When Farmer Grey got up in the morning, and found that his nephew had
left the house without saying where he was going, he was somewhat
surprised; but, as he thought that he would soon return, he did not give
himself much concern about the matter.
The farmer went out among his labourers in the fields, and came back to
breakfast; but James had not returned. The farmer made inquiries among
all his people; no one had seen James. Dinner-time arrived, still he
did not appear. It was late in the day that a friend, Farmer Mason,
called on Farmer Grey. "Have you heard of the murders in Sir John
Carlton's park, last night?" asked Farmer Mason. "Two of his keepers
killed, and another wounded, I am told. Daring outrage! The murderers
are known, I hear. It will go hard with them if they are taken; for the
magistrates are determined to put a stop to poaching, and will show no
mercy to poachers. They will do their best to prove them guilty."
Farmer Grey's mind was greatly troubled when he heard this. He could
not help connecting it, somehow or other, with the disappearance of
James.
"That wild lad, Ben Page, has had something to do with it; of that I am
sure," he said to himself.
As soon as his guest was gone, he walked down to the mill. The miller
and his wife were out. Mary was alone. He found her crying bitterly.
She at once confessed that she had seen James early in the morning, and
that he told her he was going away, not to return; but that where he was
going to, and what he was going to do she could not tell. She was also
anxious about her brother, who had gone away without leaving any
message. This was the utmost information she could give. It was enough
to confirm Farmer Grey's fears. He did not tell Mary what they were.
He thought it would break her heart if he did so. He could give her
very little comfort, for there was nothing he could think of to bring
comfort to his own heart, as far as his nephew was concerned. He had
long seen that he wanted what alone can keep a man right under
temptation, that is, good principles.
James, when he came to him, had been always respectable and decent in
his conduct; but then he had never been tempted. The farmer had been
very anxious about him when he first found that he was so often in the
company of Ben Page, and he now blamed himself for not having taken
pains to separate the two, and still more that he had not tried harder
to give James those good principles which he so much wanted. He did not
think that he had done any good to James by all he had said, but in
truth the words had sunk farther into the young man's heart than he
supposed; and often and often, as James walked the deck of the ship at
night, or camped out with his comrades on many a hard-fought
battle-field in India, those words came to his mind, and helped to keep
him on a right course,--not that the words alone did so; for James, who
had been taught to pray when he was young, became a man of prayer. Yes;
the dark, sun-burnt, fierce-looking soldier prayed every day, morning
and night, lying down or marching, and often in the midst of battle,
while bullets were flying about, shells were bursting, and round-shot
were whistling through the air. He read the Bible, too, and spoke of it
to others, and guided his own steps by what it taught. Was he less
thought of because he did these things? Was he looked on as a coward?
No; there was no man in the regiment more liked, and there were few
soldiers braver than he was.
Had his uncle and Mary known how changed a man he had become, their
hearts would have been saved many a pang. We should not think that
because our words do not seem to be listened to, that therefore they are
doing no good; more particularly if they are spoken in a prayerful
spirit and with an earnest desire to do good.
"Well, Mary, I must try and find out what has become of this poor nephew
of mine," said Farmer Grey, kindly getting up and taking her hand. "We
will hope that he will come back some day. Do not let it be known that
he came here to see you this morning; indeed, it will be better if you
say nothing about his being absent from home. Only my old housekeeper,
Dame Dobbs, knows that he left home this morning, and she is able to say
that he slept in his bed last night."
These words made poor Mary more unhappy still, for she began to think
that James must have done some act which had made him fly for his life,
and that he might, perhaps, be taken and punished--she dared not think
how. Oh, how much sorrow and pain do those who act ill, cause their
friends and those they love best on earth! Nothing that day was heard
of James or Ben. On the next day, rumours of the affray between a body
of poachers and the gamekeepers reached the mill, but neither Ben's nor
James Grey's name was mentioned. Still Mary could not but feel sure
that they had had something to do with the matter, though she hoped that
they might escape.
The miller, on hearing of the fray, and that Ben had disappeared the
next morning, sat by himself more gloomy and silent than ever. Perhaps
he might have thought, "This comes of my teaching, or rather of my want
of teaching, of my bringing up." In the evening, three stout, strong,
comfortably clothed men came to the door: Mary let them in, not knowing
who they could be; Mark turned pale when he saw them.
"Your servant, Mister Page," said one. "Your son, Ben Page, is wanted--
he knows what for."
"My son, Ben Page, isn't at home," answered Mark, in a much more quiet
tone than he used to speak in.
"Where is he, then?" asked the man.
Mark could not tell, nor when he would return.
"You know then what he is wanted for, Mister Page?"
Mark bent his head, and put his fingers to his lips, that the man might
not speak before Mary. He then told her to go out of the room and look
after Sam Green, whom she had not visited for some time.
"Yes; it's about the matter at Snaresborough, with the keepers, I
suppose," said the miller. "But I don't know that he had anything to do
with it."
"Hope not, for his sake; he'll be sooner out of limbo," said the
constable. "But you'll excuse me, Mister Page, we must search the house
for your son; we have a couple of hands to look out outside, so he'll
not escape if he attempts it."
Of course Mark could offer no objection to this. The constable and his
companions searched the house from top to bottom, looking into and under
the beds, and into every cupboard and corner to be found. Then they
searched the mill and all the outhouses, but no Ben was to be found.
Mistress Page went nearly into fits when she saw them. Mary cried
bitterly, her worst fears were become real. When Sam Green saw them, a
look not often seen on his face came over it, as he lay on his bed of
pain--for his leg hurt him much.
"Ah! if the lad had been better taught he wouldn't have been in this
trouble," he said to himself. "I might have done him some good, and I
never did but harm."
These words showed that Sam Green was changing, if not changed. The
constables were still in the house, when a horse was heard coming along
the road. Mary, looking out, saw that it was Ben. She waved to him to
go back, but he did not see her. She tried to cry out, but her voice
failed her, and he had entered the court-yard and thrown himself from
his saddle before he heard her warning. Then he understood that
something was wrong. His horse was dusty, hot, and trembling. He was
about to leap into his saddle when one of the constables who had been
watching outside and had seen him enter the yard, ran into it and seized
his bridle, shouting out to his comrades in the house.
Ben struck right and left with a heavy whip, and tried to break away;
but the man held him fast. The other constables then coming out, he was
secured. Poor Mary felt as if she should die when she saw Ben seized,
but she could do nothing to help him. He was brought into the house,
and handcuffs were put on his wrists.
"Now we have caged our bird we must be off," said the chief constable.
"Oh, treat him kindly," said poor Mary, with the tears in her eyes. "He
is not as bad as you may think--indeed, indeed he is not."
"Never knew one on 'em as was," said the man. "But for your sake, miss,
I'll do my best to make my young master comfortable, May be it's the
first time he has been had up; and, if he gets off, may be it will be
the last."
Mary could say nothing to this remark. Her mother, who had come in,
wrung her hands, and cried, and then called the constables all sorts of
hard names, while the miller looked as if he would have struck them.
More than once he glanced up at his gun, which hung over the
mantelpiece. The constable looked at him, and observed--
"Say what you like with your tongue, Mistress Page; I'm accustomed to
much worse than that; but don't you, Mister Page, touch me--that's all.
I'm in the execution of my duty--mind that."
The miller had to curb his temper, and to say no thing, while his only
son was carried off a prisoner. Mrs Page wrung her hands, and bewailed
her hard lot. Whilst out, she had heard of the murder of the
gamekeepers, and with good reason feared that Ben was guilty of the
crime. Ben did not speak. He could not say, "Rouse up, father; I am
not guilty of the crime laid to my charge."
With handcuffs on his wrists, as a felon, he was carried off by the
officers of justice. When he was gone, the miller sat with his head
bowed down, and his hands clasped between his knees. All he could say
was, "Has it come to this? has it come to this?" The miller seemed to
be really humbled and broken in spirit.
The next day Farmer Grey called to tell Mary that he had heard from
James, and that he was safe. More he could not tell her. She begged
him to see her father.
"Rouse up, neighbour," he said in a kind voice; "you have still much to
do for your son. Secure a good lawyer to defend him. The use of a
lawyer is not to get him off, if he is guilty, but to take care that he
is not condemned unless his guilt is clearly proved. The expense will
be great. I will share it with you."
"You are too good; I don't deserve it, Farmer Grey," answered Mark.
"And yet I would not have my son condemned, if he can be got off."
"And I would not have him condemned, if he is not guilty," said the
farmer.
Farmer Grey went into the town to secure legal advice. His satisfaction
was very great to find that the gamekeeper who had been shot was not
dead, and that the one who had been knocked down was in a fair way of
recovery. Still the magistrates had committed Ben and three other men
to prison; and even if the man who was shot recovered, if Ben was found
guilty, he could not expect less than a sentence of transportation for
fourteen years. Still the news he had to take back to Mary was better
than he expected.