rs. Fisher waited anxiously in an adjoining room for the coming of her
husband to tell her that Benny was no more. She could not go back into
the sick-room, she dared not see the child die. It was only such a short
time ago she held her own dying Rob in her arms while he gasped out his
little life, and the wound in her heart was not healed yet: she fancied
it never would be. The sick child in the next room, that she had taken
to her heart, had opened it afresh, and she felt that to see the little
fellow struggling in the agonies of death would be more than her nerves
could bear. And so she waited while the moments dragged slowly along.
"How tenaciously the child clings to life!" she said to herself as she paced restlessly up and down the room. Still her husband came not.
"Can he be fighting death all this while?" she said; "I hope the little spirit will be released soon." Then she fell upon her knees and prayed—prayed long and earnestly that, if it were the Lord's will, the boy that had been thrown upon their care might have speedy and sweet release from the burden of the flesh.
It seemed long since she had left the sick-room, and still the moments travelled slowly on.
"It cannot be much longer," she said; then a step on the landing made her look up anxiously, and her husband came quickly into the room.
"Come this way, Mary," he said, without waiting for her to speak.
"Is it all over?" she questioned, looking up into his face.
"No, I can't understand it at all: the lad seems better, though he's evidently wrong in his head."
Without further remark, she went at once to the bedside, and laid her hand gently upon his forehead. Benny opened his eyes slowly, and raised them to her face, then tried to speak, but only a faint whisper escaped his lips.
"What do you say, poor boy?" said Mrs. Fisher kindly, bending down her ear to listen.
"May I see Nelly, please?" he whispered.
"Who is Nelly?" she replied.
"Nelly is my sister; may I not see her?" in the same faint whisper.
"Where is your sister, my boy?" said Mrs. Fisher, looking a little perplexed.
"Nelly's in heaven," he said. "This is heaven, ain't it?"
"No, my boy, this is not heaven," she replied.
"Oh, I thought it wur," he said, closing his eyes with a look of pain. And Mrs. Fisher's eyes became moist, as she saw the big tears stealing out under the lashes, and rolling slowly down the pale wasted cheeks.
After a while Benny fell into a sound sleep, from which he did not awake till morning. When the doctor came next day he rubbed his hands with glee.
"Never had but one case before to equal it!" he said, "but it's wonderful what children will pull through: just as you think they are going right over the precipice, they turn round, and coolly walk back into health."
"Do you think he will get better?" said Mrs. Fisher.
"More likely than not," was the reply: "the tide has turned, evidently. He had reached the crisis when you thought he was dying last night, and instead of kicking the beam, why, here he is ever so much better."
From that day Benny got better. Not rapidly; no, it was a slow coming back to health; still, he did get better. Day by day he gathered strength, though scarcely perceptible at times. The doctor rather wondered at this, for he expected his recovery to be much more rapid. But the secret lay in the fact that Benny did not want to get better. And one day, about a week after the time of which we have spoken, he positively refused to take his medicine.
"But it is to make you better," said Mrs. Fisher gently.
"But I dunna want to get better," said Benny; "I wants to go to heaven."
"But you should be willing to wait the Lord's time, Benny."
"I's waited so long," he said fretfully, "that I's tired of waitin'."
"But it's wrong to murmur at what is God's will, Benny."
"Are it?" he said. "I didn't know, but I's very tired."
"But you'll get rested after a while, if you'll be patient."
"Ah, then," he said, with a sigh, "I mun try, I s'pose."
But in spite of Benny's anxiety to die, health and strength came back to him day by day, and one beautiful July Sabbath afternoon he was dressed, for the first time, in a suit of dead Rob's clothes, and carried into another room, and placed in an easy chair by the window, that he might feast his eyes on the beautiful landscape that stretched out before him. Benny submitted to the process without speaking a word, for he was still very weak; but after he had recovered himself a little, he looked curiously at the clothes in which he was enveloped, as if not at all certain of his identity.
"I reckon I's not Benny Bates," he said at length.
"Oh, yes, you are," said Mrs. Fisher, who had been watching him with an amused smile upon her face.
"Then," he said, looking up, "these is not my togs."
"No; but I think I'll give them to you, Benny."
"Whew!" lifting his eyebrows. Then he began to search carefully all the pockets; that done, he lifted his white scared face to Mrs. Fisher, and said,
"Where's the bob, please?"
"Where's what?"
"The shillin'."
"What shilling?"
"The one the angel gived me. Ain't yer seen it?"
"No; where was it?"
"In the linin' of my wesket."
"Oh, then, perhaps we can find it."
"Oh, yes, do, please; I wouldna lose that bob for a hunderd poun'."
"A hundred pounds is a lot of money, Benny."
"Don't care; don't you see? an angel gived it to me."
"An angel, Benny?"
"Ay, an angel, a real one; but if you'll find the bob, I'll tell yer all 'bout it."
After some searching the shilling was found, and Benny, as good as his word, told Mrs. Fisher the story connected with it. In fact, he would, now that the ice was broken, have told that day all the story of his life, but Mrs. Fisher insisted that it would tire him too much, and that she would hear it some other day.
So day after day as he sat by the window, with the soft summer breeze fanning his brow, and with the songs of the birds in his ears, he told the story that we have written. Told of his father's cruelty, of Joe Wrag's friendship, and of his sister's love—told of his sorrow and loss, his hunger and despair, and of the angel that came to him in his hour of need—told of his success in Mr. Lawrence's office, of his thirst for knowledge, and of the bright hopes he cherished for the future. And he told her, too, of the charge of theft, of his imprisonment and temptation, of his release and resolve, of his fierce battle with hunger and want; and how, to be out of the reach of temptation, he had wandered away into the country until, worn out with hunger and fatigue, he lay down to die.
And while Mrs. Fisher listened, she felt thankful that she had been able to befriend the homeless boy. Benny was winning his way to her motherly heart in a wonderful manner, and was helping to fill the gap caused by the death of little Rob. And could she have had her own way, she would have adopted him as her own, and sent him to school when he was strong enough, with Harry and George. But Benny's independent spirit would not hear of it. He would stay at Scout Farm if he might be permitted to earn his own living; but if they could not find employment for him he must go out into the great world once more, and try over again to earn, by some means, his daily bread. So it was settled at length that he should stay, and learn to be a farmer; and then Benny grew strong rapidly, and ere the sunny September days passed away, he was out in the breezy fields helping to gather in the late harvest, and trying to make himself useful in every possible way. He was willing, nay, anxious to learn, and the work was by no means difficult. For the first few weeks he was very tired when evening came, but the fresh air gave him an appetite, and the work developed his muscles, and life once more became to him a joy.
He very soon got to know what to do without being told. He would tie up the cattle in the evening as if he had been used to a farm all his life; groom the horses as if he and they were old acquaintances; and feed the calves with all the dispatch of an old hand at the work. Mr. Fisher was delighted with him; "a handier little chap," he declared, "he had never come across." And instead of being in the way, as Mrs. Fisher feared he would be, he soon made himself necessary to them.
When winter came, with its long dreary evenings, he found a new source of pleasure, and that was a night school. It was Mrs. Fisher—to whom he had spoken of his thirst for knowledge—that persuaded him to attend. She knew he would not only derive pleasure, but profit. Benny was considerably puzzled at first as to what a "night school" was like; but he soon discovered its purpose, and night after night, through wind and rain, he plodded along the dark country lane to the neighbouring village of Scoutleigh, eager to improve his mind and add to his small store of knowledge. Never had a village schoolmaster a more diligent pupil than he, and rarely one that improved more rapidly.
Nor did he forget in the summer that followed what he had learnt during the winter. There were books in Mr. Fisher's house, to which he had free access, for though on the farm he worked side by side with the hired servants, in the house he was treated as one of the family; and when the day's work was done, he found in his books his most congenial companions. And so he grew in body and mind, and thanked God in his heart for the haven he had found at last.
Time passed quickly at Scout Farm. There was always so much to be done that he had little time to brood over the past, or sigh over "what might have been." Occasionally he longed for the busy life of the town he had left, but the feeling was only momentary. On the whole he was pleased with the life he was living, and though he saw no prospect of ever realizing the dreams that once he cherished, yet he tried to be content. So the weeks passed away, and lengthened into months, and the months lengthened into years, almost unconsciously to Benny. He found himself growing into a man almost against his will.
Six years passed away, and Benny had grown almost out of recognition. No one would have thought that the tall, handsome young fellow that did so large a share of the work at Scout Farm, was the pale and famished child that dragged himself along the dusty highway six years before. He used to laugh sometimes when reminded of the past, and say that he was an example of what hard work, fresh air, and good food could accomplish. Mr. Fisher was almost as proud of him as if he had been his own son, and never seemed tired of declaring that "Ben Bates could swing a scythe, shear a sheep, plough a furrow, build a corn-stack, or thatch a hay-rick equal to any man for ten miles round." Nor was John Fisher the only man that sang Benny's praises. The superintendent of the Methodist Sunday-school at Scoutleigh averred that Benny was the most punctual, diligent, and successful teacher he had.
Benny always declared, however, that he learnt more than he ever taught. Up to the time that he commenced to teach, he had looked upon religion as stern, cold duty, and as that only; a question simply of doing or not doing. It is true that he heard occasionally sermons on the subject of experimental religion, but he thought it was only a way the preachers had of expressing themselves. He had no doubt that he was a Christian. He had been trying to be one ever since the death of his little Nell; he said his prayers regularly, and always tried to do his duty; and he asked himself what more could he do. Yet as he studied the New Testament carefully week by week, in order that he might instruct his class of boys, he became slowly conscious of the fact that feelings and experiences were hinted at in that Book of books that he was a stranger to. What did he know about that "peace that passeth understanding," or of "rejoicing with joy unspeakable"? Was his life "hid with Christ in God," and was he certain what was meant by "holding communion with God and fellowship with Christ"? He now began to pay more attention to the sermons that were preached, and to the hymns that were sung. One Sunday morning he stopped singing at the verse,
"Jesus, Thine all-victorious love
Shed in my heart abroad,
Then shall my feet no longer rove,
Rooted and fixed in God."
"What did it mean?" he asked himself, "this love shed abroad in the heart, inspiring the life, beautifying the character? Was religion as much a matter of love as of duty?" He heard nothing of the lesson that was read; but when the congregation stood up to sing again he was all attention. Slowly the words rang out, and filled the little sanctuary,
"Give me the faith which can remove
And sink the mountain to a plain;
Give me the child-like praying love
Which longs to build Thy house again;
Thy love, let it my heart o'erpower,
And all my simple soul devour.
"Enlarge, inflame, and fill my heart
With boundless charity divine!
So shall I all my strength exert,
And love them with a zeal like Thine
And lead them to Thy open side,
The sheep for whom the Shepherd died."
That hymn for the rest of the day became the burden of his prayer, and for many days after, though when the answer came, or how, Benny never knew. That it did come he had no doubt, for he discovered that religion was no longer the cold formal thing he had once imagined it to be, but a warm living something that filled his whole life. Duty now became a joy, because love inspired it. Loving God, he loved His service and loved His people; and at last he understood the words of the Master, "My meat is to do the will of Him that sent Me, and to finish His work."
I do not know that any one saw any change in Benny's life, except perhaps the superintendent of the school. He taught from henceforth as if his whole heart and soul were in the work; duty was no longer irksome, but a delight, and when some of the boys of his class were raised to a higher one, he went out into the village and got other boys to take their places. Thus in earnest Christian work he spent his Sabbath days; and on the Monday morning he would start out into the fields with a light heart, feeling all the happier and stronger for doing the Master's work on the previous day.
For many months nothing had happened to disturb the quiet and peaceful lives that were lived at Scout Farm. Harry and George were at college, one studying to be a doctor, the other to be a solicitor. Winnie, the baby—born since Benny came to the farm—had grown into a bonny little creature, the pet of all the household; and Mr. and Mrs. Fisher were as contented with their lot as two people could be, and wanted no change of any kind. Benny was a little restless at times, but on the whole was happy. But this quiet life could not be lived always, and soon afterwards a circumstance transpired which was destined to affect Benny's future in a way that he had no conception of. What that circumstance was shall be told in another chapter.
CHAPTER XXI.
An Accident.
The sea of fortune doth not ever flow,
She draws her favours to the lowest ebb
Her tides have equal time to come and go,
Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web
No joy so great, but runneth to an end,
No hap so hard but may in time amend.
—Southwell.
ot far from Scout Farm were several gentlemen's residences, occupied
chiefly by Manchester merchants, who travelled to and from the city
morning and evening by rail. One of the largest of these residences, and
also the farthest away from Scoutleigh Road Station, was occupied by a
Mr. Munroe, who was reputed to be a man of great wealth, and also of
great liberality. In consequence of the distance of Mr. Munroe's house
from the station, his coachman used to drive him to Scoutleigh Road in
the morning and fetch him in the evening, sometimes taking Mrs. Munroe,
or one of the children, at the same time.
Mrs. Munroe was the only sister of Mr. Lawrence, of Liverpool, Benny's former master, and, at the time to which we refer, Eva Lawrence was spending a few weeks at Brooklands with her uncle and aunt. Little did our hero think, as he sometimes looked across the valley at Mr. Munroe's house, almost hidden by trees, that his "angel" was staying there. It was doubtless well for him that he did not know. He would have been impatient to look once more upon the face of the maiden that, next to his sister Nelly, had been the brightest vision of his life. He still kept the shilling that she had given him, and often when alone he would take it out of his purse and look at it, and wonder what had become of the little girl that befriended him in his hour of need, and would almost long for one more sight of her angel face.
It was at such times as these that Benny grew restless, and pined for the bustle of Liverpool streets, and for the sight of old faces, that day by day were fading from his memory. Yet he never seriously entertained the idea of going back. There were only Joe and granny, and Mr. Lawrence and Eva, that he cared to see, but that they would care to see him was very doubtful, and he could not go back to be looked at with suspicion. And not only so: he believed that he was where God intended him to be. He had a home, and a good one, among friends who believed in his honesty, and treated him with kindness. And even yet, had he been disposed to pay a visit to his old haunts, he had no time. He was fully employed every day of the week, and every season of the year brought its appointed work. The days were so short in winter that they had always their hands full, and sometimes more than they could do. And spring was always a busy time: the lambs had to be attended to; fences had to be repaired; and so many "crops" had to be got in, that hay harvest came upon them frequently before they were ready. Then huge fields of turnips and mangolds and potatoes had to be hoed, and ere that was done the fields were white unto the harvest. Then came sheep-shearing and ploughing land for next year's wheat crop, and potato digging, and half a dozen other things, that allowed them no time for idleness, and it was well for Benny that it was so. He had no time to mope or to waste in useless regrets.
One evening he had to pass Brooklands on his way to a neighbouring farm. The day had been beautifully fine—a real June day, people said; a few people complained that it had been too hot about noon, but as the day declined a fresh breeze had sprung up, that made the evening deliciously cool. Benny enjoyed few things more than a saunter across the fields during a summer's evening. And this evening he was just in the mood to enjoy the song of birds, and the scent of apple blossom and new-mown hay. It wanted several hours yet of sundown, so he sauntered on very leisurely, and paused when near Mr. Munroe's house, arrested by the sound of laughter. Not far from where he stood three or four young ladies were engaged in a game of archery, and as he could not be seen by them, he waited awhile to watch them. He did not know that one of those fair maidens was Eva Lawrence; how should he know? She was a little girl when he saw her last, now she was just blooming into womanhood. The beauty, of which her early life gave promise, was now more than realized. But had Eva Lawrence been plain of feature, she would still have been beautiful in the eyes of those who knew her well. Hers was a beautiful life, and people did not wonder that it was mirrored in a lovely face. It was a picture that would have pleased an artist's eye on which Benny gazed, and their rippling laughter formed a pleasant accompaniment to the rustling of the leaves and the music of the brook that murmured down the glen. But as Benny gazed at the picture he only saw one face, that of Eva Lawrence. He thought he had never seen the face before, and yet it affected him strangely. It seemed to bring back to him some half-forgotten dream. What was it that it reminded him of? He could not tell; whatever it might be, it eluded his grasp. Like the snatch of a forgotten song it came and went, leaving nothing definite upon the mind.
An hour later he returned by another way across the glen or ravine (adown which the brook babbled) by a narrow bridge with low parapets, and turned a sudden corner down the lane towards Scout Farm. For a moment he paused and remarked to himself, "This is a dangerous corner; I wonder Mr. Munroe does not alter it; and that bridge too, it is altogether too narrow. If I drove this way as often as he does, I would pull down that antiquated structure, and build a good wide bridge with a high wall on either side;" and, having given expression to an opinion that he had expressed a hundred times before, he turned on his heel and quietly pursued his way. He had not gone many yards, however, before he heard a great hue and cry, and, looking down the lane, he saw that Mr. Munroe's horse had taken fright, and was rushing towards him at headlong speed. The coachman, who had been riding behind, had coolly dropped himself down on the road, and stood staring after the flying carriage in blank astonishment, and shouting at the top of his voice. Benny saw that Mr. Munroe was trying in vain to check the mad gallop of the horse, and he saw also that the young lady whose face had attracted him so strangely before was sitting by his side, pale and motionless. Here and there people rushed out from the fields into the road and held up their hands or hoes, but always retreated after a few frantic gesticulations in time for the affrighted steed to pass. Instantly Benny thought of the sharp corner and the narrow bridge over the deep ravine. If the road had been straight, the wisest course would have been to have given the horse rein, and let it tire itself out. But as it was, the horse must be stopped before it reached the bridge, or almost certain death would be the fate of Mr. Munroe and his niece. He had little time to think, but he knew that to attempt to stop the horse would be attended with considerable risk to himself. If he failed to grasp the bridle the horse and carriage would go over him, in all probability killing him on the spot; but he had no time to debate the question, the startled horse was full upon him. In an instant he dashed at the bridle and caught it, the end of the shaft striking him on the arm at the same moment, almost causing him to let go his hold, but he held tight. For a dozen yards the horse dragged him along the road; then he succeeded in getting it on its knees with its nose against a hedge, and Mr. Munroe and Eva alighted in perfect safety. By this time, however, a number of people had gathered round, the coachman amongst the rest, who at once took charge of the horse, and Benny slunk away as quietly as possible, and made his way along the road as fast as he was able. Mr. Monroe, however, seeing his intentions, followed him at once.
"Come, come, my young friend," he said; "I cannot let you go without thanking you for your noble act."
"Do not mention it, sir," said Benny, with an effort, turning pale at the same time.
"I would be ungrateful indeed," said Mr. Munroe, "were I not to mention it. No, I shall never forget that to your heroism my niece and myself owe our lives."
"I am very thankful if I have been of service to you," said Benny; "but I could not have acted otherwise, so please——"
But he did not finish the sentence; setting his teeth together, as if in pain, he staggered towards a seat by the hedge.
Instantly Mr. Munroe sprang towards him, exclaiming, "You're hurt, I'm sure you are; tell me what's the matter."
"My arm is broken, that is all," said Benny, with a poor attempt at a smile; then everything began to spin around him in a very bewildering manner, and he could never exactly recollect what happened after. He always carried with him, however, a lively recollection of the process of bone-setting, which he afterwards underwent, and of the sleepless night that followed.
Next morning Mr. Munroe came to Scout Farm and sat with Benny for half an hour, chatting about things in general, and before he left he thanked him again in the warmest terms for his bravery, and made him promise to visit Brooklands as soon as he was able, stating that Mrs. Munroe was very anxious to see him, as were also his daughters and niece, especially the latter, who wanted to thank him personally for saving her life.
Benny blushed at first and begged to be excused, but Mr. Munroe would not hear of it. So Benny reluctantly consented at last to endure the martyrdom (to him) of being introduced to the fine ladies at the big house, and in his heart wished he was well out of it all. He felt sure that he should look silly and make a hole in his manners, for he had never been used to grand people; and what would be the proper thing to say when they thanked him he had not the remotest idea.
"Well, Ben Bates," he said to himself when Mr. Munroe had left the room, "you're in for it now, and no mistake. Here's a pretty kettle of fish for you, my lad, and you've to see to it that you don't go and make a fool of yourself. A lot you know about etiquette and drawing-room manners; and won't you do the graceful before the ladies! Oh, dear, dear!"
And he laughed till the tears ran down his face, spite the pain in his arm.
"I think I see you going through the introduction, my lad, trying to do the thing proper as if you knew how, and only succeeding in making yourself look silly. And won't the ladies giggle after you're gone!"
Then Benny looked serious, and after a long pause he went on again:
"Look here, Ben Bates: do you think you are a downright fool, or do you think you have just a few grains of common sense? For, unless you're a born natural, you'll put on no airs at the big house; but you'll just be yourself, remember, and not ape anybody else; you profess a great hatred of sham, then don't be a sham yourself, and make yourself look ridiculous. Remember what you are, Ben Bates; and remember, too, that you've got nothing to be ashamed of."
Then, after another pause:
"I wish I was well out of this job, notwithstanding. I hate to be thanked. I wonder, by the bye, who that young lady is? How her face reminds me of something, something in the old life, but what I cannot make out. How strange everything seems! I fancy sometimes I must have lived here always, and dreamed all the rest. But no, Nelly was real, and that shilling was real. Ah! I wonder what's become of her." And a far-away look came into his eyes, as if he were back again in the old life of mingled joy and pain.
Meanwhile Mr. Munroe was out in the yard talking with Mr. Fisher.
"A fine young fellow that of yours, Mr. Fisher," was his first greeting.
"Yes," said the farmer; "I'd back him against any young man his age for ten miles round."
"An adopted son of yours, I suppose?"
"Well, no, not exactly," replied Mr. Fisher.
"Beg pardon, I thought you had adopted him."
"Well, perhaps you are not far wrong either. You see, he came to us five or six years agone, a poor little famished, wizened creature. It was a sweltering hot day too, and he had walked all the way from Liverpool, sleeping at nights by the roadside, and by the time he got here—or rather, he didn't get here—our folks were making hay in the home close, and he just got inside the gate, and dropped down in a fit, or something of the sort. Well, he was completely done up; the doctor never thought he would come round again, but he did, and you see what a fine fellow he's grown to."
"Yes, indeed! And so he has lived with you ever since?"
"Ever since. My wife says she believes the Lord directed him here. Any way, the boy was a great comfort to her, for we'd only just buried our little Rob, and he seemed to fill up the gap a bit, you see."
"I suppose you find him very handy about the farm now, Mr. Fisher?"
"Handy? I tell you, there isn't his equal for miles around. He took to the farm as natural as a duck takes to the water. In fact, the plucky little dog said he wouldn't stay to be a burden to us, and he never has been. In fact, if we came to square accounts, I fancy that I should find that I was considerably in his debt."
"And you find him perfectly trustworthy?"
"He's as honest as the daylight, sir, and as good as gold. Why, I'd trust him with my life, and so would the missus. She thinks a sight of him, I can assure you."
"I do not wonder at it, Mr. Fisher; he's a brave young fellow, and deserves notice and help—if he needed it."
"Brave? Well, you've said just right in that, Mr. Munroe; he's as brave as a lion. I don't think the young dog knows what fear is. I expect it'll be getting him into trouble some of these days. But then, bless you, on the other hand, he's as gentle as a woman, and the very soul of kindness. I believe the young scamp would give away the last copper he had, if he saw some one he fancied wanted it more than himself."
"Indeed!" said Mr. Munroe, feeling rather amused at Mr. Fisher's enthusiasm. "It is not often you see people possessing so many good qualities."
"Good! Well, you've hit it again, the lad is good; and yet, mark you, he ain't none of the goody-goody sort either. Why, bless you, he's as full of fun and frolic as an egg is full of meat. You should just see the carryings on we have here when the lads are home from school. I laugh sometimes fit to kill myself, and yet feel as mad as a sheep at 'em, for they give me no peace of my life."
"Well, we cannot expect the young folks to be as sedate and steady-going as we older people, Mr. Fisher."
"That's what my wife says, sir; she says it's as natural for the lads to play as it is for the kittens, and that it's quite as harmless, and I don't think she's far wrong. In fact, I generally give in to her; she's had a sight better education than ever I had, so she ought to know better."
"Ah, speaking about education, Mr. Fisher, what sort of education has this young man had?"
"Well, Mr. Munroe, I confess I'm no judge in matters of that sort. You see, he was never at a day school a day in his life; but for all that he seems to have a natural gift for learning. Our George says he's got on wonderfully; and old Mr. Jones, that keeps the night school yonder at Scoutleigh, says he can't teach him any more."
"Excuse me asking all these questions, Mr. Fisher, but I feel quite interested in the young man. It's but natural I should, since I owe my life to him; and I should like to do something for him, if I could see how it's to be done."
"It's very kind of you, I'm sure, and I can assure you you'll not find me stand in the lad's way. Fact is, I've thought many times of late that he's too good—too well informed, and that kind of thing—to be a farm labourer all his life, and he'd never get enough as a day labourer to become a farmer on his own account."
"Just so; the same thought has occurred to me, but we'll see what can be done. Good morning, Mr. Fisher."
"Good morning, sir, good morning."
And Mr. Fisher went his way to his farm, and Mr. Munroe to the station, to catch the noon train to Manchester.
Benny kept indoors two whole days, and declared that they were two of the longest days of his life. But on the third morning he was out in the fields again with his arm in a sling. He could not work, so he took a book with him and lay down by a sunny hedge, and read till dinner-time. He would not be treated as an invalid.
"I'm all right but for my game arm," he said to Mrs. Fisher, when she brought him some little delicacy that she had cooked for his special benefit; "and I think I know some one that will enjoy it a great deal more than I should," looking across to baby Winnie, who was eyeing the dish with curious eyes. "At any rate, she shall have a share. Come here, Winnie," he said, turning to the child, "come to Benny."
And the little bit of humanity slipped off her chair in what Benny would have once characterized as "sca'se no time," and came toddling round the table towards him, holding up her little fat dimpled hands, and with eyes brimful of delight.
"Take us up, 'enny," said the little prattler; "Winnie 'oves 'oo very much."
"Easier said than done, you young foxy," said Benny, laughing down upon the child. "Come, mammy," turning to Mrs. Fisher, "lend us a helping hand, and get this young soldier where she wants to be." And soon Benny and baby were eating out of the same dish, and it would have been hard to decide which enjoyed it most.
So day after day passed away, and Benny kept putting off the promised visit to Brooklands. Mrs. Fisher was constantly reminding him of his promise, and yet every day he found some fresh excuse for staying away.
One afternoon, however, about a fortnight after the accident, he announced to Mrs. Fisher that he was going to pay his promised visit to the lions that afternoon.
"That's right, Benny; though I don't think from your own experience that you have any occasion to call the ladies lions," and Mrs. Fisher bent on him a knowing look.
"Right you are, mammy; I believe they are mostly angels after all, and perhaps those at Brooklands will be no exception to the rule."
"I'm sure they will be kind to you, Benny; so you had better be off and get ready."
Half an hour later he came into the sitting-room to Mrs. Fisher, dressed for his visit.
"Now, mammy," he said, "am I presentable?"
"Go away with you," she said, laughing, though casting at the same time an admiring look at the manly young fellow that stood before her, "you'll be as proud as a peacock soon."
"Right you are again. I feel the pride creeping up already. But now for a sight of the angels, so good-bye."
And off he started to pay a visit that was to be fraught with vastly more important issues than he had any conception of.
CHAPTER XXII.
Recognition.
"That strain again; it had a dying fall:
Oh, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odour."—Tempest.
hen our hero reached the bridge that spanned the narrow dell, he paused
for a moment and looked over the low parapet at the deep gully that had
been worn away by the action of the water, and shuddered as he thought
of what would have happened had he failed to grasp the bridle-rein. "I
expect this breakneck place will be remedied now," he said, "that a
couple of lives have come near being lost over it. If the horse had
not been stopped there could not have been the least possible chance of
their escape. Well, well, I'm thankful the affair ended in nothing worse
than a broken arm."
Passing through the lodge gates, he wended his way slowly along the carriage drive towards the house. High above his head the leafy canopy swayed gently in the summer breeze, making pleasant music, and here and there an industrious bee droned dreamily on leaf and flower. From distant fields the sheep-bells jingled gently, and mingled with the whistling of a plough-boy riding home his tired team, while from a neighbouring farmyard the patient cows lowed lazily while waiting to be milked.
When Benny reached the door of the Munroe mansion, he felt strongly tempted to turn and go back again; but concluding that such an action would be exceedingly foolish, he seized the bell-handle, gave it a vigorous pull, and waited.
"Is Mr. Munroe at home?" he inquired of the servant who opened the door.
"Yes; but he's engaged at present. Will you give me your name?"
"Bates. But never mind, you need not disturb him; another time will do as well."
"I think the master has been expecting you to call," with a glance at Benny's arm.
"Very likely. I said I would call some afternoon."
"I'm sure he will see you, then. Come this way, please, into the library."
Benny followed without a word, and soon found himself surrounded on every side with books.
"Oh, my!" he said, "I think I should enjoy spending a fortnight here. I wonder how long it would take me to read all these books, and how much longer to understand them? Ay, that's the rub—understanding and remembering what one does read."
Then he ran his eye along shelf after shelf, reading only the titles.
"I expect I should feel like a boy in a sweet-shop, not knowing which bottle to start with. Ah, Wordsworth!" as his eye caught the name. "I've heard of him. I wonder what the inside is like?"
He must have found something very interesting, for when Mr. Munroe came into the room half an hour later, Benny did not notice his entrance. Mr. Munroe watched him with an amused smile on his face for about five minutes, then said,
"I'm glad you've found something to take your fancy, Mr. Bates."
Benny started, and blushed to the roots of his hair. In the first place he thought he was alone, and in the second place it was the first time that he had ever been addressed as "mister."
"I beg pardon," he stammered out at length. "I did not know you were in the room."
"Don't mention it. I'm glad to see that you are fond of books; and I'm glad to see you here."
Benny blushed again, but did not reply.
"I was afraid you were not coming," went on Mr. Munroe; "but how is your arm?"
"Getting on nicely, thank you; the doctor says it will soon be as right as ever."
"I'm glad to hear it. It's a mercy we were not every one of us killed; but I'm having a new bridge built. I've been going to have it done for the last ten years, but kept putting it off; however, they are going to start with the job next week."
"I'm very glad to hear it," said Benny. "It's not safe as it is at present."
"No, no; you're quite right there."
Then there was an awkward pause, and Benny began to feel uncomfortable. Mr. Munroe was the first to speak.
"I wanted to see you here," he said, "to have a little conversation with you about—about—yourself," bringing out the last word with a jerk.
Benny did not know what reply to make to this, so he said nothing.
"I understand you have not always lived in the country?" questioned Mr. Munroe.
"No, sir; I lived in Liverpool till I was twelve or thirteen years of age."
"And how do you like farming?"
"Very well, I think; but, really, I've scarcely thought about it."
"You are not uncomfortable, then?"
"Oh, no! far from it. Mr. and Mrs. Fisher took me in when I was houseless, homeless, friendless, and all but dead, and ever since have treated me with the utmost kindness. I have a better home now than I ever had before in my life, and as for the work I do, I feel that it's but poor compensation for the kindness bestowed upon me."
"You have no wish, then, to be anything different to what you are?"
"I did not say so, sir; but as I have no expectation of being other than what I am, I try to be content."
"Ah, just so; and yet I am told you have paid considerable attention to intellectual pursuits."
"I have tried to make the most of my opportunities for acquiring knowledge. I'm fond of books—very; and knowledge I love for its own sake."
"Well spoken, Mr. Bates. I like to hear a young man talk in that way. You are a good penman, Mr. Jones tells me."
"He has paid me that compliment before, but I am scarcely a judge."
"You understand bookkeeping?"
"A little."
"Double entry?"
"Yes."
"Quick at accounts?"
"I should think not. I have scarcely had sufficient practice."
"I suppose if you stay on the farm there is no prospect of your rising to anything higher than a day labourer?"
"Not much, I fear."
"Well, now, Mr. Bates, I may as well out with it first as last. I am very much pleased with you; I am, indeed. I cannot forget that you saved my life, and the life of my niece; and I am anxious to help you to something better than being a farm labourer if you will let me. Almost any one can do farm work, and I think you are deserving of something better, because you have educated yourself for it. Now, I shall be glad to take you into my city office, and give you a start in life. I commenced as a clerk at the desk, and what I have accomplished there is no reason why you may not. What do you say, now?"
"I hardly know what to say," said Benny. "I am very much obliged to you for your kind offer, but I would like to talk with Mr. and Mrs. Fisher about the matter before I come to a decision."
"You are quite right, Mr. Bates. Let me know this day week; and now let us go into the drawing-room and see the ladies."
Benny followed Mr. Munroe like one in a dream up a broad flight of stairs, and into a large and luxuriantly furnished room. Then commenced the introduction which he had so much dreaded. He bowed to each one in turn, Mr. Munroe mentioning the name of each person; but Benny never heard a word he said, and was never quite certain whether he was bowing to a lady or gentleman. It was over, however, at length, and he sat down with a feeling of infinite relief, and took up a volume of Milton that was lying on a table near him. Then Miss Munroe came forward with the question—
"Are you fond of poetry, Mr. Bates?"
"Yes, very."
"You know Wordsworth, of course?"
"No. I ought to be ashamed to say so, but I do not."
And then followed a conversation about poets and authors of various kinds, and Benny soon forgot his shyness, and chatted away with as much freedom as if he had been at Scout Farm.
By-and-bye Eva Lawrence came forward shyly, and with a soft blush tinging neck and face; and Miss Munroe rose and left her and Benny together. It was growing dusk by this time, and she sat with her back to the light, so that Benny could scarcely see her face.
"I am very grateful to you, Mr. Bates," she began in a low voice, "for your bravery in stopping our horse the other night."
Benny started, for something in the voice reminded him again of other days, and he did not reply for a moment; and Eva went on—
"Uncle tells me that if you had not stopped the horse, nothing could have saved us;" and she shuddered slightly.
"I am very thankful, indeed, that I have been permitted to be of service to you," began Benny.
Then Mrs. Munroe came forward, and the conversation drifted off into matters in general, for which he was very thankful, and ended in Eva being requested to sing.
"What are your favourite songs?" asked Mrs. Munroe.
"Well, I hardly know," said Benny, blushing. "I know so very few; but the simpler they are the better they please me, as a rule."
"Could you mention one or two?"
"Yes; there is one called 'Love at Home,' which I like very much."
"Oh, that's one of your old songs, dear," said Mrs. Munroe, turning to Eva. "You remember it, don't you?"
"Yes, quite well; but I don't care to sing it, aunt, unless Mr. Bates very much wishes to hear it."
"I should like to hear it again very much," said Benny; "but don't sing it if you would rather not."
"I will do my best, anyhow;" and she got up and went to the piano.
"Ring for lights, dear," said Mrs. Munroe, addressing her daughter; "it is getting quite dark."
"No, no, aunt, please," said Eva; "I know it quite well without the music, and I think the gloaming is the nicest part of the day;" and she sat down and began to play over the air; then there was a long pause, for Eva's thoughts had wandered away elsewhere.
"We are all attention, dear," said Mrs. Munroe.
"Excuse me," said Eva; "but I was thinking of something else. I will tell you all about it directly, if you care to hear."
Then, clear and sweet, rang out the words,
"There is beauty all around,
When there's love at home."
And Benny felt thankful that the lights had not been brought, for in the gloom he could hide his emotion. When the song was finished, Eva swung herself round on the music-stool, and said,
"You will think me very silly, I have no doubt, but I never sing that old song without thinking of what happened years ago."
"Dear me, how old you talk!" laughed her cousin.
"Well, Dot, I am getting old; but never mind, I was only a little girl then. Pa and I were returning from Chester, and when we landed from the railway-boat, a pale hungry-looking lad came up to pa and asked him to carry his bag. Well, pa had been delayed, and consequently he was in a hurry, so he said 'No' to the boy in a stern voice, and pushed roughly past, and I saw the boy turn away and begin to cry; so scarcely thinking what I was doing, I went to the boy and asked him why he cried, and he said he was hungry and cold, that he had no father or mother, and that he had just buried his little sister, and nobody would employ him; so I gave him a new shilling that pa had given me, and asked him if he was generally on the landing-stage.
"'Yes,' he said; and his face brightened wonderfully at the sight of the shilling, and an honest-looking face it was too; 'I'm mostly hereabouts.'
"Well," continued Eva, after a pause, "I thought no more about the lad for several days, when one afternoon I was in the dining-room alone, and I began to play and sing 'Love at Home.' When I had finished, I rose to close the window, and there just outside was the very boy I had given the shilling to, his eyes full of tears; but when he saw he was noticed he shrank away, as if ashamed he had been caught listening."
"And so you conceived a romantic attachment to the lad?" chimed in Mr. Munroe.
"Of course I did, uncle; but to be serious. Teacher had been telling us that we ought to be little missionaries, etc, and I thought this was a likely case to experiment on. So I got pa interested, and in the end the boy was taken into his office, and a better boy pa said he never had. He was honest, truthful, industrious, and seemed very anxious to learn."
Then there was another pause, and if Benny ever felt thankful for the darkness, he did then. It was all clear to him now. This, then, was his little angel, grown into a grand lady! and yet she had not forgotten the poor street boy. He would like to have spoken, and put an end to further revelations, but he dared not trust himself to speak. Then Eva went on again:
"I am come to the most painful part of the story. This boy had been with pa six months, when one Saturday afternoon he left him in charge of the office, but he had scarcely got a hundred yards from the door when he remembered that he had left a bank note on his desk, and instantly turned back for it. Well, when he got into the office the note was gone. Nobody had been in the office but the boy, and yet he denied ever having seen it. Well, pa was quite in a way. He searched everywhere, but it was not to be found. So the boy was apprehended on suspicion, and taken to the police-station. I was in a great way too, for it was through me that pa had employed the boy; still, I could not believe that he was dishonest. At the trial he was given the benefit of the doubt and dismissed, and has never been seen or heard of since. But the strangest part of all is, about a month later pa wanted to look at the Directory—a book he does not use very often—and the first thing on which his eye fell as he opened the book was the missing bank-note. He was in a way when he came home, and we chatted about nothing else all the evening, for he remembered then very distinctly how he had laid the note on the open book, and before he went out had shut it up quickly, and placed it on the shelf. What troubled pa so much was, the boy had been robbed of his character, for the magistrates had little doubt of his guilt, though there was no positive evidence; and when a lad's character is gone his fortune is gone. All inquiries concerning him have been fruitless. And pa says sometimes that he feels occasionally as if he had driven the poor boy to destruction. So you see whenever I sing that song it always brings back to my mind this painful story."
After the story was ended there was silence for a few moments. Benny would liked to have spoken, but his heart was too full—to think that the shadow was lifted from his life at last! He wished he could have been alone for a few moments, that he might out of the fulness of his heart have thanked God.
"What a pity," said Mrs. Munroe at length, "that the boy could not be found."
Then Benny got up, and said in a voice tremulous with emotion, "I must go now, please; but before I go I would like to say that I am the lost boy."
"You!" they all said in chorus.
"Yes. I cannot say more now." And he sat down again, and hid his face in his hands.
"How strange!" said Eva; "but I see it all now. I could not think who you reminded me of; but you have strangely altered."
"Yes, I suppose I have," he said huskily; "and yet, perhaps, not more than you have."
"How thankful pa will be!" she said, not heeding his last remark. "I will write and tell him to-morrow."
"Well," said Mr. Munroe, speaking at length, "if this is not the strangest ending to a story that I ever came across!"
"It's as good as a novel," said Miss Munroe. "I declare it would make a capital tale."
"And your father is satisfied that I am honest now?" said Benny, going towards Eva.
"Yes; but I don't think that he ever really believed you were dishonest."
"And you never doubted my honesty?"
"No, never."
That was all that passed between them.
When he had gone Mr. Munroe remarked, "A wonderful young man that; I never in my life met with a more remarkable case. How the young fellow has managed to bear up and fight the world as he has is beyond my comprehension."
"And he has the bearing of a gentleman too," remarked Miss Munroe. "I expected we were going to be highly amused at his behaviour and his dialect, and so on; but really he speaks quite correctly."
"He always was a well-behaved boy," remarked Eva; "and during the time he was in pa's office he told one of the clerks that he was very anxious to speak correctly."
"He must have worked very hard, however," said Mr. Munroe; "and a lad with such application, pluck, and determination is sure to get on. I confess I shall watch his future career with great interest."
"But what surprises me most," said Mrs. Munroe, "is the sterling honesty that seems always to have characterized him. As a rule, those street Arabs have the crudest notions of right and wrong."
"He told me once," said Eva, "that he could just remember his mother, who told him to be honest, and truthful, and good; but his little sister Nelly, who died just before I met him, seems to have been his safeguard, and but for her he said he felt certain he should have been a thief."
Meanwhile the subject of this conversation was making his way along the silent lanes that lay between Brooklands and Scout Farm like one in a dream. Could it be really true, he mused, that he had seen his angel face to face, that he had listened again while she sang "Love at Home," and that he had heard from her own lips how the lost bank-note had been found, and how that now no stain rested upon his name? What a wonderful day it had been! Could it be possible that his long-buried hopes might be realized at last?
In a lonely part of the road he paused and listened, but no sound broke the stillness. Above him twinkled the silent stars; around him all nature lay hushed and still.
"God is here," he said; and lifting up his face to the sky, and clasping his hands together, he poured out his heart in thanksgiving.
"O God!" he said, "I thank Thee for all things; for the sorrow, and pain, and loss, for the darkness through which I have wandered, and for the burdens I have had to bear. Thou hast never forsaken me. Thou hast always been good. I thank Thee for bringing me here, and for the discipline of toil. And now that Thou hast lifted off the cloud that so long has darkened my life, help me to praise Thee, and love Thee more and more. I want to be good, and noble, and true. Help me, O Father, for Thy mercy's sake."
Benny slept but little that night. In the long silent hours he lived all his life over again, and wondered at the mercy of God.
CHAPTER XXIII.
The Question Settled.
Life's withered leaves grow green again and fresh with childhood's spring.
As I am welcomed back once more within its rainbow ring;
The past, with all its gathered charms, beckons me back in joy,
And loving hearts and open arms re-clasp me as a boy.
—Massey.