Her Benny: A Story of Street Life

  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.

  Joe Wrag was in great trouble when he heard of Benny's misfortune.Granny was the first to make him acquainted with the fact that somethingwas wrong. Benny had been in the habit of returning earlier on aSaturday evening since he had been with Mr. Lawrence than on any otherday of the week, and when that evening wore away and deepened intonight, and Benny did not come, granny got very much concerned, fearingsome accident had befallen him; and so she remained rocking herself inher 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 toBenny'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 nothelp to mend matters. For a few moments Joe's power of utterance seemedto 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 downin a chair, evidently exhausted.

  After a while Betty got up to go. "I mun be a-goin'," she said, "he maya-got hum by now."

  Towards evening Joe called at Tempest Court, but nothing had been heardof the wanderer. The night that followed was one of the longest Joe hadever known, and as soon as he was released from his watch in the morninghe 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 tellme wot's become o' the boy Benny?"

  "Oh, yes," said the clerk, smiling complacently, "he's where he ought tohave 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, andthen set a watch----"

  "Well?" said Joe, eager yet fearing to hear the rest.

  "Well," continued the clerk, "this young friend of yours, who seems tohave 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 deniedall knowledge of the circumstance; but Mr. Lawrence was determined tostand 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 firstindignant. "To think that she, a honest woman, 'ad been a-'arbouring athief all these months!" But Joe soon talked her into a better frame ofmind, and it was then that she promised him that if the prodigal evercame back again she would not turn him away.

  When Joe read in the paper on Wednesday morning that Benny wasacquitted, his delight knew no bounds. He accepted the fact as almostproof positive that Benny was innocent, and went at once to tell grannythe news.

  He found the old woman crying over Benny's letter, with theeighteenpence lying in her lap. When Joe came in she handed him theletter without a word. Joe blew his nose violently several times duringits perusal, then laid it down on the table, and walked to the door tohide his emotion. It was several moments before he could command himselfsufficiently to speak, then he blurted out--

  "The poor parsecuted bairn mun be found somehow, Betty, an' 'ere's offto 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 townin every direction, in the hope that he might glean some tidings of thepoor lost lad; but his labour was in vain, and each evening when hereturned to his hut it was with a sadly diminished hope of ever findingthe boy again.

  On the evening that Benny, hungry and forsaken, lay down in the wood tosleep, Joe felt his heart drawn out in prayer in such a manner as hehad never before experienced. Nearly the whole of the night he spentupon his knees. Now and then he got up and walked out into the silentstreet, and gazed for a few moments up into the starlit sky. Then hewould return to his hut again and pray more fervently than ever. He hadreturned from his search that evening utterly cast down, feeling thatthe only resource left to him was prayer. He knew not whether the boywas living or dead. He could hardly think the latter; and yet if he werealive, who could tell what he was suffering? Who but God? To God then hewould go and plead for the outcast boy, and who should tell whether Godmight 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 morningcrept 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 allthat. 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 gavesleep, deep, dreamless, and refreshing, and in the morning he awoketo the song of birds and to the rustle of a thousand leaves. The musicsounded 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 forthe coming of the Lord, but He had not come. Heaven seemed farther awayfrom him than ever this morning, and earth was painfully real. He felthimself too weak to stir at first, so he lay still, occasionally openinghis 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 openlong, 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 andtwisted like snowflakes in a storm.

  "P'raps I kin get on a little furder if I tries," he said to himself atlength, and suiting the action to the words, he rose from his ferny bedand staggered out of the wood. He had scarcely strength left to get overthe gate, but he managed it at length, and then fell down exhausted bythe roadside.

  How long he lay there he never knew; but he was aroused at length by thelumbering of some kind of vehicle coming towards him along the road, andby 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 whatseemed an empty cart, staring at him with a look of wonder in his greatround eyes.

  Benny had reached a stage of exhaustion which made him indifferent toalmost everything, so he only blinked at the boy, and then dropped hishead 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 liftingBenny 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 thehorse. "Gee, meth-a-way," and the horse moved on at what seemed astereotyped 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 aturmut is." And he untied the mouth of one of several bags lying atthe bottom of the cart, and took out two, a
nd by the aid of a largeclasp-knife had both peeled in a "jiffey."

  Putting his teeth into one, he handed the other to Benny, who readilyfollowed his example, and thought he had never tasted anything moredelicious.

  By the time our hero had finished his turnip they had reached a smallvillage, and Benny was able to get out of the cart unaided. Here werehouses at last. Perhaps he might get work here; he would try, at anyrate. And try he did; but it was discouraging work.

  At many of the houses the door was slammed in his face in answer to hisinquiry. At a few places the person addressed condescended to ask Bennywhere he came from, and when he replied "from Liverpool," he was told tobe off about his business, as "they wanted no thieves nor pickpockets intheir 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'sperticlerize a bit. Can you spud thistles?"

  Benny looked bewildered. He knew nothing about "spuds" or "thistles," sohe 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 ina few moments a stout red-armed girl brought Benny a pint mug, brimfulof rich new milk.

  "Ay, ay," said the old man, "I see thee canst do thy part in thatdirection 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 theecouldn'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 scarcelynoon, and the day was melting hot. Outside the village the sun's raysbeat down pitilessly on his head, and made him feel sick and giddy. Allthe trees were on the wrong side of the road, and he looked in vain fora shady spot along the dusty highway. Still on he tramped, with fastfailing strength. A little way before him he saw a farmhouse, with treesgrowing around it. "If I can only reach that," he thought, "I'll restawhile." Nearer and nearer, but how strangely everything was swimmingaround him, and what a curious mist was gathering before his eyes!

  Ah, there is the sound of voices; a group of haymakers just inside thegate getting their dinner in the shadow of a tree. Was help at hand? Hedid not know. Gathering up all his strength, he staggered towards them,stretched out his hand blindly, for the mist had deepened before hiseyes, then lifted his hands to his temples, as if struck with suddenpain, reeled, and fell senseless to the ground.

  In a moment a woman raised him from the ground, and supported his headagainst her knee, while the men crowded round with wondering faces.Then Farmer Fisher came up with the question, "What's to do?" and thehaymakers 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, especiallyto children, and just now she was particularly so, for a month had notelapsed since she had laid one of her own children, a boy of aboutBenny's age, in the silent grave. And when she caught sight of Benny'swhite suffering face, her heart went out to him instantly.

  "Take him into the house, John," she said to her husband, the tearsstarting in her eyes, "and send for the doctor at once."

  So without further ado Benny was carried into the house, stripped ofhis dirty and ragged attire, put into a warm bath, and then laid gentlyin a clean soft bed, in a cool pleasant room. Once only he opened hiseyes, looked around him with a bewildered air, then relapsed again intounconsciousness.

  The doctor, who arrived toward evening, pronounced it a very bad case,ordered port wine to be poured down his throat in small quantitiesduring 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 ahard time of it, and to such death should not be unwelcome."

  During the next day Benny was conscious at brief intervals, but he layso perfectly still, with half-closed eyes, that they hardly knew attimes whether he was alive or dead. His face was as white as the pillowon which he lay, and his breathing all but imperceptible. The doctorshook his head when he came, but held out no hope of recovery.

  So that summer Sabbath passed away, and Monday came and went, andTuesday followed in the track, and Wednesday dawned, and still Benny'slife trembled in the balance. The doctor said there was no perceptibleincrease of strength, while the pulse, if anything, was weaker. Hence,without some great change, he thought the boy would not live many hourslonger.

  Outside the birds twittered in the trees, and the songs of the haymakersfloated on the still summer air; but within, in a darkened room, littleBenny to all appearance lay dying. He had reached the border land, andwas standing on the river's brink. On the other side of the streamwas the everlasting home, where his Nelly dwelt, and where hunger andweariness and pain could never come. Why did he linger, when he wantedso much to cross and be at rest for ever?

  He had no fear, and to the onlookers it seemed easy dying. No sigh ormoan escaped his lips; he lay as still as the dead.

  The day waned at length and darkened into night, and Mrs. Fisher andone of the servants remained up to watch by the little invalid. It wasabout midnight when they observed a change come over him. The browcontracted as if in pain, the wasted fingers plucked at the clothes, andthe breathing became heavy and irregular.

  Mrs. Fisher ran to her husband's room and summoned him at once toBenny's bedside. John Fisher was a kind man, and needed no secondbidding. With gentle hand he wiped away the big drops that weregathering on the little sufferer's brow; then turning to his wife, hesaid,

  "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, shesobbed, "Let me know when it is over, John," and hurried from the room.