The ice was fairly broken now, and both Will and Ben settled themselves for a long conversation. Will did not think it betrayed Marian’s confidence to talk of her with one who understood her affairs so much better than himself, and ere they reached New York, he had heard the whole story—heard how Ben had stumbled upon her in New York, and taken her to his home without knowing aught of her, except that she was friendless and alone—how the mother, now resting in her grave, had cared for the orphan girl, and how Ben, too, had done for her what he could.
“’Twan’t much anyway,” he said, “and I never minded it an atom, for ’twas a pleasure to arn money for her schoolin’.”
And Ben spoke truly, for it never occurred to him that he had denied himself as few men would have done—toiling early and late, through sunshine and storm, wearing the old coat long after it was threadbare, and sometimes, when peddling, eating but two meals a day, by way of saving for Marian. Of all this he did not speak to his companion. He did not even think of it, or, if he did, he felt that he was more than paid in seeing Marian what she was. Accidentally, he said that his name was really Ben Burt, and that he should be glad when the time came for him to be called thus again.
“When will that be?” asked Will, and Ben replied by unfolding to him his long cherished plan of having Frederic make love to his own wife.
“You might write to him, I s’pose,” he said, “but that would spile all my fun, and I’d rather let the thing work itself out. He’s bound to fall in love with her. He can’t help it, and I don’t see how you could. Mabby you did.” And Ben’s grey eyes looked quizzically at his companion, who colored deeply as he replied merely to the first part of Ben’s remark. “I certainly will not interfere in the matter, though before meeting you I was wondering how I could do so, and not betray Marian’s confidence. I am sure now it will all come right at last, and you ought to be permitted to bring it round in your own way, for you have been a true friend to her, and I dare say she loves you as a brother.”
This was touching Ben on a tender point, for his old affection for Marian was not quite dead yet, and Will’s last words brought back to him memories of those dreary winter nights, when in his way he had battled with the love he knew he must not cherish for Marian Grey. He fidgeted in his seat, got up and looked under him, sat down again and looked out of the window, and repeated to himself a part of the multiplication table, by way of keeping from crying.
“Bless her, she’s an angel,” he managed at last to say, adding, as he, met the inquiring glance of Will: “It’s my misfortin’ to be oncommon tender-hearted, and when I git to thinkin’ of somethin’ that concerns nobody but me, I can’t keep from cryin’ no way you can fix it,” and two undeniable tears rolled down his cheeks and dropped from the end of his nose.
“He, too,” sighed Will Gordon, and as he thought how much more the uncouth man beside him had done for Marian Grey than either Frederic or himself, and that he really had the greatest claim to her gratitude and love, his heart warmed toward Yankee Ben as to a long tried friend, and he resolved to leave for him a substantial token of his regard.
“Why don’t you settle down, as a grocer, in some small country town?” he asked, as they came near the city.
“I have thought of that,” said Ben, “for I’m gettin’ kinder tired of travelin’ now that there ain’t no home for me to go to once in so often. I think I should like to be a grocery man first rate, and weigh out saleratus and bar soap to the old wimmen. Wouldn’t they flock in, though, to see me, I’m so odd! But ’taint no use to think on’t for I hain’t the money now, though, mabby I shall have it bimeby. My expenses ain’t as great as they was.”