n the Monday morning Benny was brought before the magistrates, charged
with stealing five pounds from his master's office. He was almost ready
to faint when placed in the dock; but, conscious of his own innocence,
he gathered up his courage, and answered fearlessly the questions that
were addressed to him.
Inspector Sharp gave the particulars of the case, adding that though the money had not been found on the prisoner, or indeed anywhere else, yet he had no doubt that the lad had accomplices to whom he had given the missing property.
Benny denied most emphatically that he had seen the money: he admitted that appearances were against him. "But, oh," he said, looking at the presiding magistrate, his eyes swimming with tears, "I'm not a thief, sir, if you'll on'y believe it; I'm not, really."
Benny's honest face and simple straightforward answers evidently made in his favour; but as Mr. Lawrence had not appeared against him, he was remanded until the following day, so he was removed once more to his cell.
Perks's case was not tried that day, so once more Benny had him for a companion.
During most of the evening Perks sat in one corner, with his face in his hands, and his elbows on his knees, without either speaking or moving. Benny took the opposite corner, glad for once that he had a chance of being quiet. He wondered what would be done to him, whether he would be sent to prison or set at liberty. He felt that he did not care much what happened, for to be penned up in prison, he thought, could not be much worse than to go back in disgrace to the old life of selling matches in the street.
Above the grated window the little patch of blue began to fade as the day waned and darkened into night. Then a solitary star appeared, and looked down with kindly eye into the dreary cell. Benny watched the star twinkling so far above him, and wondered what it could be. Was it one of God's eyes, or the eye of one of His angels? Could it be his Nelly that was looking at him? Or were the stars only holes in the floor of heaven to let the glory through?
He could not tell, but somehow that kindly star looking in upon him seemed to comfort his heart; and he felt that though the world buffeted him, and would not give him a chance of getting on, yet he was not forgotten of God.
Then his thoughts turned to Perks. Was God watching him also? for the star was not visible from the corner where he crouched. Why was he so quiet? Was he sorry for what he had done, or was he ill?
Benny was glad to be quiet; and yet somehow as the darkness deepened he felt lonesome, and wondered what had come to the silent figure in the corner. It was so unusual for Perks to be quiet so long. He listened for a moment, but all was still. And still the minutes dragged away, and the silence became oppressive.
"Perks!" said Benny, unable longer to keep quiet; and his voice awoke the sleeping echoes of the cell, and made it sound hollow as a tomb.
But the echoes were his only answer.
"Perks!" in a louder voice.
Still there was silence, and Benny began to get frightened. Was he dead? he wondered. How awful it would be to be in that cell all night alone with a dead body!
"Perks, do speak!" in a tone of agony.
And he listened for an answer, while the perspiration stood in great drops upon his forehead. But still only silence. He could hear the thumping of his own heart distinctly, and he became hot and cold by turns with fright.
At length he thought he heard a noise coming from the corner where he felt sure Perks was crouched dead. It sounded like suppressed laughter. What could it mean? He dared not move from his corner. Was it Satan come to carry away Perks? for he was very wicked, he knew.
It had got too dark now to see anything distinctly; but there was a shuffling noise on the floor. Horrors! it was coming across the cell towards him. What was it? He could see some unshapely thing moving. Now it was drawing itself up to its full height. Benny nearly shrieked out in an agony of terror. Then it flashed across his mind in a moment—Perks was playing him another of his tricks.
Waiting until Perks was near enough, he dealt him a blow straight from the shoulder that sent him sprawling to the other end of the cell.
"Oh, lor a massy!" he shouted, "if that ain't a stinger!"
"Serves you right," said Benny.
"Lor, but didn't I give you a scarin', just! I never did injoy a thing as much in my life; but, oh, lor! I nearly busted once or twice wi' larfin'."
"I think I gived you a scarin' too," retorted Benny.
"Well, I confess it comed raather sudden like; so that's one to you, Ben. I'll give you yer due."
"I've a good mind to pound you to a jelly," said Benny. "Yer always on with yer tricks."
"Well, I didn't 'tend to scare yer, Ben, for I wur bissy medertatin' on a little plan I 'as in my yed; but when yer spoke 'Perks!' anxious like, the idear comed to me all in a moment. Oh, lor, weren't it a spree!"
"I don't see no fun in it," said Benny.
"Oh, lor, yer don't?" and Perks laughed again. "But I say, Ben, I wants yer 'elp in carryin' out as purty a bit o' play as ever you seen."
"Is it what you've been thinking about all the evenin'?"
"Ay, lad, it's the most butifullest idear that wur ever 'atched in this 'ere noddle; an' if you'll only 'elp me, my stars! our fortin's made."
"You're up to no good again, I'll be bound," said Benny.
"Well, I reckon you'll alter your mind on that score when yer 'ears the details o' my plan," said Perks, coming closer to Benny's side.
"Well, what is it?"
"I must whisper it," said Perks, "though I dunna thinks any bobbies is around listenin' at this time o' night, but it's allers best to be on the safe side."
"I don't want to 'ear it," said Benny, "if it's some'at you must whisper. It's no good, that I'm sartin of."
"Don't be a ninny, Ben. Just listen."
And Perks confided to Ben a plan of getting into the house of an old man who kept a little shop, and lived all alone, and who kept all his money locked up in a little cupboard in the room behind the shop.
"How do you know he keeps his money there?" said Benny.
"Never you mind," was the answer; "I does know it to a sartinty."
"Where does the old man live?"
"No. 86 —— Street."
"What's his name?"
"Jerry Starcher. Ain't yer 'eard o' 'im?"
"Ay," said Benny.
"Then you'll 'elp?" said Perks, eagerly.
"Ay," said Benny, "but not in the way you thinks."
"What does yer mean?"
"I mean, if I git out of this place, I'll put the old man on his guard."
"What, an' split on me?"
"No, I'll not mention names."
"Then I 'opes ye'll be sent to a 'formatory an' kep' there for the next five year."
"Do you? Why?"
"'Cause yer a fool, Ben Bates."
"How so?"
"'Cause ye are, I say."
"Well, your saying so don't make it so, anyhow," retorted Benny:
"Don't it, though? But look 'ere: ye're 'ere for stealin', and I can tell yer from 'sperience, that a gent as takes up the perfession is worse nor a fool to give it up agin 'cause he 'appens to get nabbed."
"But I'm not here for stealin'," said Benny, colouring.
"Ye're not, eh?" said Perks, laughing till the tears ran down his face. "Well, that are the richest bit I's heard for the last month."
"But," said Benny, with flashing eyes, "though I'm here charged with stealing, I tell yer I'm honest."
"Are that a fact now, Ben?" said Perks, looking serious.
"It is," replied Benny; "I never took the money."
"Well, so much the worse," said Perks.
"How's that?"
"Cause yer might as well be a thief, hout an' hout, as be charged wi' bein' one. I tell 'e there's no chance for yer; the bobbies'll 'ave their eyes on yer wherever yer be; and if yer gits a sitivation they'll come along an' say to yer guv'nor, 'Yon's a jail-bird, yer'd better 'ave yer eye on 'im;' then ye'll 'ave to walk it somewheres else, an' it'll be the same everywheres."
"How do you know that?" said Benny.
"'Cause I's 'sperienced it," was the reply. "I's older 'n you, though you's biggest; but I reckons as I knows most, an' it's true what I say. Why, bless yer, the first time I ever nabbed I got a month, an' I wor so horful frightened, that I vowed if ever I got out I'd be honest, an' never get in no more; but, bless yer, it wur no go. The bobbies told each other who I wur, an' they was always a-watching me. I got a sitivation once, a honcommon good 'un too; but, oh, lor, the next day a bobby says to the guv'nor, says he, 'Yon's a jail-bird, you'd better keep yer eye on 'im;' an' you may guess I'd to walk in quick sticks. I made two or three tries arter, but it wur no go. As soon as hever a bobbie came near I'd to be off like greased lightnin', an' you'll find out what I say. If yer not a thief now, ye'll 'ave to come to it. I tell yer there's no help for it."
"But I tell you I'll not come to it," said Benny, stoutly.
"But I knows better," persisted Perks; "there ken be no possible chance for yer. Ye're down, an' the world'll keep 'e down, though yer try ever so."
Benny looked thoughtful, for he had a suspicion that a good deal that Perks said was true. He was down, and he feared there was very little, if any, chance of his getting up again. He had proved by experience that the world was hard upon poor lads, and he knew it would be doubly hard upon him now that his character was gone. Yet he felt that he could not become a thief. He would sooner die, and he told Perks so.
But Perks only laughed at the idea.
"You'll find that dyin' ain't so precious easy, my lad," he said in a patronizing tone of voice. And Benny felt that very likely Perks' words were true in relation to that matter, and so he was silent.
"You'd better come partner 'long wi' me," said Perks, in a tone of voice that was intended to be encouraging.
"No," said Benny. "I'll help you if you'll try to be honest; for look here, Perks: there's another life besides this, an' if we're not good we shall go to the bad place when we die, for only good people can go to heaven. An' I want to go to the good place, for little Nell is there; an' I want to see her again, for she was all I had to love in the world, an' oh! it 'ud grieve her so if I were to be a thief, an' grieve the good Lord who died for us all. No, Perks, little Nell begged me afore she died to be good, an' she said the Lord 'ud provide, an' I means to be good. Won't you try to be good too, Perks? I'm sure it 'ud be better."
"No," said Perks: "folks 'as druv' me to what I is. I tried to be honest once, an' they wouldn't let me, an' so I intends to stick to the perfession now, for I likes it; an' ye'll come to it yet."
"I'd rather die," said Benny solemnly.
"Humbug!" snarled Perks. "But I'll say this afore I go to sleep, for I's gettin' des'pert sleepy, if ye'll join me in the perfession I'll be a frien' to yer, an' put yer up to all the tricks, an' forgive yer for that hidin' yer give me. But if," and he brought out the words slowly, "ye'll 'sist on bein' a fool, I'll pay off old scores yet, an' I'll plague yer worse nor ever I's done yet; so I give yer fair warnin'. Now for the land o' nod."
Neither of them spoke again after that, and soon after they were both locked in the arms of kindly sleep.
The following morning Benny was again brought before the magistrates, but nothing new was brought forward in evidence. Mr. Lawrence, however, stated that he did not wish to prosecute, or in any way punish the lad. And as there was no positive evidence that Benny had taken the money, he was dismissed. It was evident, however, that the general belief was that he was guilty; but as the evidence was only presumptive, and this being his first appearance before them, he was given the benefit of the doubt, and set at liberty, with a caution that if he came before them again he would not get off so easily.
His week's wages that Mr. Lawrence had paid him was restored to him on leaving the court, and once more he found himself a homeless orphan on the streets of Liverpool.
Perks did not fare so well. He was an old and evidently a hardened offender. The case was also proved against him, and he was sentenced to be kept in prison for three calendar months. Perks heard the sentence unmoved. He liked liberty best, it is true, but the only thing that grieved him was that it was summer-time. If it had been winter, he would not have cared a straw; but as it was he was determined to make the best of it, and get as much enjoyment out of it as he possibly could.
So Perks and Benny drifted apart, and Benny wondered if they would ever meet again. Life before him lay dark and cheerless. He seemed to have drifted away from everything: no friend was left to him in all the world. There were granny and Joe, but he could not see them, for he felt that if a shade of suspicion crept into their manner, it would break his heart. No, he would keep away. Then there was Mr. Lawrence; he could expect nothing further from him. He believed him to be a thief, of that there could be no doubt, and so doubtless did Morgan and all the other clerks. And then there was little Eva, the angel that had brightened his life for six brief months, and whose bright shilling nothing could induce him to part with. Did she believe him guilty too? Of course she did. His guilt must seem so clear to every one of them. And so he was alone in the world, without a friend to help, unless God would help him; but of that he did not feel quite sure. Sometimes he thought that the Lord would surely provide, but at other times he doubted.
He was at liberty, it was true, and ought he not to be thankful for that? he asked himself; but alas! his innocence had not been established. Young as he was, he felt the force of that. And he felt it terribly hard that all—all! even his little angel—believed him to be a thief.
Ah! he did not know how sore was Eva Lawrence's little heart, and how she persisted to her father that Benny was innocent, and pleaded with him, but pleaded in vain, for him to take back the poor boy and give him another chance.
And night after night she cried herself to sleep, as she thought of the little orphan sent adrift on life's treacherous ocean, and wondered what the end would be. And when one day she tried to sing "Love at Home," the words almost choked her, for the pleading, suffering face of the homeless child came up before her, and looked at her with hungry wistful eyes, as if asking for sympathy and help.
But children soon forget their griefs, and as the days wore away and lengthened into weeks, Benny was almost forgotten, till one day a circumstance occurred which made him again the talk of the Lawrence household. What that circumstance was shall be told in its proper place in the unfolding of this story of Benny's life.
A fathomless sea is rolling
O'er the wreck of the bravest bark;
And my pain-muffled heart is tolling
Its dumb peal down in the dark.
The waves of a mighty sorrow
Have 'whelmed the pearl of my life;
And there cometh to me no morrow,
To solace this desolate strife.
Gone are the last faint flashes,
Set is the sun of my years;
And over a few poor ashes
I sit in my darkness and tears.
—Gerald Massey.
ad any of our readers been passing the front of St. George's Hall
during the afternoon of the day on which Benny was acquitted, they might
have seen our hero sitting on one of the many steps, with his face
buried in his hands and his elbows resting on his knees. Hour after hour
he sat unmolested, for Perks was no longer at liberty to tease him, and
the police did not notice him.
Benny was utterly unconscious of the flight of time, for he was trying to decide upon some course of action by which he could honestly earn his daily bread. He felt that he was beginning life again, and beginning it under tremendous disadvantages. He knew that there was a great deal of truth in what Perks had said to him. All who knew him would mistrust him, and even should he succeed in getting employment under those who did not know him, they might soon get to know, and then he would be dismissed. He was getting too big to be a match boy. He did not understand blacking shoes, and yet to remain idle meant starvation.
"I'm wuss nor a chap buried," he said to himself, thrusting his hands into his trousers pockets and staring around him. "I've heerd of chaps beginnin' at the bottom, but lor a massy! I'm beginnin' furder down than that by a long chalk. I'm six feet under ground, an' I'll 'ave to bore a hole up inter the daylight, or die, I 'specks."
As the afternoon wore away he became conscious of a feeling of hunger. Fortunately, he had sufficient money to keep him from starving for a day or two. He counted over the coins very carefully, and laid aside eighteenpence as being due to granny, and which he resolved should be paid.
"I'll begin honest," he said to himself, "an' I'll keep on at it too, or go to heaven to little Nell."
So after purchasing two sheets of paper and two envelopes, he made his way to a small eating-house and ordered some bread and cheese. He was not long in devouring his very simple meal, and then with a lead pencil commenced his first attempt at letter-writing. The first letter contained only a few words of warning to Jerry Starcher. The second letter was longer, and was addressed to granny. This letter cost Benny a tremendous effort, for, fearing that granny would not be able to read writing, he had, to use his own words, "to print it," and he found it to be a rather slow process. The letter was to the following effect:—
"Deer Grany,—I ken never come 'ome no more. You's heerd what's took plaas, but I nevver stole the money. I is 'onest, for shure I dunno wat I'll do or whair I'll go; but I meen to be 'onest or die. I wish I wur ded. I is very, very, very 'bliged for ole you's don for me an' littel Nel: tel Joe I is 'bliged to 'im to. P'r'aps I'll never see 'e no more, p'r'aps I'll go to littel Nel soon. I 'ope I may, I's very lon-ly. I put with this the money I ow's. Good nite.—Benny."
More than one scalding tear fell upon the letter while he wrote, for the tears would come despite his efforts to keep them back. Life seemed to him such an utter desolation, and hope had almost died out of his heart.
When he had carefully folded and sealed the letters, he went out again on the steps in the shadow of the great Hall, and waited for the darkness. All around him the people hurried to and fro. But had he been in the heart of Africa he could not have felt more utterly forsaken and alone.
When at length the darkness crept over the busy town, he hurried away to Tempest Court, passing Jerry Starcher's, and pushing the letter under his door on the way. His heart beat very fast when he reached granny's door. He was strongly tempted to knock for admittance, for something told him that granny would not turn him away, but he struggled against the feeling. Welcome as would have been his little bed under the stairs, and glad as he would have been for a hiding-place from the world's scorn, yet he felt he would rather not see granny and Joe again while this stain darkened his name.
Within the cottage silence and darkness reigned, for granny had retired early to rest—not without a prayer, though, that the boy she was learning to love might see the error of his ways, truly repent of his sin, and lead a new life. For Joe had told her what had befallen Benny, and furthermore had extracted from her the promise that if he should ever seek again the shelter of her home, for his little sister's sake and for the sake of the Saviour, she would not turn him away, but would help him to begin a better life.
Benny listened for awhile at the key-hole, then cautiously pushing the letter under the door, he hurried away into the darkness. He had no idea where he would spend the night, nor did he concern himself about the direction he was taking; he only felt that he must go somewhere. So on he went in a northerly direction, passing street after street, till, footsore and weary, he stumbled into a dark corner where he thought nobody would notice him, and soon fell fast asleep.
Why could not the policeman who passed a few minutes later, and spied the little crouching figure, have permitted the child to sleep on? He was doing no harm, and the policeman might have known that had the boy a home to go to he would not have been found sleeping in the street.
I suppose he thought nothing about the matter, for he seized Benny by the collar and lifted him off the ground, and after shaking him as a terrier might shake a rat, he ordered him to move on, giving emphasis to his words by a cruel kick, which made Benny grind his teeth with pain, and hurry limping down the street.
He had not gone far before a clock near him began to strike slowly the hour of midnight. At the first stroke of the bell Benny started, and looked carefully around him. Clang went the second stroke.
"It must be the same," he muttered to himself.
The third stroke made him certain.
He was near Addler's Hall without knowing it. The tone of the church clock was as familiar to him as the voice of his father. Scores of times during the years of his childhood he had listened to that clang, waking up the midnight silence when all the others were asleep.
"I wonder if father's comed home yet?" he said to himself; "I'll go and see, anyhow."
Bowker's Row was as silent as the grave, and, as usual, wrapped in darkness. But the darkness was no difficulty to Benny, as he made his way cautiously up the dingy street and into the dingier court that was once his home. It seemed very strange to him that he should be there alone in the silent night, and that Nelly should be alone in her little grave miles away from where he stood.
What a lot had been crowded into his lonely life since last he stood in Addler's Hall, holding his little sister by the hand! And he wondered if ever Nelly left her beautiful home in the sky to pay a visit to the dreary haunts of her childhood.
Before him the door of his old home stood open—the night was not so dark but he could see that—and he could see also that the place wore even a more forsaken appearance than in former days.
Pausing for a moment on the threshold, he plunged into the darkness, then stood still in the middle of the room and listened; but no sound of breathing or noise of any kind broke the oppressive stillness.
He soon discovered also that the house was destitute of furniture; a few shavings under the stairs alone remained.
"The bobbies'll not find me 'ere, I reckon," he said to himself, "though Nelly may."
And he stretched himself on the shavings in the corner where he and his little sister used to sleep in the days that had gone for ever.
It seemed so strange to be there again, and to be there in sorrow and disgrace; and once or twice he stretched out his hand in the darkness as if expecting to find his little sister by his side. Then, as the memory of his loss and the loneliness of his life crept over him, he gave vent to his feelings in a flood of tears. By-and-bye he grew calm, and soon after fell asleep; and in happy dreams, in which he wandered with Nelly through Eastham Woods, he forgot all his trouble and care.
When he awoke the next morning the court was alive and stirring, and Bowker's Row was crowded with ill-fed, ragged, and dirty children: some were doing their best to climb the lamp-posts, some were practising cart-wheel revolutions, some were squatted idly on the pavement, and others were playing with the refuse in the street.
On Benny making his appearance, he was greeted with a shout and a howl that made the street echo again, and summoned the elders to the doorways to see what had happened.
It was very evident that the older children had recognized him, while many a familiar face appeared at door and window. This Benny thought was very unfortunate, for he was in no mood to be questioned or to brook delay. So he darted down the street as if on a race for life, knocking over several of the older lads who tried to check his progress.
For some distance he was followed by a whole tribe of noisy urchins, who shouted at the top of their voices. But Benny was too fleet-footed for them, and soon Bowker's Row and its noisy denizens were left far behind.
Benny's first thought now was to secure a substantial breakfast, which was by no means a difficult matter. That done, he made his way toward the docks, in the hope that he might get employment of some kind. But to a little friendless lad, without character or recommendation, employment was not so easily obtained. Most of those whom he addressed did not condescend to notice his question in any way. A few asked him what he could do, and when he replied "Anything," the invariable answer was, "That means nothing," and he was sent about his business. In fact, there seemed to be no work in the whole line of docks that a child of his age was capable of doing. And night found him worn out with fatigue, and with a sadly lightened pocket.
However, he kept up his heart as well as he could, and sought rest and sleep in a damp cellar upon some dirty straw, which for the payment of twopence he shared with a dozen other lads, who appeared to be as friendless as himself. That night he slept the sleep of the innocent and weary, and awoke next morning, strengthened and refreshed, to find that all his companions had left and that his pockets were empty!
This was a terrible blow to Benny; but when he discovered that his "lucky shilling" was still safe in the lining of his waistcoat, he dried his tears, and went bravely out, hungry as he was, to battle with an unfriendly world.
Before sunset, however, he had nearly lost heart, for he had been unable to earn a single penny, and he was almost faint with hunger. So in sheer desperation he sought his old place on the landing-stage, in the hope that he might have the chance of carrying some one's portmanteau, and in that way earn his supper; but everyone to whom he offered his services repulsed him, and for the first time he wondered whether it would be wrong to throw himself into the river, and whether that would not be the easiest way out of his trouble. Somehow he could not help thinking that it would be less wicked for him to do that than to steal. He could not starve; drowning he was sure would be a much less painful death; and, as far as he could see, it had really come to this, that he must either steal or die. But he would not steal, he had made up his mind to that. Had he not promised Nelly that he would be honest? And had not Joe and granny and his Sunday-school teacher told him what a wicked thing it was to be a thief? No; he had settled that matter, and when he had settled a thing in his own mind he was not to be moved. The question then was, what was the easiest kind of death? The river looked beautiful this summer evening, and he thought it must be very nice to rest beneath its cool sparkling waters after the hot glare of the streets. Should he plunge in now, or should he wait a little longer? He had been without food for twenty-four hours. He had no place to sleep, no means of getting supper.
Then suddenly he remembered his "lucky shilling."
"Queer!" he mused. "The Lord sent His angel wi' this bob, an' I've never wanted it till now, an' now I does want it, I've got it. I'm floored again. Nelly said the Lord 'ud provide, and He do." And he took out the bright shilling and looked at it fondly.
Just then he heard a countryman inquiring the way to Lime Street Station, of a man who stood near him.
"Here's a chance," he thought; and, stepping forward, he said, "I'll show you the way, sir, if yer likes."
"Dost thee know th' way thysel', lad?" inquired the man.
"I should think I do," said Benny, drawing himself up to his full height.
"Lead the way, then," said the farmer; and Benny trotted on before him, feeling sure that he was safe now for a good supper without spending his shilling.
"Thankee," said the farmer, on their arrival at the station; "thee'rt a sharp lad, an' no mistake."
And he smiled benevolently, and hurried away to the booking-office, leaving our hero staring after him in utter bewilderment.
Benny felt that he would have liked to have had his revenge on that man then and there.
"Golly," he said, "don't I feel savage, just!"
Just then a gentleman pushed against him, carrying a bulky leathern bag.
"Carry yer bag, sir?" said Benny in an instant; and, without a word, the bag was hoisted on his shoulder, and once more Benny was on the trot.
By the time he had reached the top of Brownlow Hill he was almost exhausted, and without a word the man (gentleman, I suppose he thought himself) took the bag from his shoulder and handed him a penny in payment for his services.
When will men, and professedly Christian men, learn the great though simple lesson—to do unto others as they would that others should do unto them?
A benevolent baker, moved to pity by the sight of Benny's suffering face, gave him a twopenny loaf for his penny, with a smile and a kindly word into the bargain, and Benny went out into the darkening street with a lighter heart than he had felt for the day.
The evening was oppressively warm, and having no inclination to go back again into the dingy town, where policemen were plentiful, Benny made his way in an easterly direction, hoping that he might find a dark corner somewhere where he might sleep undisturbed.
After a while he found himself in the neighbourhood of the cemetery where Nelly was buried. He was not superstitious, so without a moment's hesitation he climbed over the wall, and, getting dark as it was, he easily found his sister's grave; and, stretching himself on the damp grass, with his head upon the little mound under which his Nelly slept in peace, he tried to think—to form some plan for the future.
Above him twinkled the silent stars. Around him slept the silent dead. Everything was silent; not a leaf stirred, not even a blade of grass; and yielding to the silent influence of the hour, he fell asleep, though not before he had resolved that he would return to his old haunts no more, but would commence his new life as far away from Liverpool as he could possibly get.
Next morning he was up with the lark, and kissing the sod above his sister's face, he hurried away. At noon Liverpool was several miles behind him, and before him—what?
Under the shadow of a tree by the roadside he rested for an hour during the heat of the day, and in a clear stream that babbled by he slaked his thirst and washed the dust from his hands and face, then hurried on again.
The country looked very beautiful bathed in the summer's sunshine, but he was in no mood to enjoy it. The birds sang their glad songs in the trees, but to him they seemed only to mock his sorrow. In the fields he saw the sleek cattle grazing as he passed, or lying in the sunshine contentedly chewing their cud, while he was footsore, hungry, and sad, and he wondered what the end of it all would be.
As the afternoon wore away he found himself hedged in with plantations on every side, and not a single human habitation in sight.
For awhile he dragged himself along with fast failing courage and strength; then he gave up in despair.
"It's no go," he said; "I ken go no furder."
His feet were hot and blistered with his long tramp over the hard and dusty road. His head ached from the fierce heat that had been beating down on him all the day, his strength was all but gone, for he had tasted no food since the previous evening.
"I dunno how the Lord's goin' to do it," he said, the tears starting in his eyes. "Nelly said as how the Lord 'ud provide, an' so did the angel that gived me the bob; but I dunna see how. I wonder if He's goin' to take me to heaven? P'r'aps that's the way He's goin' to do it, an' then I'll never be 'ungry no more."
Climbing on a gate, he looked around him, but no house was anywhere visible.
"It's all up, I reckon," he said sadly, getting down on the inside and making his way through the tangled undergrowth into the heart of the plantation. "I'll find a snug place 'ere somewheres, where I ken wait till the Lord comes. I wonder if He'll be long?"
He had not gone far before he found a place that suited him. A luxuriant patch of ferns growing out of a carpet of moss, bordered on every side with tall brushwood, while overhead giant fir-trees sighed and moaned in the evening breeze, made a perfect arbour of quiet and repose. Pressing down the yielding ferns, he had soon a bed soft as he could desire, while a mossy bank made a pillow grateful as a kiss of love to his aching head and burning cheek.
"I'll be comfortable 'ere till the Lord comes," he said, stretching out his weary limbs. "I wonder if He'll bring Nelly wi' Him?"
Then he closed his eyes and waited. Above him the fir-branches swayed gently in the soft evening breeze, and from far away came the subdued plash of falling water. It was very strange and solemn, but soothing and restful withal.
The pangs of hunger abated, too, after he had rested awhile, and his head ceased to ache, while the wind in the trees sounded like an evening lullaby, and brought back to him a vague and misty recollection of his mother rocking him to sleep on her lap, in the years long, long ago.
Then the music seemed to come from farther and farther away, till it ceased altogether, and once more Benny slept. And there in the solemn wood we will leave him for awhile to the mercy and care that are infinite.
For since Thy hand hath led me here,
And I have seen the border land,—
Seen the dark river flowing near,
Stood on its bank as now I stand,—
There has been nothing to alarm
My trembling soul; why should I fear?
For since encircled by Thy arm,
I never felt Thee half so near.
oe Wrag was in great trouble when he heard of Benny's misfortune.
Granny was the first to make him acquainted with the fact that something
was wrong. Benny had been in the habit of returning earlier on a
Saturday evening since he had been with Mr. Lawrence than on any other
day of the week, and when that evening wore away and deepened into
night, and Benny did not come, granny got very much concerned, fearing
some accident had befallen him; and so she remained rocking herself in
her chair, and listening in vain for his footfall all through the night.
And when morning came she hurried away, old as she was, to Joe's house,
in the hope that he would be able to give her some information as to
Benny's whereabouts.
Joe was thunderstruck at sight of Betty so early on a Sunday morning, and her eager question, "Dost a' knaw where the boy is, Joe?" did not help to mend matters. For a few moments Joe's power of utterance seemed to have left him altogether, then he stammered forth—
"Ain't he hum, Betty?"
"Nae, Joe; I's never seen 'im sin yester morn!"
Joe looked thoughtful, for he had no reply to this, and Betty sat down in a chair, evidently exhausted.
After a while Betty got up to go. "I mun be a-goin'," she said, "he may a-got hum by now."
Towards evening Joe called at Tempest Court, but nothing had been heard of the wanderer. The night that followed was one of the longest Joe had ever known, and as soon as he was released from his watch in the morning he went at once to Mr. Lawrence's office.
"Is the maaster in?" he said, addressing one of the clerks.
"No, my good man," was the reply; "he will not be down for an hour yet. Could you call again?"
"Mebbe you'll do as weel," said Joe, scratching his head. "Can yer tell me wot's become o' the boy Benny?"
"Oh, yes," said the clerk, smiling complacently, "he's where he ought to have been long ago."
"Where's that?" said Joe.
"In prison, sir!"
"In prison?" in a tone of bewilderment.
"Even so," with a bland smile.
"I can't say as 'ow I hunderstand," Joe stammered out.
"Very likely," said the clerk, "so I will inform you that Mr. Lawrence, having his suspicions aroused, placed a five-pound note on his desk, and then set a watch——"
"Well?" said Joe, eager yet fearing to hear the rest.
"Well," continued the clerk, "this young friend of yours, who seems to have been an old hand at the work, was seen coolly to take the money. But when charged with the theft, a few minutes after, he stoutly denied all knowledge of the circumstance; but Mr. Lawrence was determined to stand no nonsense, and had him at once marched off to the lock-up."
For a moment Joe looked at the clerk in silence, then, without a word, walked out of the office. When he told granny, she was at first indignant. "To think that she, a honest woman, 'ad been a-'arbouring a thief all these months!" But Joe soon talked her into a better frame of mind, and it was then that she promised him that if the prodigal ever came back again she would not turn him away.
When Joe read in the paper on Wednesday morning that Benny was acquitted, his delight knew no bounds. He accepted the fact as almost proof positive that Benny was innocent, and went at once to tell granny the news.
He found the old woman crying over Benny's letter, with the eighteenpence lying in her lap. When Joe came in she handed him the letter without a word. Joe blew his nose violently several times during its perusal, then laid it down on the table, and walked to the door to hide his emotion. It was several moments before he could command himself sufficiently to speak, then he blurted out—
"The poor parsecuted bairn mun be found somehow, Betty, an' 'ere's off to sairch. Good mornin', Betty."
And before the old woman could reply he was gone.
During the next three days Joe had but little sleep. He tramped the town in every direction, in the hope that he might glean some tidings of the poor lost lad; but his labour was in vain, and each evening when he returned to his hut it was with a sadly diminished hope of ever finding the boy again.
On the evening that Benny, hungry and forsaken, lay down in the wood to sleep, Joe felt his heart drawn out in prayer in such a manner as he had never before experienced. Nearly the whole of the night he spent upon his knees. Now and then he got up and walked out into the silent street, and gazed for a few moments up into the starlit sky. Then he would return to his hut again and pray more fervently than ever. He had returned from his search that evening utterly cast down, feeling that the only resource left to him was prayer. He knew not whether the boy was living or dead. He could hardly think the latter; and yet if he were alive, who could tell what he was suffering? Who but God? To God then he would go and plead for the outcast boy, and who should tell whether God might not regard his prayer and send help and deliverance to the child? Thus hour after hour he prayed on, and when the light of the morning crept up into the eastern sky, he rose from his knees comforted.
Were Joe Wrag's prayers answered? No doubt they were. Not in the way, perhaps, that Joe would have liked best, and yet in the best way for all that. God does not always give us in answer to our prayers what we think best, but what He thinks best. To weary, worn-out Benny God gave sleep, deep, dreamless, and refreshing, and in the morning he awoke to the song of birds and to the rustle of a thousand leaves. The music sounded very sweet to Benny's ears, but it was not the music of heaven, as he had hoped it would be. He had waited there in the solemn wood for the coming of the Lord, but He had not come. Heaven seemed farther away from him than ever this morning, and earth was painfully real. He felt himself too weak to stir at first, so he lay still, occasionally opening his eyes to watch the slanting sunbeams play among the tangled foliage, and light up the dewdrops that trembled on every leaf.
His head was hot and heavy, and his eyes ached when he kept them open long, and the pangs of hunger were coming on again. What should he do? He lay for a long time trying to think, but his thoughts whirled and twisted like snowflakes in a storm.
"P'raps I kin get on a little furder if I tries," he said to himself at length, and suiting the action to the words, he rose from his ferny bed and staggered out of the wood. He had scarcely strength left to get over the gate, but he managed it at length, and then fell down exhausted by the roadside.
How long he lay there he never knew; but he was aroused at length by the lumbering of some kind of vehicle coming towards him along the road, and by the shrill whistling of the driver.
Nearer and nearer came the vehicle, and then stopped just opposite him. Benny looked up and saw a shock-headed, overgrown lad, standing in what seemed an empty cart, staring at him with a look of wonder in his great round eyes.
Benny had reached a stage of exhaustion which made him indifferent to almost everything, so he only blinked at the boy, and then dropped his head again on the grass.
"Art a tired?" said the boy at length.
"Ay," said Benny, without opening his eyes.
"Wilt a 'ave a lift?"
"What's a lift?"
"A ride, then, if it's properer."
"Ay, I'll ride; but 'ow's I to get in?"
"Oh, aisy 'nough," said young Giles, jumping out of the cart and lifting Benny in as if he had been an infant.
"Golly," said Benny, coming out with his once favourite expression, "you're mighty strong!"
"Strong? You should see me lift a bag o' corn! Now, Dobbin," to the horse. "Gee, meth-a-way," and the horse moved on at what seemed a stereotyped pace.
"'Ave a turmut?" said the boy at length.
"What's a turmut?"
"Lor, now," laughed the boy, "you must be green not to know what a turmut is." And he untied the mouth of one of several bags lying at the bottom of the cart, and took out two, and by the aid of a large clasp-knife had both peeled in a "jiffey."
Putting his teeth into one, he handed the other to Benny, who readily followed his example, and thought he had never tasted anything more delicious.
By the time our hero had finished his turnip they had reached a small village, and Benny was able to get out of the cart unaided. Here were houses at last. Perhaps he might get work here; he would try, at any rate. And try he did; but it was discouraging work.
At many of the houses the door was slammed in his face in answer to his inquiry. At a few places the person addressed condescended to ask Benny where he came from, and when he replied "from Liverpool," he was told to be off about his business, as "they wanted no thieves nor pickpockets in their employ."
One kind-looking old gentleman asked Benny what he could do.
"Anything a'most," was the prompt reply.
"You're too clever by a long way," laughed the old man; "but let's perticlerize a bit. Can you spud thistles?"
Benny looked bewildered. He knew nothing about "spuds" or "thistles," so he shook his head in reply.
"Canst a whet a scythe?"
Another shake of the head.
"Take out arter the mowers?"
"No."
"Dibbel tates?"
"I don't know."
"Humph. Canst a milk?"
"I ken drink it, if that's wot you mean," said Benny.
"Ha! ha! Mary," raising his voice, "fotch the lad a mug o' milk." And in a few moments a stout red-armed girl brought Benny a pint mug, brimful of rich new milk.
"Ay, ay," said the old man, "I see thee canst do thy part in that direction weel eno'. Have another?"
"No, thank you."
"Humph. I fear thee'rt no 'count in the country, lad."
"But I could larn," said Benny.
"Yes, yes, that's true; thee'rt a sharp boy. I shouldn't wonder if thee couldn't get a job at t' next village."
"How far?" said Benny.
"Short o' two mile, I should say."
"Thank you." And once more Benny set off on the tramp. It was scarcely noon, and the day was melting hot. Outside the village the sun's rays beat down pitilessly on his head, and made him feel sick and giddy. All the trees were on the wrong side of the road, and he looked in vain for a shady spot along the dusty highway. Still on he tramped, with fast failing strength. A little way before him he saw a farmhouse, with trees growing around it. "If I can only reach that," he thought, "I'll rest awhile." Nearer and nearer, but how strangely everything was swimming around him, and what a curious mist was gathering before his eyes!
Ah, there is the sound of voices; a group of haymakers just inside the gate getting their dinner in the shadow of a tree. Was help at hand? He did not know. Gathering up all his strength, he staggered towards them, stretched out his hand blindly, for the mist had deepened before his eyes, then lifted his hands to his temples, as if struck with sudden pain, reeled, and fell senseless to the ground.
In a moment a woman raised him from the ground, and supported his head against her knee, while the men crowded round with wondering faces. Then Farmer Fisher came up with the question, "What's to do?" and the haymakers stood aside, that he might see for himself.
"The boy's dead," said the farmer, with just a little shake in his voice.
"No," said the woman, "he's not dead, his heart beats still."
"Go and call the missus, then, quick."
Then one of the men started for the farmhouse.
Mrs. Fisher was a gentle, kind-hearted woman at all times, especially to children, and just now she was particularly so, for a month had not elapsed since she had laid one of her own children, a boy of about Benny's age, in the silent grave. And when she caught sight of Benny's white suffering face, her heart went out to him instantly.
"Take him into the house, John," she said to her husband, the tears starting in her eyes, "and send for the doctor at once."
So without further ado Benny was carried into the house, stripped of his dirty and ragged attire, put into a warm bath, and then laid gently in a clean soft bed, in a cool pleasant room. Once only he opened his eyes, looked around him with a bewildered air, then relapsed again into unconsciousness.
The doctor, who arrived toward evening, pronounced it a very bad case, ordered port wine to be poured down his throat in small quantities during the night, and promised to call again next day.
"Will he live?" was Mrs. Fisher's anxious question.
"Fear not," said the doctor: "want, exposure, and I fear also sunstroke, have done their work. Whoever the little fellow belongs to, he's had a hard time of it, and to such death should not be unwelcome."
During the next day Benny was conscious at brief intervals, but he lay so perfectly still, with half-closed eyes, that they hardly knew at times whether he was alive or dead. His face was as white as the pillow on which he lay, and his breathing all but imperceptible. The doctor shook his head when he came, but held out no hope of recovery.
So that summer Sabbath passed away, and Monday came and went, and Tuesday followed in the track, and Wednesday dawned, and still Benny's life trembled in the balance. The doctor said there was no perceptible increase of strength, while the pulse, if anything, was weaker. Hence, without some great change, he thought the boy would not live many hours longer.
Outside the birds twittered in the trees, and the songs of the haymakers floated on the still summer air; but within, in a darkened room, little Benny to all appearance lay dying. He had reached the border land, and was standing on the river's brink. On the other side of the stream was the everlasting home, where his Nelly dwelt, and where hunger and weariness and pain could never come. Why did he linger, when he wanted so much to cross and be at rest for ever?
He had no fear, and to the onlookers it seemed easy dying. No sigh or moan escaped his lips; he lay as still as the dead.
The day waned at length and darkened into night, and Mrs. Fisher and one of the servants remained up to watch by the little invalid. It was about midnight when they observed a change come over him. The brow contracted as if in pain, the wasted fingers plucked at the clothes, and the breathing became heavy and irregular.
Mrs. Fisher ran to her husband's room and summoned him at once to Benny's bedside. John Fisher was a kind man, and needed no second bidding. With gentle hand he wiped away the big drops that were gathering on the little sufferer's brow; then turning to his wife, he said,
"Do you think you had better stay, love? I think he is dying."
"No, no!" she said, "I cannot see him die." Then, after a pause, she sobbed, "Let me know when it is over, John," and hurried from the room.
Source of my life's refreshing springs,
Whose presence in my heart sustains me,
Thy love appoints me pleasant things,
Thy mercy orders all that pains me.
Well may Thine own beloved, who see
In all their lot their Father's pleasure,
Bear loss of all they love, save Thee—
Their living, everlasting treasure.
—Waring.