By this time they had reached the depot, and Will, who knew they must part there, said to him, “How long do you stay in New York?”
“Not long,” returned Ben, “I’ve only come to recruit my stock a little.”
“Go to the Post-Office before you leave,” was Will’s reply, as he stepped from the platform and was lost in the crowd.
“What did he mean?” thought Ben. “Nobody writes to me but Marian, and I ain’t expectin’ nothin’ from her, but I guess I may as well go.”
Accordingly, the next night, when Will Gordon, with little Fred in his arms, was looking out upon the sea, Ben wended his way to the office, inquiring first for Ben Butterworth and then for Ben Burt. There was a letter for the latter, and it contained a draft for three hundred dollars, together with the following lines:
“You and I have suffered alike, and in each of our hearts there is a hidden grave. I saw it in the tears you shed when talking to me of Marian Grey. Heaven bless you, Ben Burt, for all you have been to her. She is one of the fairest, best, of God’s creation, but she was not meant for you nor me; and we must learn to go our way without her. You have done for her more, perhaps, than either Mr. Raymond or myself would have done in the same circumstances, and thus far you are more worthy of her esteem. You will please accept the inclosed as a token that I appreciate your self-denying labors for Marian Grey. Use it for that grocery we talked about, if you choose, or for any purpose you like. If you have any delicacy just consider it a loan to be paid when you are a richer man than I am. You cannot return it, of course, for when you receive it I shall be gone.
“Yours, in haste, William Gordon.”
This letter was a mystery to Ben, who read it again and again, dwelling long upon the words, “You and I suffered alike, and in each of our hearts there is a hidden grave.”
“That hits me exactly,” he said, “though I never thought of callin’ that hole in my heart a grave—but ’taint nothin’ else, for I buried somethin’ in it, and the tender brotherly feelin’ I’ve felt for Marian ever since was the grave stun I set up in memory of what had been. But what does he know about it, though why shouldn’t he, for no mortal man can look in Marian’s face and not feel kinder cold and hystericky-like at the pit of his stomach! Yes, he’s in love with her, and that’s the way she came to tell who she was. Poor Bill! poor Bill! I know how to pity him to a dot,” and Ben heaved a deep sigh as he finished this long soliloquy.
The money next diverted his attention, but no puzzling on his part could explain to him satisfactorily why it had been sent.