watchin’ 
 you, for fear you will take some. An’ they wants to 
 get a good picter of you beforehand. You'll go along 
 o’ me, Mr. ’Allowell, or Mr. Machin, or w’atever your 
 true name may be.” 
 
 It was a cruel blow. Macrae felt the degradation 
 of it even more than he had felt the shame of that 
 which brought him into contact with Folliss outside. 
 
 But Folliss was equal to the emergency. He took 
 the policeman aside, and half persuaded him, that, as 
 he had no charge against Macrae, he had better let 
 him go. 
 
 “Yes ; but don’t ye see,” he said, “all them ’Allo- 
 wells is a reputitious lot. H’I think that ’Allowell’s ’is 
 real name, after all. I knows the family, ev’ry one on 
 ‘em. Mebbe I should be sorry to see one on ’em took 
 up, but prewention’s the medicine for them kind.” 
 
 Bly crossed over to Macrae, and whispered, “Tom, 
 for God’s sake go! If he attempts to arrest you, I’ll 
 trip him up.” . 
 
 - “T won't, I tell you! Let him do his worst. I 
 won't be ruined by a parcel of gossiping people and 
 a miserable Bobby like that!” 
 
 No. 68 touched Bly’s arm to remark, “ H’I’m fot 
 
 takin’ on ’im h’up, zow.” 
 
304. DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 “You can’t, you know: you have no substan | 
 charge against him,” said Bly. -) ia 
 
 “Can’t 1? W’y, ’e’s a-threatenin’ and a-offerin’ 
 disturb the peace of ig: gracious Me ~ he 
 them words of his’n.” 
 
 Macrae while speaking. “ “Bobby,” indeed! — B 
 eracious Majesty was not to be insulted after 
 fashion. | Das 
 
 ry 
 i 
 
THE BREAK. 365 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 THE BREAK. 
 
 ACRAE arose from his chair; and the pent-up 
 passion of four years—nay, perhaps of his 
 whole life—-came to the surface at one leap. It 
 whirled him along upon its resistless current. It was 
 grand to see him: so Bly Folliss says. He stood 
 erect ; his good blood, his gentlemanliness, his educa- 
 tion, his brilliant ability, all asserting themselves. In 
 ‘one moment they fell, collapsed in utter ruin, and left 
 him standing there a fiend. The transformation was 
 something awful: so Bly Folliss says. 
 
 “A pretty lot you are!” he cried in the voice of a ; 
 madman. “A pretty lot! A man cannot undertake 
 the care of a poor lunatic, but he must be followed 
 
 about and spied upon by a miserable scarecrow of a 
 : policeman, a Bobby!” he screamed, “and talked of 
 _as if he were committing a crime. Now let”? — 
 
 “See ’ere, young feller, you come along o’ me. I’ve 
 got a charge again’ you now, any ways.” No. 68 ad- 
 vanced towards Macrae.as he said this. 
 
 It would have been an exhibition of double acro- 
 batics if Macrae had “come along 0o’” No. 68. F or, 
 the instant the representative of her gracious Majesty 
 touched him, a helmet, a club, a note-book, half a 
 
366 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 dozen apples, and No. 68 rolled over the floor. With 
 a crash that made every heart in the room beat faster, 
 the “ Bobby’s” body struck the bar, and curled itself 
 up in an awkward heap. Opposite was Thomas Mac- 
 rae, brought to bay, his eyes glaring wickedly, his atti- 
 tude one of defiance. , 
 
 “Brannigan,” he cried, “come in here, and do 
 your duty !” 
 
 But Mr. Brannigan had conceived a new notion of 
 his “duty.”” He had promised to stand by Macrae, 
 thick and thin ; but he concluded to erase the “ thick” 
 from the contract. 
 
 Long before, Carney had hobbled into the room; 
 and she had silently been looking on, appalled at 
 Macrae’s fierceness. With the best intentions, and 
 even with some of her old admiration, she now ap- 
 proached Macrae. Softly she spoke to him: “ Whisht, 
 now, Misther Thomas! Be aisy, dear; give over, an’ 
 lave dhis. Meet me on dhe pos’-offy stips, an’ it’s 
 Carney Dugan as’ll lif you out uv all dhis throuble.” 
 
 Shame, shame! to be spoken to in this confidential 
 fashion by such a woman! Macrae glared at her 
 as a wounded tiger at a man with medicine in his 
 hands. 
 
 “Stand off, you old beggar! It is you who have 
 brought all this upon me: don’t whine about it now !” 
 he cried, pushing her away. 
 
 “Tt’s not me dhat’s whinin’, Thomas Macrae,” she 
 1eplied: “it’s yure own father an’ mother dhat’s 
 speakin’ ; it’s yure grandfather an’ dhe whole race of 
 Macraes of Briartop in Derry, tin miles from dhe 
 
THE BREAK. 367 
 
 scotch Fairms; an’ it’s manny’s dhe time, Misther 
 Thomas ” — 
 
 The rest was never spoken. In the blindness of his 
 rage, Macrae flung her to the floor, hissed some half- 
 intelligible malediction at Folliss, Brandon, and Parson, 
 who were gathering together in rather warlike fashion, 
 and fled from the house. 
 
 No. 68 was beginning to collect his suspended 
 senses, as Macrae disappeared. He was for having 
 the whole power of the law brought to bear at once 
 upon “that ’Allowell,” believing that her gracious 
 Majesty had suffered serious hurt and damage. 
 
 “Go and find him,” said Brandon. ‘Go at once, 
 or you’ll lose him.” 
 
 - “ He’s a h’awful powerful chap, now: ’e’ve got a grip 
 like a cockerdile,” said No. 68, rubbing his aching 
 arm, and backing out of the whole business. 
 
 Poor Carney was carried into Mrs. Brannigan’s 
 parlor. She was not much hurt, only a little bruised. 
 “Cold water externally applied, and a little of Mrs. 
 Brannigan’s spirits (hot, and with an extra sprinkling 
 of nutmeg) applied otherwise, soon set her to rights 
 again, — that is to say, to talking. 
 
 Carney had, however, but fairly begun what would 
 undoubtedly have been one“of her lengthiest speeches, 
 when the voice of Mrs. Brannigan was heard. 
 
 «And what’s te be done wid dhis one?” she asked, 
 pointing to Ben. 
 
 “We'll take care of him,” said three warm voices 
 in chorus. 
 
 And now Bly Folliss’s courage was up. No more 
 
368 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 fear of the Adelon girls. No more fear of the inevi- 
 table scene at Millington. He, and he only, would see 
 Ben Hollins safe in his facher’s arms. A despatch was 
 sent announcing their coming, and next morning Bly 
 and Ben departed. 
 
 And fully half an hour before the arrival Ephraim 
 Hollins entered the Millington station ; and not alone, 
 oh, no! There was a crowd of mill-men and citizens 
 also. Harper had told the news. Sandy Dart stood 
 in the front rank of those who pressed forward to catch 
 the first glimpse of “Mr. Benjamin.” Sandy was 
 anxious to “ bat a t-t-tan pun noat’”’ on some issue or 
 other, but none presented itself to his mind. 
 
 And now, at the first far-off sounds of the approach- 
 ing train, necks were craned and twisted. Pairs of 
 -eyes peered eagerly down towards the curve, just as 
 if Ben would surely come in riding on the pilot, and 
 waving a Union Jack. 
 
 “Whoo-oo-o0 ! who-who-who !” 
 
 The train had come. There was a great rustling 
 of boots, a scrambling of mill-men to the very edge 
 of the platform, from the locomotive to the end of 
 the train. Harper had told the news to’ good pur- 
 pose. 
 
 Apart, and in quiet dignity, stood an old man with 
 locks now whitened by an age of uncomforted sorrow. 
 His very face was still covered with the veil of that 
 same sorrow. ‘There was not yet any sign of the old 
 gladness in it; no, nor can be, until — until — 
 
 “Ah! Ben! my son, my son! I see thee now! 
 Dear Ben!” 
 
THE BREAK. 369 
 
 These words, and no more. The old man’s arms 
 go round his son’s neck; and with one great Sob, 
 and one look of gentle wonderment, Ben cries out, 
 “Father!” and his arms twine round the old man’s 
 head. 
 
 It was a sight to see the great brown hands of 
 workingmen go up to those hundreds of watery eyes, 
 —to see them try to smooth away the quivering of 
 their lips! 
 
 A stranger in one of the coaches of the now depart- 
 ing train looked out, and asked, “Some one dead?” 
 
 “No, sir! alive again!’’ was the answer. 
 
 The stranger could not make it out; but he read 
 the story in the papers, perhaps, a week afterward. 
 
 Soon the sense of re-possession of his son came 
 fully to Ephraim Hollins, and his thoughts returned 
 from his own overwhelming joy to the every-day 
 affairs of life. ‘Turning to Bly Folliss, first of all, he 
 said, “ You will forgive me, my dear sir!” 
 
 “ No excuses, I beg, Mr. Hollins. I have only done 
 my duty, and am sorry it was so bunglingly done es 
 terday.” 
 
 Mr. Hollins took Folliss’s arm, and began to move 
 towards his carriage. Bly held back, however, pro- 
 testing that he must return to Toronto on a train 
 which even then was signalling. 
 
 Mr. Hollins would not listen to this, and Bly se 
 urgent business. 
 
 O Bly Folliss! Business! What a business man you 
 were, to be sure! You diligent, hard-working butter- 
 fly, spreading your beautiful wings all day long, and 
 
370 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 hunting all the world over for pretty flowers to feed 
 upon! Well, you did one fair stroke of business in 
 your life, at all events. We forgive you the rest, and 
 bless you. 
 
 It was useless to say “No” to this persistent old 
 man. He would have his way. “TI shall never be 
 forgiven at Elmswoods, if I let you go,” he said; 
 “and, besides, the train is moving.” | 
 
 This amicable dispute ended, Bly yielded himself 
 to Mr. Hollins’s dictation, and presently found him- 
 self an honored guest at Elmswoods, and witness of 
 a scene the very thought of which would have fright- 
 ened him almost to death the day before. 
 
 “If you believe me, fellows,” said he to Germaine 
 and Jack, on his return, “I boo-hooed like a baby. 
 You’d have thought Hollins was my own brother !” 
 
 In point of fact, Bly Folliss did not deserve to be 
 made a hero of: he had only come into the cast at 
 the last moment, and here the whole cornucopia of 
 benedictions was showered upon him. But let us re- 
 flect. ‘These good people at Elmswoods must. have 
 some object upon whom to pour out all the thanks- 
 
 givings and gratefulness of their hearts. You could 
 
 not expect them to take back Ben with a mere 
 “Thank you, sir,” or “Very much obliged.” 
 
 And Bly Folliss, without knowing it, without mean- 
 ing it, stood as the representative of all who were con- 
 cerned in the act of restitution. The Kimbers, Carney 
 Dugan, the police of “the States” (well-intending, 
 but human, after all), Dr. Peterson even (whom Folliss 
 had never seen), —he represented them all, and was 
 
THE BREAK. AY 
 
 on the top of the wave. It happens in this way in 
 human affairs very often. 
 
 Bly was keenly alive to the situation, however, and 
 cut short the hospitalities of Elmswoods. 
 
 “Besides, fellows,” said he, in his account of all 
 this, “that girl!” 
 
 “What then, Bly?” asked Brandon. 
 
 “What then? Hum! Tom Macrae went overboard, 
 you know ; and Bly Folliss is mortal also !” 
 
 “But not a rascally impulse is in his heart!” cried 
 out Parson and Brandon in one voice. 
 
 “No; but, fellows, she is a magnificent girl. Here’s 
 to a wedding at Elmswoods! The doctors at Hick- 
 ory Hall prophesy it, — have prognosed the case, so to 
 speak. That’s pretty tall language for me, fellows.” 
 
 In the quiet resumption of daily duty the Elms- 
 woods family found life a very different affair from 
 the dull, heavy, sorrowful round of the two or more 
 past years. It was the keenest of pleasures to watch 
 Ben, to see him growing day by day in all the ele- 
 ments of strong manhood. Dr. Peterson, too, came 
 
 ' up from time to time, and spoke with increasing con- 
 
 fidence. The whole household, in a word, was filled, 
 
 _permeated, with one glowing thought, — Ben is get- 
 
 ting well. 
 
 About this time, any time you please, Ben read 
 “The Globe” regularly, looked into books, made 
 excursions with his friends, grasped the right and 
 wrong of things, comprehended gros and cons with 
 ever-increasing clearness. 
 
ae DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 True, the sun did not shine upon him all the time. 
 . Luna took a peep at him now ana then, and Ben’s 
 wits made little discursive flights. 
 
 But the awful sadness of it was shaken and gone. 
 _ Ephraim Hollins roared when Ben told him once, — 
 only once in all that time, — that he might scatter the 
 megrims by taking two gallons of whiskey and about 
 four ounces of quinine before breakfast. ‘They all 
 had a moment of merry laughter the day that Ben 
 took Betty’s head in his hands, and ‘pronounced the 
 formula, ‘‘ Attachment, large ; courage, immense ; self- 
 esteem, —ha, ha! combativeness, very good, — regular 
 fighter ; hope, almost the size of your whole head, I 
 should say ; amativeness ”” — . 
 
 “Now, Ben” — 
 
 Ben was quite out of sorts that day ; and, being dis- 
 turbed in his passing delusion, drew up his coat-collar — 
 as these dear friends had never seen him before, ex- _ 
 claimed, “Now, don’t you’””— and took himself off — 
 hurriedly. 
 
 It turned their gladness into grief for an hour ; and, ~ 
 indeed, there were many hours of perplexity and 
 doubt. But almost every day the aged father could 
 say, ‘‘ Mother, Ben is better.” 
 
 Weary enough it was waiting. Slowly the desired 
 end approached, but surely. Finally, on a July day, a 
 year and four months after his return, there came to 
 one and all a complete, joyful, untrammelled sense of 
 the ending of all their doubts and pains. - 
 
 Said Ben, — 
 
 “Father, I am well!” 
 
THE BREAK. 373 
 
 “Mother, I am well!” 
 
 “Betty, I am well!” 
 
 Dr. Peterson came up to Elmswoods, and Surgeon 
 Braddock with him. With one voice they said, “Yes: 
 Ben is well.” 
 
 The servants took it up, the gardeners, the farmers, 
 the mill-men, the citizens of Millington. It seemed 
 as if the birds in the air were singing it, the sheep and 
 lambs bleating it, the very dogs bow-wowing the 
 “joyous news, — 
 
 “Ben Hollins is well!” 
 
374 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 COMFORT LODGE AT LAST. 
 
 H, how cheerily Betty Hartley tripped it in these 
 days! She sang sweet little snatches of melody, 
 gliding from song to song,—a verse of this one, a 
 line from that one, a triumphant strain from another. 
 No single one of them all was sufficient to fill out the 
 great joy and purpose of her young soul. And Ben 
 brought to her an offering of lower chord-notes, adding 
 to her rippling mezzo a bass, a baritone, a tenor. This 
 universal genius did not know one of these voices from — 
 the other: he sang at random. 
 
 Betty was never vain of her personal appearance, 
 but now she fell to looking into the mirror daily and 
 ‘steadfastly.. ‘‘Poor pale things!” she would say, 
 pinching her cheeks. ‘The color must come back to 
 them now, for Ben is well. I wonder whether Ben 
 likes best white cheeks, or red.” 
 
 If people sfeak their thoughts, they must submit to 
 being answered. 
 
 “ Red ones!” cried Ben, therefore. “And, when I 
 don’t find them so, I make them so; so there [a 
 smack on this side], and there [a smack on that], 
 and there, and there !”’ 
 
 They opened Comfort Lodge one day. 
 
GOMPORT, LODGE AT LAST. . 375 
 
 “Hullo!” said “B” to “H.” “ They are letting 
 in the light. Wake up!” 
 
 A deal of renovating was done in that snug abode. 
 Furniture was overhauled and set in order; swollen 
 carpentry, windows, doors, casings, put in smooth 
 running condition ; hangings re-arranged. 
 
 There was news in Millington. The tall archdeacon 
 had become a bishop now, and it was said in Milling- 
 ton streets and offices that “his lordship” was coming 
 over to perform the service. 
 
 “Just in time!” shouted Bly Folliss, as two friends 
 walked into his parlor. ‘ Hollins writes that he is to 
 be married Tuesday week. Says, ‘Come up, sure; 
 and bring your friends Mr. Parson and Mr. Brandon.’ 
 That means you: do you understand?” 
 
 The wedding-day came at last. A delicious morsel 
 of the summer preserved for the especial purpose of 
 giving Ben and Betty 21 warm, sunshiny start in the 
 new life, that October morning brought smiles and 
 good-humor with it in abundance. Sandy Dart was 
 grandiloquent. Old Mother Ballam was dusting the 
 pews at St. Peter’s up to the last moment, and, as Sandy 
 and his wife came in, said, “‘ A- morning to you, Mr. 
 Dart, and a morning to you, Mrs. Dart. Be’n’t it 
 gran’ an’ glorious to see the han’ o’ God laid so gentle 
 _an’ good on our Mr. Benjamin? God bless him an’ 
 his sweet lass!” 
 
 “Amen!” said Sandy. 
 
 What need that we should describe this wedding? 
 Please to imagine that the trousseau was as you like 
 it best, that the church was “ crowded to overflowing,” 
 
376 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 that the bride was “lovely” and the groom “ fine- 
 looking,” and all the rest of it. 
 
 Mr. Alexander McKechnie, Q.C., was present, and 
 had brought certain papers to be signed. If you ever 
 meet this celebrated queen’s counsel, he will. make 
 you sign a paper before you leave him, you may depend 
 upon it. These particular papers Mr. Hollins had 
 taken from the legal gentleman, and laid away in a 
 drawer of the library-table. At the hour of signing, 
 Ben, Betty, and Mr. Hollins were standing by the table, 
 Mr. Hollins having first laid a packet there. 
 
 Alexander McKechnie suddenly lifted his eye-glasses, 
 and said, ‘‘ God bless me, Hollins ! ah !— these — ah! 
 — these documents !” 
 
 Mr. Hollins quickly looked over his lawyer’s shoul- 
 der at the papers spread out before him, and exclaimed, 
 “Oh, excuse me, McKechnie ! those are not the papers. 
 Will you be good enough to destroy them?” 
 
 “George the Third,” “ the statute in that case made 
 and provided,” “the sum of twenty-five thousand 
 dollars,” and “the partnership between the aforesaid 
 Ephraim Hollins and the aforesaid Thomas Macrae,” 
 went into the waste-basket in tatters. 
 
 A shade of pain passed over Ephraim Hollins’s face, 
 but Ben and Betty never knew what caused it. 
 
 A month after the marriage of “ Mr. Benjamin Hol- 
 
 lins of Millington, Ont., to Bertha, only daughter of ~ 
 
 the late Col. Davenport Hartley, R.A., and grand- 
 daughter of the late Admiral Beswick Hartley, for- 
 merly of Chistow, Hants, and late of Millington, Ont.,” 
 
COMFORT LODGE AT LAST. afi 
 
 a party of four might have been seen wending their 
 way to the Grand Trunk station, Toronto. 
 
 “Farewell, Parsy, old boy! Don’t come back from 
 Germany with spectacles, now.” 
 
 _ “Spectacles?” said Carney Dugan, who was one 
 of the four. ‘More like he’ll come wid a roomfull 
 of plagueyscoops an’ bugs in his pockets.” 
 
 “Look out for him, then, Mrs. Dugan, and at least 
 watch him well until you leave him at Queenstown. 
 After that he’ll have to take care of himself.” 
 
 The train moved away, bearing Parson and Carney, 
 and leaving Folliss and Brandon behind waving hats 
 and sending blessings with their boon companion, the 
 overflowings at least falling to Carney. 
 
 Another month, and another party of four were 
 dining at Bly Folliss’s apartments at “The Alderney.” 
 Mr. and ‘Mrs. Benjamin Hollins sat at the sides, Mr. 
 Bly Folliss at the head, Mr. Jack Brandon at the foot, 
 of the table. 
 
 “They got off safely, then?’’ asked Hollins. 
 
 “Yes: I have a letter from Parson, written on the 
 _ steamer, and sent in by the pilot. He says, ‘Carney 
 stood by me as the ship swung out into the stream. 
 “ Good-by,” she cried, “ good-by, ye ill-assorted lan’ o’ 
 beggars an’ plenty! But Peter an’ Pathrick forgive 
 me! If I hadn’t come to you, sure I’d never ’a’ got 
 back again. An’ now it’s dhe goin’ dhat throubles 
 me.?’." 1: 
 
 “Farther on, Parson says, ‘Carney is full of bless- 
 ings on Mr. Hollins’s head for sending her to Arboe. 
 She has gone to the steerage now; but I shall go 
 
378 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 down to see her every day, unless’— Yes,’ adds 
 
 Folliss, as he thinks of Parson in the throes, “un-— 
 
 less !” 
 
 The dinner is over, and Folliss and Brandon are 
 left alone. 
 
 “Jack,” says Folliss, ‘I was tempted to tell Hollins 
 what I found in the last ‘Galignani.’ It came this 
 morning. I’m powerful glad, as the Yankees say, that 
 I kept it to myself. Listen ! 
 
 FATAL AND SINGULAR. AFFRAY. 
 
 [We receive the following, just as we go to press, and are obliged to insert 
 
 without the usual correction. ] : : 
 Muncuen, rmo Avril. 
 
 As two party of young English emerge from M. Quatresous’ 
 café, the evening of yesterday, they have encounter a party of 
 officiers militaires. By what cause no one is intelligent, but the 
 word of anger was to pass very loud, when a pistol go off in 
 firing. On the instant Lieut. Baur was falling down dead. The 
 English were fled. 
 
 The police did find one at Mavlik’s, on the Kaufinger-strasse. 
 He was gone, by cause of taking his leave most quickly, to M. 
 Mavlik’s great astonishment. The other of the two party was 
 of the name — Thomas Macrae, Derry. 
 
 P.S. Macrae have been found, having been come to May- 
 lik’s at two o’clock, bleeding. Lieut. Baur have discharge his 
 pistol at the same moment. Macrae receive the ball, and have 
 died this morning. 
 
 “There, Jack,” added Bly, “that is the sequel to a 
 transformation which you and I were witnesses of ; 
 and the ending of a fellow who might have been —of 
 the best.” 
 
 _ There was silence in Folliss’s apartments for a mo- 
 ment, broken by Brandon at last. 
 
 fie 
 
COMFORT LODGE AT LAST. 379 
 
 “Bly,” said he, gravely and sententiously, “love is 
 an awfully dangerous thing !”’ 
 
 “Ha, ha, ha! Jack, you are refreshingly original. 
 Don’t you know, yet, that half the girls in Toronto are 
 madly in love with your own dear self ?”? 
 
 “Then, Bly, I am safe: I shall never go into an 
 insane-asylum. But I am frightfully sorry for the 
 girls.” ; 3 
 
 And Jack Brandon, thirty-two years of age, with a 
 vow resting upon him never to marry, a sort of lay 
 celibate, covered his head with a cloud of smoke from 
 a fragrant Partagas, and was silent. 
 
 The following morning a carriage rolled along the 
 Elmswoods avenue, and up to the door of Comfort 
 Lodge. Here were three elderly people waiting to 
 receive the two new-comers, Ben and Mrs. Ben Hol- 
 lins. Man and wife, after many years of sad waiting, 
 these two now clasped each other tenderly, their 
 smiles and tears mingling more sweetly than printed 
 words can tell. It is the perfume of those smiles and 
 tears which lingers yet around Comfort Lodge. It is 
 the gravity born of all that waiting and sorrow that 
 makes the atmosphere of Comfort Lodge a little — 
 only a trifle—unlike that of other young people’s 
 
 _ homes. 
 
 But the compensation is also present ; and a sedate, 
 unruffled happiness has entered into Comfort Lodge, 
 and there is no enemy to touch it with rude and hostile 
 hand. 
 
 , To know the depth of such joy, betrothed ones, one 
 
 if 
 
380 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 of you must go to Hickory Hall for a time: the other 
 must wait and watch. May God keep you both from 
 such a trial! May he give you some other source of 
 happiness ! 
 
 At dinner, the day of return, Ben, asks, “Did you 
 send that wedding-cake to the patients at Hickory 
 Hall, father?” 
 
 “Yes, Ben: we had a special one made, —a huge 
 one; and on the frosting we had the confectioner 
 write, in letters made of bright gold dollars, — 
 
 DOCTOR BEN, 
 
 I wrote to Dr. Peterson, requesting-him to expend the 
 money for the benefit of the poorer patients.” 
 
 “What a ‘party’ there must have been!” says Ben. 
 
 And all join in subdued merriment; for all have 
 heard, long ago, of Delorme’s famous entertainment. 
 
 “And you did .not forget Debby Kimber?” Ben 
 inquires. 
 
 “You may be sure we did not, my son.” 
 
 The dinner is over: the older ones have returned to 
 Elmswoods. Ben and Betty are alone. It is Betty 
 who first finds speech. 
 
 “Home at last, Ben!” she says, “and in Comfort 
 Lodge.” 
 
 “Ves, Betty,” Ben whispers back. More boldly he 
 
 says, in his old, manly way, “Yes, and may comfort - 
 
 lodge here with you and me now! For we have 
 sorely needed it. And, by the same token, may it 
 come to all this world, and grow and increase, until all 
 sorrow and sickness are driven away !” 
 
A LAST WORD. 381 
 
 A LAST WORD. 
 
 T is but just to the medical fraternity, the public, 
 
 and himself, that the author should say that this 
 
 book is in no sense to be mistaken for a Zreaéise on 
 Insanity. It is only a story. 
 
 And yet these pages were not written without an 
 object. And if they shall have helped strong, healthy 
 men and women to a kindlier, truer idea of a great 
 and unfortunate body of their fellow-creatures, that 
 object will have been sufficiently attained. 
 
 “Doctor Ben” himself is a little anxious on one 
 point. He fears that he has been painted in too high 
 colors. Between you and me, this is not so. Have I 
 made him out any thing more thana man? And in 
 very truth Ben Hollins of Comfort Lodge puts. to 
 blush the saying, — ‘‘ Things are not what they seem,” 
 at least so far as that line applies to living men. What 
 he is he seems, and what he seems he is. And, to 
 play with the tenses a little more, he thanks God 
 _ daily that he is not what he was, but what he had 
 been. 
 
 And if any should think that the writer has left truth 
 too far out of sight in some portions of the narrative, 
 let him merely say in self-justification, that, on the 
 contrary, it has been painful enough in some instances 
 
382 DOCTOR BEN. 
 
 to write down very facts, —words really spoken, deeds 
 really done. 
 
 And if Hickory Hall shall seem to be idealized 
 somewhat, in the eyes of both professionals and lay- 
 men, we beg that at least it may be looked upon as 
 the coming institution, and its medical chief as the 
 coming healer of the Doctor Bens, the Giants, the 
 Elder Babbages, and chevaloscope-inventors of this 
 troubled world. 
 
: 
 
 \ 
 
 United States Hotel, 
 
 ta LOAN: 
 
 For more than Half a Reeatury: 
 THE OLD UNITED STATES HOTEL, 
 
 of Boston, 
 
 has maintained its ‘respectability and excellence. 
 
 F Originally the largest Hotel in Boston, it has been twice enlarged 
 years ago, by the extensive wings on Kingston and Lincoln Streets, 
 
 ; named respectively Oregon and Texas. 
 
 Durirg the past five years it has been under the management of 
 
 MR. TILLY HAYNES, of Springfield, Mass., 
 
 who has completely renovated, enlarged, and improved the property, 
 _ and last year added still another hundred rooms, by building across 
 _ from Texas to Oregon. 
 \ Think of a Hotel from Texas to Oregon, and you will understand 
 _ why this notice is written, which is to say that the UNITED STATES 
 recommends itself for its quiet, orderly management, and the notable 
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 edges. Ina neat box, $5.00; in antique morocco or tree-calf, $10.00, 
 
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 eters 
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 Sold by booksellers. Sent, post-paid, on receipt of price, by the publishers, — 3 
 TICKNOR AND COMPANY; Boston. 
 
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 alteration can be effected through any Jeweller. 
 
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