Kitabı oku: «Her Benny: A Story of Street Life», sayfa 11
CHAPTER XX.
Life at the Farm
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.
Mrs. 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.
Not 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."
