Her Benny: A Story of Street Life

Then a lark rose up from its lowly nest near him, and went singing upward through the sky, and as he listened to the full rich song that floated down to him, he seemed to hear in it the promise of an ever-faithful Friend – "And not one of them falls to the ground without the notice of His eye… Are ye not much better than they?"

Towards the close of the afternoon Benny found himself in the lane that led down to the bridge that crossed the dell. He had no particular object in view, only he loved a quiet stroll through the country lanes in the quiet of the day, and he was useless on the farm till his arm got better. Below in the valley the river rippled pleasantly over its stony bed. To Benny's ears it sounded like a song, while his own fancy supplied the words —

"There is beauty all aroundWhen there's love at home."

On turning the sharp corner of which we have already spoken, he came suddenly face to face with Eva Lawrence. Benny blushed scarlet; but Eva held out her hand in a simple childish manner, and said frankly,

"I am pleased to see you – " (she was about to say "Benny," but checked herself), and added, "I hope your arm is still improving."

"Yes, thank you; it will soon be as well as ever."

"I am very glad; but how strange, isn't it, that I should have found you again?"

"Yes, very; but my life has been a strange one altogether."

"I suppose so. Do you remember telling me all about your life up to the time I first saw you on the landing-stage?"

"Yes, I remember. Do you remember giving me the shilling? Of course you do, for you mentioned it last night, but I wanted to tell you I have that shilling yet."

And Benny took the shilling out of his purse and handed it to her.

"How funny!" said she, taking the coin in her hand; "and is this the very same?"

"Yes; I have never had the heart to part with it, somehow, though I've wanted bread since you gave it to me. I call it my lucky shilling."

"How strange!" she said, more to herself than to him. "Then you have never forgotten us?"

"Forgotten you!" said Benny, "I should – " Then he checked himself, and added, after a pause, "No, I could not easily forget those who have befriended me."

By this time they had reached the bridge, and Eva sat down on the low parapet, and Benny took a seat opposite her. For a while neither spoke, then Eva looked up and said,

"Would you mind telling me about yourself since that dreadful evening you had to leave pa's office?"

"If you care to hear it, though I fear it would be a very uninteresting story."

"I should like to hear it very much, for I have often wondered what could have become of you."

"I should not have kept silence all these years if I had thought any one cared to know what had become of me, but I supposed that I should best please those who had known me by keeping out of their sight."

"You were mistaken in that, I am sure; but never mind now, I am all curiosity to hear your story."

Benny could not resist this request, so he gave her an outline of what we have given in greater detail, making as little as possible, however, of his sufferings and privations, and dwelling at length, and with much feeling, on the kindness of his friends at the farm. Of his inner life he said nothing. His religious experience seemed too deep for words, too sacred for parade, and he had not framed an experience yet to use on public occasions, and he preferred also that his actions, rather than his words, should reveal his religious life.

Eva listened with great attention, and her quick imagination supplied what she felt he had left out. For awhile there was silence after Benny had told his story, save for the clear river that babbled down underneath the bridge, for both were thinking of the old days that had passed away for ever.

At length Eva arose and held out her hand, and Benny took the little white fingers in his hard brown palm, and held them just for a moment.

"Good evening, Mr. Bates; I must go home now," she said.

"Good evening, Miss Lawrence." And Benny watched her glide away among the shadows of the tall trees, in the direction of Brooklands, then turned and walked slowly home.

The next morning, as he was leaving the house, he almost stumbled over Mr. Lawrence, who on receipt of his daughter's letter had come over at once.

"Mr. Lawrence!" said Benny, in a tone of surprise.

"Then you are Benny, I suppose," he said, "as you recognize me, but I should never have known you."

"Yes, I am Benny Bates, but you have not altered in the least; I should have known you anywhere."

"Well, Benny," said Mr. Lawrence with much feeling, taking his hand, "you cannot tell how thankful I am to see you alive and well." Then, glancing at Benny's arm, which he still carried in a sling, he added, "I beg pardon, I had forgotten your arm for a moment. I have to thank you also for saving my daughter's life."

"Do not mention it, Mr. Lawrence; I have received abundant thanks already."

"That may be, but I have much to say to you; can you spare time for a walk?"

"Yes, with pleasure; I am able to do nothing, as you see, and so time hangs rather heavy."

"Benny," said Mr. Lawrence, when they had gone some distance, "when I found that missing bank-note, I resolved that, if ever I saw you again or had the chance of speaking to you, I would ask your forgiveness for the wrong I did you."

"Do not speak in that way, please," said Benny. "If you wronged me it was not intentionally, so that I have nothing to forgive; if I had, it should be freely granted."

"Thank you. And now, Benny, will you return to Liverpool again? Not to be office boy," he said, glancing at Benny's tall and well-knit frame; "I can find you something much better than that, and I should like to make you some reparation for all you have suffered through me."

"Thank you, Mr. Lawrence," said Benny firmly; "but I could not come simply to be tolerated because you fancied you had wronged me, and wished to make amends."

Mr. Lawrence looked up in surprise.

"You will understand what I mean, I think," said Benny. "I am too old and too big to be any longer an object of charity, but if you think I am able to fill the place you want filled, and am worth the salary that you are in the habit of paying, then I will consider your very kind proposal."

"I understand what you mean now," said Mr. Lawrence, "and I must say I admire your independence. I do not wish you to be an object of charity, for Mr. Munroe tells me that he finds, through inquiries that he has made, that you are a good penman, and quick at accounts, and if you will come and take the vacant stool in my office, I shall be sincerely obliged."

"Thank you; but do you know that Mr. Munroe has made me a similar offer?"

"Yes."

"Do you require an answer now?"

"To-morrow will do."

"Let it be to-morrow, then, please, and I will think about it in the meanwhile."

Benny had decided the question, however, before he slept that night. Manchester was a strange place, Liverpool was his home. He knew every street for half a mile around the Custom House as well as he knew the lanes around Scout Farm. He had spent his childhood there; his earliest, ay, and his happiest recollections were associated with it. It had been the scene of his greatest struggles and triumphs. It had witnessed his deepest joy and his bitterest sorrow, and though he had left it in disgrace and pain, he loved it still. There were a few people there he had pined to see. It was Joe Wrag's home; it was Nelly's resting-place; granny lived there, and his Sunday-school teacher, and Mr. Lawrence, and – . But never mind, Liverpool was dear to him still, and in the very spot from which he had been driven in disgrace he would start afresh.

Next morning he walked across to Brooklands, and asked to see Mr. Munroe.

"I have come," he said, as soon as that gentleman appeared, "to tell you that I cannot accept your very kind offer."

"I guessed as much," said Mr. Munroe, with a smile, "when I heard Mr. Lawrence had been after you. So Liverpool has more attractions for you than Manchester, eh?"

"Yes, sir, Liverpool is my home, and Manchester would be strange to me; but I am very much obliged to you for your kindness."

"I do not blame you, Mr. Bates; on the contrary, I think you have acted wisely. Still, if at any time you should need a friend, you may reckon upon me."

"Thank you, sir," said Benny, with a shake in his voice, "thank you very much; and now, sir, could I see Mr. Lawrence?"

"Oh, yes, I will send him to you at once."

"Good morning, Benny," was Mr Lawrence's greeting; "and have you settled the matter?"

"Yes, sir, I will accept your offer."

"That's right; I am glad to hear it. And now, when can you be ready?"

"In a week, sir."

"That will do; and in the meantime I will secure lodgings for you, and make things as straight and pleasant against your arrival as I possibly can."

"Thank you very much."

"Don't name it; but I will send you word when I have secured a comfortable home for you, so that if you like to send on your luggage beforehand, you may do so."

The next few days Benny was busy getting his things together, previous to his departure from Scout Farm. Little Winnie followed him everywhere, and wanted him to promise her that he would not "do away." He did not think until he began to pack his things that the parting would cost him so much, nor did he know till then how closely the little prattling Winnie had twined herself around his heart.

"Benny does not 'ove his 'ittle Winnie, to do away," the child repeated over and over again, with choking voice and brimming eyes.

"Benny's pet," he would say, taking her up in his arms and kissing away her tears; "he loves you more than he can tell."

"Then Benny'll stay with Winnie, won't he?"

"Do you want Benny to stay very badly, eh, pet?"

"Oh, yes, Winnie 'oves 'oo werry much; don't do away, Benny."

"I'll come back again at Christmas, Winnie, and then we'll have rare fun, and I'll bring you a new doll and heaps of oranges."

But the child would not be comforted.

At length the last morning of his stay arrived. It was a silent party that sat down to breakfast, for the hearts of all were too full for speech. Then the trap was brought round, and they all drove over to the station together. The train was in time this morning, for which Benny felt thankful. There was only time for a hurried good bye good-bye, an extra kiss for Winnie, and the train started for the busy town where Benny was to commence afresh the race of life.

CHAPTER XXIV.

The Reward of Well-doing

I have seen angels in the gloomy prison,In crowded halls, by the lone widow's hearth;And when they passed the fallen have uprisen,The giddy paused, the mourner's hope had birth.And by his side there moved a form of beauty,Strewing sweet flowers along his path of life.And looking up with meek and love-lent duty:I call her angel, but he called her wife.

On reaching Liverpool, his first visit was to his sister's grave. He would never have found it, were it not for a curious-shaped stone that he had embedded in the sod ere he went away. As it was, he was a long time before he could discover it among the hundreds of grass-grown mounds lying all around it. It seemed to him that he had lived a long life since he lay there that summer night, and resolved that he would leave Liverpool behind him, and go out into the great world that lay beyond to seek his fortune. "Ah, well!" he mused, "I have made no fortune, but I have lived a life of peace, and God has taken care of me, and now I have come back again no longer a child, though scarcely a man, and I believe God will take care of me here." Kneeling by the little grave, he offered up a silent prayer for help and protection. He thanked God for his little sister that was safe from the world's temptation, and prayed that when he should be laid down to sleep by her side, they might meet by the far-off Jordan river, and part no more for ever.

He was in a very subdued frame of mind when he left the cemetery and wended his way in the direction of Tempest Court. He could not help wondering as he threaded his way through the busy streets whether granny was still alive, but he certainly did not expect to find that Tempest Court was no longer in existence. Such, however, was the case. The march of improvement had swept away hundreds of tumble-down houses, in one of which granny had dwelt for so many years. But she did not live to see that day. In the little home in which she had lived so long she was permitted to die; and so, when the "destroyer," as she would have called it, came to Tempest Court, she was gone – gone home to the Father's mansion, to the "house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens."

But Benny knew nothing of this, and so he gazed with a look of pain at the heaps of broken bricks and mortar which men were busy carting away, and thought what a grief it would be to granny. His next visit was to St. George's Hall, and for a while he sat in the shadow of the great portico to watch the hurrying crowds passing up and down. How different it was from the silent country and the still, drowsy fields! What a tremendous hurry everybody seemed to be in! Was it always so? He had never noticed it in the old days: surely the great town must have grown bigger and busier in the years he had been away from it. "But I daresay I shall soon get used to it," he said to himself, as he rose from his seat, and started this time for the landing-stage. Here he saw no change. The mighty river was the same as in the old days, a scene of life and beauty. But the children selling matches and the women crying newspapers brought more vividly back to his mind than anything else the days of his own childhood. In the cemetery it seemed a life-time since he went away; here, on the stage, it seemed only yesterday since he was a poor famished child, earning a precarious living as best he could. He could hardly realize that he was a strong, well-dressed young man. Once or twice the word "Perks" leaped to his lips as a shock-headed ragged lad ran against him; and when a little girl came up to him with "Fusees, sir?" the face of his dead little sister seemed to flash upon him for a moment, and he started and turned pale, then handed the child some coppers, and patted her on the head, telling her to be a good girl.

He now began to think it time to put in an appearance at Mr. Lawrence's office. But he could not resist the temptation of a sail to Birkenhead and back first. For years he had longed for the day when he would be rich enough to afford such a luxury; that day had come at last, and the wish should be gratified; and surely, as he floated across the broad placid river and back again, no child ever felt half so delighted with a new toy as did he.

Mr. Lawrence was pleased to see that our hero had arrived, and offered him the option of a few days' holiday before he settled down to the desk. But Benny said he would be quite ready for work on the following morning; he only wanted to see Joe Wrag and granny, and he thought he would be able to find them before the day closed, and he knew that he should be happier at work than doing nothing.

Benny's next move was to make inquiries of the police as to what streets were being repaired; and, having been furnished with a list, he waited until half-past five, and then went in search of his old friend. But Joe was not so easily found as he had imagined. He went from one street to another until his list was exhausted; but all the watchmen were strangers to him, and he began to fear that his old friend was either dead, or that failing health and strength had compelled him to retire from his occupation. Benny now began to consider what he was to do next, for he had not the remotest idea in what part of the town Joe lived, if indeed he were still living.

At length it occurred to him that very likely the watchmen knew each other, and that if he were to inquire of one of them he might get some idea of Joe's whereabouts. With Benny to think was to act very frequently; so he walked up to an old man who was keeping watch in the street in which he then found himself, and put the question at once.

"Do you know an old man by the name of Joe Wrag?"

"Oh, ay, very well."

"Then perhaps you could tell me where I might find him."

"In course I could. If you keep down Old Hall Street for haaf a mile, you'll tumble over him, unless yer mind where yer goin'."

"Much obliged." And off Benny started with a very much lighter heart than he had five minutes before. It was a warm July evening, and Benny espied the old man long before he got to him, sitting on a block of wood outside his hut, apparently buried in thought.

For a moment or two Benny stood before him without speaking, and Joe seemed utterly unconscious of his presence. Six years seemed to have passed very lightly over the old man's head. Benny could detect no change in his features; he did not look a day older than he did the last time he saw him.

At length Benny said, in a hesitating tone of voice, "Good evening, Mr. Wrag."

Joe started, but scarcely lifted his eyes to the intruder; then answered, after a pause,

"I'm none so much mister, as I knows on; I'm only plain Joe Wrag."

"This is a nice time of the year for you watchmen," said Benny, not knowing exactly what to say.

"Yes, it's purty fair; we don't git bothered quite so much wi' the youngsters as we do in the winter."

"And so the children bother you in the winter, do they?"

"Well, I don't know they bother me so much, arter all; only they like the fire, yer see, when the weather's cold."

"Just so; you'll get to know a great many children, I should think?"

"Oh, ay, a goodish few."

"Did you ever know a lad called Benny Bates?"

"Ay, yes, poor lad, I should think I did," said Joe, with a sigh; "an' his little sister too, purty little hangel; she's safe enough, thank God. She's wi' the Lord in heaven, but where the poor lad is the Lord only knows."

"Lost, then, is he?"

"Oh, ay, poor bairn, poor persecuted lad; falsely accused he wur, an' it seemed to break his 'eart; he's never been heard of since."

"Do you think you would know him if he were to come back again?"

"Ay, I should know 'im among a thousand," said the old man, still keeping his eyes on the ground.

"Then look at me, Joe, and say if you know me."

Instantly he rose to his feet, and, coming close to Benny, looked straight in his face. Then raising his hands to heaven, he cried out, "O Lord of mercy!" and fell upon Benny's neck and wept.

We will not tire the reader with repeating the conversation that passed between Joe and Benny that night. Each had a hundred things to say to each other, and each a hundred questions to ask. Darkness had crept over the earth, and the great town was silent and still, ere Benny left Joe's hut; and when at length he took his departure, Joe watched him until he had disappeared in the gloom, then looking up into the now star-lighted sky, he clasped his hands together, while the tears ran down his weatherbeaten cheeks, and cried out, "Now, Lord, lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace, for mine eyes have seen Thy salvation."

Next day Benny settled down to work with a fixed determination to do his duty, and to make his way in the world if it could be honestly done. The same truthfulness and perseverance, and diligence and honesty that had characterized him for so many years still marked his life, and raised him month by month and year by year in the estimation of his employer and in the estimation of all with whom he came in contact. According to promise he spent his Christmas at Scout Farm, to the delight of little Winnie and of all the other members of the household, and returned to town feeling all the better for a week's rest.

When Benny had been in Liverpool about two years, a case that was tried at the assizes created considerable interest. The prisoner was found guilty of burglary and manslaughter, and sentenced to twenty-one years' penal servitude. In reading an account of the trial, Benny was struck with the names of the prisoner, John Cadger, alias Peeler, alias Perks. Could it be the Perks that he had known? So interested was he in this question that he determined to find out if possible; and, after some difficulty he was permitted to visit the prisoner in his cell, previous to his removal to Dartmoor.

Benny's first glance at the shock head and sinister face convinced him that his worst fears were realized. For a moment he was unable to speak, then summoning up all his courage, he held out his hand, saying, "I'm very sorry to see you here, Perks."

"Who are you?" snarled Perks, with a terrible oath.

"Do you not know me?" said Benny.

"No! I only know you b'longs to the gentry tribe that are always down on poor chaps like us."

"You are mistaken there, Perks; I am Benny Bates."

"You!" he said in astonishment, eyeing him from head to foot. "Then you must 'ave got mighty 'igh in the perfeshun. I could never dress like that."

"I am not in the profession, as you call it," said Benny.

"Not in it?"

"No."

"Do you mean to say you've kep' honest all these years?"

"Yes, I have."

"An' kep' in Liverpool?"

"No." And Benny told him where he had been.

"Jist so; you'd a-been bound to take up the perfeshun if you 'ad kep' here."

"I don't think so."

"I'm sure on it. Look 'ere: do you 'member that chat we 'ad that night I skeered yer so? Oh, lor!" And Perks laughed till the tears ran down his face. "Well, Ben, I tried bein' honest arter I got out o' quad that time. I did for sure, jist by way of speriment; but lor! 't were no use, – I was nearly starved, an' I 'ad to take up the bizness agin or else die."

"But why did not you do as I did?"

"Never thought on it, and shouldn't a-'ad pluck enough to hacted it out if I 'ad."

Then Benny talked seriously to Perks about his sin, and about the everlasting future beyond the grave; told him also about a loving Saviour, who was ready to forgive the vilest, and of the happy home He had prepared for all.

Perks listened in silence to all Benny had to say, only remarking when he had finished, "I wish I wur dead."

He confessed to Benny the justice of his sentence, though he would insist upon it that society had made him what he was, and was to some degree responsible for his wickedness.

To Benny the interview was a very painful one, and he felt it a relief when he found himself once more outside the prison walls. They never met again. In less than three years Perks was summoned to appear before a higher tribunal, to answer for the deeds done in the body.

Benny had no sooner got settled in Liverpool than he sought out his old Sunday school, and became a teacher there; and often he told to the ragged and neglected children that he gathered around him the story of his life, and pointed out a bright future that might be theirs if they would be industrious, truthful, and honest. Once during each summer he made it a point of taking his class to Eastham Woods, knowing from his own experience what a joy it would be to the poor boys to breathe the fresh air, listen to the song of birds, and run races on the mossy sward. Benny was never idle. The one aim of his life was to do good, to be "rich in good works;" and grandly he succeeded. His name in many a home was like "ointment poured forth," and young and old blessed him for his kindly words and kindlier deeds.

And now what shall we more say? for tales must end while lives run on. Years – I need not say how many – have passed away since Benny again took up his abode in Liverpool. He is now partner with Mr. Lawrence, in a business that has become more prosperous than ever. He lives in a beautiful house of his own, and the angel that years ago brightened his childhood now brightens his home; and sometimes on winter evenings he gathers his children around his knee, and shows them a shilling still bright and little worn, and tells them how their mother gave it to him when she was a little girl, and he a poor, ragged, starving boy upon the streets; tells them how, by being honest, truthful, and persevering, he had worked his way through many difficulties, and how, by the blessing and mercy of God, he had been kept until that day. And Ben, the eldest lad, thinks how he will be brave and true like his father, and so grow up to be an honourable man.