A Friend in Need.
Friendship, peculiar boon of heaven
The noble mind's delight and pride;
To men and angels only given,
To all the lower world denied.
--Samuel Johnson.
The experiences of Benny and his sister during the next day were but
a repetition of what we recorded in the last chapter; but during the
second night they found the shelter of the boat but a poor substitute
for a home, and in the morning they were stiff and cramped through
lying so long in one position; and when they paid Joe Wrag their third
morning visit, the old man noticed that all was not right with them.
Nelly especially was gloomy and depressed.
Joe Wrag was generally a silent man, and not given to asking many
questions; but when he saw great tears in Nelly's round eyes as she
sat gazing into the fire, he felt that he must know what was troubling
the child, and help her if he could. He had also a dim suspicion that
they had not been to their home of late, and he wondered where they
could have spent their nights; and, like Benny, he dreaded the idea of
little Nelly congregating with young thieves and vagabonds, and felt he
would rather a thousand times the child should die than that she should
grow up to be a wicked woman. So after reflecting for some time, and
wondering how he should best get at the truth, he burst out suddenly
with the question,
"When were you last to hum, eh?"
For a moment there was silence, and Benny looked at his sister as much
as to say, "That's a poser; we're in for it now."
"Come, now," said Joe, seeing their hesitation, "let's 'ave nowt but
truth; out wi' it, an' it will be best in the end."
"You tell 'im, Nell," said Benny, "'cause he'll b'lieve you."
So Nelly, in her sweet pleading voice, told him all the story of Benny's
wrong, and of her father's cruelty, and how even she herself had not
escaped his anger.
"And did he beat you, my purty?" said Joe, clenching his fist tightly at
the same time.
"Ay, Joe; but I dunna think he know'd what he were a-doin'."
For a few moments the old man's face worked as if in pain. Then he
muttered to himself, "Some'at must be done, an' no mistake; but what?
Eh, what?" Then he looked at the children again. "Don't yer think you'd
better go to hum again to-night?" he said; and he watched eagerly for
the effect of his question. Nelly was the first to speak.
"Oh, no," she said; "we should get it worse nor ever. Dad would a'most
kill Benny." And the tears welled up into her eyes again.
"I's not goin' to risk it," said Benny stoutly. "I's 'ad hidin's enough
to last me a lifetime."
"Ay, ay," said Joe. "I wonder, now----" And he looked reflectively into
the fire.
"What are 'e a-wonderin' on?" queried Benny.
But Joe was silent. He had evidently got hold of some idea which he was
trying to work out. At length he looked up and said,
"Now, away with yer, an' come here again this ev'ning at six o'clock.
D'ye hear?"
"Ay, ay," was the response; and away they bounded, leaving Joe alone to
his meditations.
Joe remained some time after they were gone in one position, scratching
his head most vigorously, and would doubtless have remained much longer
had he not been disturbed by the men who had come to their work, and
who set him at liberty from his watch until darkness should again come
down upon the earth. Joe walked leisurely to his home as if burdened
with some great thought, ate his morning meal in silence, and then went
to bed, and lay tossing for full two hours ere he could find a wink of
sleep.
Joe Wrag had been for many years a complete enigma to a number of
well-meaning people, who had become much interested in this silent and
thoughtful man, and were anxious to know more about him than he cared
to reveal. Several "town missionaries" had tried to make something out
of him, but had utterly failed. He had never been known to enter a
house of prayer, and whether in the matter of religious knowledge and
belief he was a heathen or a Christian was an open question; and yet,
notwithstanding this, he lived a life that in many respects was worthy
of the imitation of many who made greater professions.
Indeed, to be strictly accurate, Joe Wrag never made any profession
whatever of any kind, and yet he was as honest as the day, and as true
as steel. Honest, not because "honesty was the best policy." Nay,
policy never entered into his thoughts; but he was honest because he
could not be otherwise. His _soul_ was honest; and as for lying, he
loathed it as he would loathe a viper. Nothing could tempt him to be
untruthful. In fact, he recoiled as if by instinct from everything mean
and deceitful. What teaching he had received, or what influences had
surrounded him during his early life, we have never been able to gather.
He kept himself mostly to himself, and was silent about the past. Year
by year he moved along the even tenour of his way, ever ready to do
a kindly deed when opportunity presented itself, but never thrusting
himself where he felt he might not be wanted. He had a perfect horror of
appearing to be better than he really was; and it was thought that that
was his chief reason why he never made any profession of religion.
About three o'clock Joe got up, and after partaking of a substantial
meal, wended his way to the neighbourhood of Copperas Hill. After
turning several sharp corners, he found himself in a small court
containing about half a dozen houses. Before one of the doors he paused
for a moment, then raised his stick, and gave a sharp rat-tat-tat. The
door was instantly opened by a woman who had evidently reached her
threescore years and ten. Yet she appeared hale and strong for her age,
and though poorly, was yet tidily attired.
"Well, ye are a stranger," was her greeting. "I'm verra glad to see 'e,
though."
"An' I'm glad to see you, Betty."
"Well, come tha in. What's i' tha wind?"
"Nowt much, Betty; but what thar is consarns you as much as me."
"Well, out wi' it, Joe," said Betty, as soon as Joe had seated himself.
"No trouble, I 'ope?"
"No, not that I knows on; but could 'e make room 'ere for a couple o'
lodgers--little 'uns, mind you--children, on'y 'bout so high?" holding
out his hand.
"Well, what an idear, to be sure! What are ye a-dreamin' on?"
"Your old man," said Joe solemnly, "was my mate for mony a year, an'
a good man he wur; an' if from that fur-off country he can see what's
doin' 'ere, he'd be mightily pleased for 'e to do, Betty, what I'm
a-axin' o' yer."
"But I dunno that I quite understand," said Betty; "explain your meanin'
a bit more."
And Joe, in a solemn voice, told the story of little Nell and her
brother Benny. "It mebbe, Betty," he said, "they're the Lord's little
'uns. I'm none o' the Lord's mysel'. I've tried to find 'im; but He
winna be found o' me. I'm none o' the elect. I've settled that for
more'n twenty year now. But if these bairns are the Lord's, we mustna
turn 'em away."
"All bairns are the Lord's," said Betty; but Joe only shook his head,
and sat gazing into the fire.
Before he left, however, it was settled that a bed should be made for
the children in the corner under the stairs, which would be near the
fire also. For this they were to pay a penny per night.
"We mustna make paupers o' them, you know, Betty," was Joe's remark.
It was also agreed that she should do what washing and mending the
children's clothes needed, for which they were to pay also, if they
could afford it. "If not," said Joe, "I'll make it square wi' you,
Betty."
Punctually at six o'clock the children put in an appearance at Joe's
hut. They had had but poor luck during the day, and Benny did not feel
nearly so courageous as he had felt two days before. The prospect of
sleeping night after night underneath a boat was not so inviting as
he had imagined it would be; besides, there was the fear that their
hiding-place might be discovered, and that even this poor shelter might
be taken away from them at any time.
He did not confide his fears to Nelly; he felt that it would be cruel
to do so; and she--whatever she may have felt--never uttered a single
word of complaint. She knew that "her Benny" had enough to bear, and she
would not add to his burden.
Benny had been very much puzzled at Joe Wrag's manner in the morning,
and had wondered much during the day "what he 'ad been a-turnin' over in
his noddle." He was desperately afraid that Joe would try to persuade
him and Nelly to return to their home, or even insist upon their doing
so; and rather than do that, he felt that he would lose Joe's friendship
and warm fireside into the bargain.
Joe was looking very abstractedly into the grate when they came up
to the fence, and for a moment they watched his rugged face with the
firelight playing upon it. But Benny, who could read his father's face
pretty cleverly, declared to himself that "he could make nowt out o'
Joe's."
As usual, Joe made room for Benny in his little hut; but to-night he
took little Nelly very tenderly on his knee, and stroked her long flaxen
hair with his hard rough hand, muttering to himself the while, "Purty
little hangel; I reckon she's one o' the Lord's elect."
Benny wondered for a long time when Joe was going to say something that
he could understand; but somehow to-night he did not like to disturb him
by asking questions. Nelly, on the contrary, was far away again from the
cold and dingy streets, and the ceaseless roar of the busy town, and
was wandering in imagination through sunny meadows where the turf was
soft and the grass was green. She fancied she heard the music of purling
streams, and the songs of happy birds in the leafy trees that waved
their branches over her. The air was fragrant with the scent of flowers
that she had heard of, but never seen, and weariness and cold she felt
no more.
The voice of Joe banished the beautiful vision from the glowing grate,
and the child wondered if ever it would become a reality--if ever she
would dwell amid such scenes in a life that had no ending.
"I've some'at to say to 'e, my dears," was Joe's first exclamation; and
the children looked up into his face, and wondered what was coming next.
"I've found a hum for 'e, and a reet good 'un, an' ye'r to go to-night."
"Oh, scissors!" shouted Benny; and he ran into the street, and had
turned two somersaults ere he knew what he was doing; then stood on his
head for at least five seconds by way of cooling off, and what other
performances he might have gone through I cannot say, had not Joe called
him into the hut.
Little Nelly said nothing; she only nestled closer to her benefactor,
and Joe felt great scalding tears dropping upon his hand, and knew that
her heart was too full for her to speak. Then he told them all about
their new home, and what would be expected of them, and how he hoped
they would be good and kind to the old woman, and always be honest and
truthful, and then when they died they might go to the good place.
"Does folks go somewheres when they die?" said Benny, with a look of
astonishment.
"Ay, Ben, that they do."
"Oh, beeswax and turpentine!" he ejaculated, "that are a go!"
But Nelly's face grew luminous, and her eyes fairly sparkled, as she
faintly grasped the idea that perhaps her dreams might come true after
all.
They had no difficulty in finding their way to Tempest Court, or in
discovering the house of Betty Barker. The old woman gave them a rough
though kindly welcome, and Benny was soon at his ease. Their bed in
the warm corner under the stairs was, to use Benny's phrase, "simply
sumshus;" and next morning when they appeared before Joe, it was with
faces glowing with gladness and delight.