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, occupiedchiefly by Manchester merchants, who travelled to and from the citymorning and evening by rail. One of the largest of these residences, andalso the farthest away from Scoutleigh Road Station, was occupied by aMr. Munroe, who was reputed to be a man of great wealth, and also ofgreat liberality. In consequence of the distance of Mr. Munroe's housefrom the station, his coachman used to drive him to Scoutleigh Road inthe 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'sformer master, and, at the time to which we refer, Eva Lawrence wasspending a few weeks at Brooklands with her uncle and aunt. Little didour hero think, as he sometimes looked across the valley at Mr. Munroe'shouse, almost hidden by trees, that his "angel" was staying there. Itwas doubtless well for him that he did not know. He would have beenimpatient to look once more upon the face of the maiden that, next tohis sister Nelly, had been the brightest vision of his life. He stillkept the shilling that she had given him, and often when alone he wouldtake it out of his purse and look at it, and wonder what had becomeof the little girl that befriended him in his hour of need, and wouldalmost long for one more sight of her angel face.
It was at such times as these that Benny grew restless, and pinedfor the bustle of Liverpool streets, and for the sight of old faces,that day by day were fading from his memory. Yet he never seriouslyentertained the idea of going back. There were only Joe and granny, andMr. Lawrence and Eva, that he cared to see, but that they would care tosee him was very doubtful, and he could not go back to be looked at withsuspicion. And not only so: he believed that he was where God intendedhim to be. He had a home, and a good one, among friends who believed inhis honesty, and treated him with kindness. And even yet, had he beendisposed to pay a visit to his old haunts, he had no time. He was fullyemployed every day of the week, and every season of the year brought itsappointed work. The days were so short in winter that they had alwaystheir hands full, and sometimes more than they could do. And springwas always a busy time: the lambs had to be attended to; fences had tobe repaired; and so many "crops" had to be got in, that hay harvestcame upon them frequently before they were ready. Then huge fields ofturnips and mangolds and potatoes had to be hoed, and ere that was donethe fields were white unto the harvest. Then came sheep-shearing andploughing land for next year's wheat crop, and potato digging, and halfa dozen other things, that allowed them no time for idleness, and it waswell for Benny that it was so. He had no time to mope or to waste inuseless regrets.
One evening he had to pass Brooklands on his way to a neighbouringfarm. 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 asthe day declined a fresh breeze had sprung up, that made the eveningdeliciously cool. Benny enjoyed few things more than a saunter acrossthe fields during a summer's evening. And this evening he was just inthe mood to enjoy the song of birds, and the scent of apple blossom andnew-mown hay. It wanted several hours yet of sundown, so he saunteredon very leisurely, and paused when near Mr. Munroe's house, arrested bythe sound of laughter. Not far from where he stood three or four youngladies were engaged in a game of archery, and as he could not be seen bythem, he waited awhile to watch them. He did not know that one of thosefair maidens was Eva Lawrence; how should he know? She was a littlegirl when he saw her last, now she was just blooming into womanhood.The beauty, of which her early life gave promise, was now more thanrealized. But had Eva Lawrence been plain of feature, she would stillhave been beautiful in the eyes of those who knew her well. Hers wasa beautiful life, and people did not wonder that it was mirrored in alovely face. It was a picture that would have pleased an artist's eyeon which Benny gazed, and their rippling laughter formed a pleasantaccompaniment to the rustling of the leaves and the music of the brookthat murmured down the glen. But as Benny gazed at the picture he onlysaw one face, that of Eva Lawrence. He thought he had never seen theface before, and yet it affected him strangely. It seemed to bring backto 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 thesnatch of a forgotten song it came and went, leaving nothing definiteupon 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 amoment he paused and remarked to himself, "This is a dangerous corner;I wonder Mr. Munroe does not alter it; and that bridge too, it isaltogether too narrow. If I drove this way as often as he does, I wouldpull down that antiquated structure, and build a good wide bridge witha high wall on either side;" and, having given expression to an opinionthat he had expressed a hundred times before, he turned on his heel andquietly pursued his way. He had not gone many yards, however, before heheard 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 headlongspeed. The coachman, who had been riding behind, had coolly droppedhimself down on the road, and stood staring after the flying carriage inblank astonishment, and shouting at the top of his voice. Benny saw thatMr. 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 sostrangely before was sitting by his side, pale and motionless. Here andthere people rushed out from the fields into the road and held up theirhands or hoes, but always retreated after a few frantic gesticulationsin time for the affrighted steed to pass. Instantly Benny thought ofthe sharp corner and the narrow bridge over the deep ravine. If theroad had been straight, the wisest course would have been to have giventhe horse rein, and let it tire itself out. But as it was, the horsemust be stopped before it reached the bridge, or almost certain deathwould be the fate of Mr. Munroe and his niece. He had little time tothink, but he knew that to attempt to stop the horse would be attendedwith considerable risk to himself. If he failed to grasp the bridle thehorse and carriage would go over him, in all probability killing him onthe spot; but he had no time to debate the question, the startled horsewas 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, almostcausing him to let go his hold, but he held tight. For a dozen yards thehorse dragged him along the road; then he succeeded in getting it on itsknees with its nose against a hedge, and Mr. Munroe and Eva alighted inperfect safety. By this time, however, a number of people had gatheredround, the coachman amongst the rest, who at once took charge of thehorse, and Benny slunk away as quietly as possible, and made his wayalong the road as fast as he was able. Mr. Monroe, however, seeing hisintentions, followed him at once.
"Come, come, my young friend," he said; "I cannot let you go withoutthanking you for your noble act."
"Do not mention it, sir," said Benny, with an effort, turning pale atthe same time.
"I would be ungrateful indeed," said Mr. Munroe, "were I not to mentionit. No, I shall never forget that to your heroism my niece and myselfowe our lives."
"I am very thankful if I have been of service to you," said Benny; "butI could not have acted otherwise, so please----"
But he did not finish the sentence; setting his teeth together, as if inpain, he staggered towards a seat by the hedge.
Instantly Mr. Munroe sprang towards him, exclaiming, "You're hurt, I'msure you are; tell me what's the matter."
"My arm is broken, that is all," said Benny, with a poor attempt at asmile; then everything began to spin around him in a very bewilderingmanner, and he could never exactly recoll
ect what happened after. Healways carried with him, however, a lively recollection of the processof bone-setting, which he afterwards underwent, and of the sleeplessnight that followed.
Next morning Mr. Munroe came to Scout Farm and sat with Benny for halfan hour, chatting about things in general, and before he left he thankedhim again in the warmest terms for his bravery, and made him promiseto visit Brooklands as soon as he was able, stating that Mrs. Munroewas very anxious to see him, as were also his daughters and niece,especially the latter, who wanted to thank him personally for saving herlife.
Benny blushed at first and begged to be excused, but Mr. Munroe wouldnot hear of it. So Benny reluctantly consented at last to endure themartyrdom (to him) of being introduced to the fine ladies at the bighouse, and in his heart wished he was well out of it all. He felt surethat he should look silly and make a hole in his manners, for he hadnever been used to grand people; and what would be the proper thing tosay 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 fishfor you, my lad, and you've to see to it that you don't go and makea fool of yourself. A lot you know about etiquette and drawing-roommanners; 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 hisarm.
"I think I see you going through the introduction, my lad, trying todo the thing proper as if you knew how, and only succeeding in makingyourself 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 youthink you have just a few grains of common sense? For, unless you're aborn natural, you'll put on no airs at the big house; but you'll justbe yourself, remember, and not ape anybody else; you profess a greathatred of sham, then don't be a sham yourself, and make yourself lookridiculous. Remember what you are, Ben Bates; and remember, too, thatyou've got nothing to be ashamed of."
Then, after another pause:
"I wish I was well out of this job, notwithstanding. I hate to bethanked. I wonder, by the bye, who that young lady is? How her facereminds me of something, something in the old life, but what I cannotmake out. How strange everything seems! I fancy sometimes I must havelived 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 afar-away look came into his eyes, as if he were back again in the oldlife 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 forten 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 fiveor six years agone, a poor little famished, wizened creature. It was asweltering 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--orrather, 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 somethingof the sort. Well, he was completely done up; the doctor never thoughthe would come round again, but he did, and you see what a fine fellowhe'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. Anyway, the boy was a great comfort to her, for we'd only just buried ourlittle 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 tothe farm as natural as a duck takes to the water. In fact, the pluckylittle dog said he wouldn't stay to be a burden to us, and he never hasbeen. In fact, if we came to square accounts, I fancy that I should findthat 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'dtrust him with my life, and so would the missus. She thinks a sight ofhim, I can assure you."
"I do not wonder at it, Mr. Fisher; he's a brave young fellow, anddeserves notice and help--if he needed it."
"Brave? Well, you've said just right in that, Mr. Munroe; he's as braveas a lion. I don't think the young dog knows what fear is. I expectit'll be getting him into trouble some of these days. But then, blessyou, on the other hand, he's as gentle as a woman, and the very soul ofkindness. I believe the young scamp would give away the last copper hehad, if he saw some one he fancied wanted it more than himself."
"Indeed!" said Mr. Munroe, feeling rather amused at Mr. Fisher'senthusiasm. "It is not often you see people possessing so many goodqualities."
"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 asfull of fun and frolic as an egg is full of meat. You should just seethe carryings on we have here when the lads are home from school. Ilaugh 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-goingas we older people, Mr. Fisher."
"That's what my wife says, sir; she says it's as natural for the ladsto play as it is for the kittens, and that it's quite as harmless, andI 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 knowbetter."
"Ah, speaking about education, Mr. Fisher, what sort of education hasthis young man had?"
"Well, Mr. Munroe, I confess I'm no judge in matters of that sort. Yousee, he was never at a day school a day in his life; but for all that heseems to have a natural gift for learning. Our George says he's got onwonderfully; and old Mr. Jones, that keeps the night school yonder atScoutleigh, says he can't teach him any more."
"Excuse me asking all these questions, Mr. Fisher, but I feel quiteinterested in the young man. It's but natural I should, since I owe mylife to him; and I should like to do something for him, if I could seehow it's to be done."
"It's very kind of you, I'm sure, and I can assure you you'll not findme stand in the lad's way. Fact is, I've thought many times of late thathe's too good--too well informed, and that kind of thing--to be a farmlabourer all his life, and he'd never get enough as a day labourer tobecome a farmer on his own account."
"Just so; the same thought has occurred to me, but we'll see what can bedone. Good morning, Mr. Fisher."
"Good morning, sir, good morning."
And Mr. Fisher went his way to his farm, and Mr. Munroe to the station,to catch the noon train to Manchester.
Benny kept indoors two whole days, and declared that they were two ofthe longest days of his life. But on the third morning he was out in thefields again with his arm in a sling. He could not work, so he took abook with him and lay down by a sunny hedge, and read till dinner-time.He would not be treated as an invalid.
"I'm all right but for my game arm," he said to Mrs. Fisher, when shebrought him some little delicacy that she had cooked for his specialbenefit; "and I think I know some one that will enjoy it a great dealmore than I should," looking across to baby Winnie, who was eyeing thedish with curious eyes. "At any rate, she shall have a share. Come here,Winnie," he said, turning to the child, "come to Benny."
And the little bit of humanity slipped off her chair in what Benny wouldhave once characterized as "sca'se no time," and came toddling round thetable towards him, holding up her little fat dimpled hands, and witheyes brimful of delight.
"Take us up, 'enny," said the little prattler; "Winnie 'oves 'oo verymuch."
&nb
sp; "Easier said than done, you young foxy," said Benny, laughing down uponthe child. "Come, mammy," turning to Mrs. Fisher, "lend us a helpinghand, and get this young soldier where she wants to be." And soon Bennyand baby were eating out of the same dish, and it would have been hardto decide which enjoyed it most.
So day after day passed away, and Benny kept putting off the promisedvisit to Brooklands. Mrs. Fisher was constantly reminding him of hispromise, and yet every day he found some fresh excuse for staying away.
One afternoon, however, about a fortnight after the accident, heannounced to Mrs. Fisher that he was going to pay his promised visit tothe lions that afternoon.
"That's right, Benny; though I don't think from your own experience thatyou have any occasion to call the ladies lions," and Mrs. Fisher bent onhim a knowing look.
"Right you are, mammy; I believe they are mostly angels after all, andperhaps those at Brooklands will be no exception to the rule."
"I'm sure they will be kind to you, Benny; so you had better be off andget ready."
Half an hour later he came into the sitting-room to Mrs. Fisher, dressedfor his visit.
"Now, mammy," he said, "am I presentable?"
"Go away with you," she said, laughing, though casting at the sametime an admiring look at the manly young fellow that stood before her,"you'll be as proud as a peacock soon."
"Right you are again. I feel the pride creeping up already. But now fora sight of the angels, so good-bye."
And off he started to pay a visit that was to be fraught with vastlymore important issues than he had any conception of.
Her Benny: A Story of Street Life Page 21