Her Benny/Chapter 19
CHAPTER XIX.
The Border Land.
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 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 home, 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 awhile Betty got up to go. "I mun be a-goin'," she said, "he may a-got home 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 momin', 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'r'aps I kin get on a little furder if I tries," he said to himself at length, and suiting the action to the words, lie 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'm 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 pick-pockets 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, "fetch 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.
Laid gently in a clean soft bed, in a cool pleasant room.
"Take him into the house, John," she said to her husband, the tears starting to her eyes, "and send for the doctor at once."
So without further ado Benny was carried into the house, stripped of bis dusty 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 unconscionsness.
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 song 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 ever-lasting home, where his Nelly dwelt, and where hanger 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 a 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.