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 something
was wrong. Benny had been in the habit of returning earlier on a
Saturday evening since he had been with Mr. Lawrence than on any other
day of the week, and when that evening wore away and deepened into
night, and Benny did not come, granny got very much concerned, fearing
some accident had befallen him; and so she remained rocking herself in
her 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 to
Benny'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 not
help to mend matters. For a few moments Joe's power of utterance seemed
to 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 down
in a chair, evidently exhausted.
After a while Betty got up to go. "I mun be a-goin'," she said, "he may
a-got hum by now."
Towards evening Joe called at Tempest Court, but nothing had been heard
of the wanderer. The night that followed was one of the longest Joe had
ever known, and as soon as he was released from his watch in the morning
he 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 tell
me wot's become o' the boy Benny?"
"Oh, yes," said the clerk, smiling complacently, "he's where he ought to
have 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, and
then set a watch----"
"Well?" said Joe, eager yet fearing to hear the rest.
"Well," continued the clerk, "this young friend of yours, who seems to
have 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 denied
all knowledge of the circumstance; but Mr. Lawrence was determined to
stand 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 first
indignant. "To think that she, a honest woman, 'ad been a-'arbouring a
thief all these months!" But Joe soon talked her into a better frame of
mind, and it was then that she promised him that if the prodigal ever
came back again she would not turn him away.
When Joe read in the paper on Wednesday morning that Benny was
acquitted, his delight knew no bounds. He accepted the fact as almost
proof positive that Benny was innocent, and went at once to tell granny
the news.
He found the old woman crying over Benny's letter, with the
eighteenpence lying in her lap. When Joe came in she handed him the
letter without a word. Joe blew his nose violently several times during
its perusal, then laid it down on the table, and walked to the door to
hide his emotion. It was several moments before he could command himself
sufficiently to speak, then he blurted out--
"The poor parsecuted bairn mun be found somehow, Betty, an' 'ere's off
to 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 town
in every direction, in the hope that he might glean some tidings of the
poor lost lad; but his labour was in vain, and each evening when he
returned to his hut it was with a sadly diminished hope of ever finding
the boy again.
On the evening that Benny, hungry and forsaken, lay down in the wood to
sleep, Joe felt his heart drawn out in prayer in such a manner as he
had never before experienced. Nearly the whole of the night he spent
upon his knees. Now and then he got up and walked out into the silent
street, and gazed for a few moments up into the starlit sky. Then he
would return to his hut again and pray more fervently than ever. He had
returned from his search that evening utterly cast down, feeling that
the only resource left to him was prayer. He knew not whether the boy
was living or dead. He could hardly think the latter; and yet if he were
alive, who could tell what he was suffering? Who but God? To God then he
would go and plead for the outcast boy, and who should tell whether God
might 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 morning
crept 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 all
that. 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 gave
sleep, deep, dreamless, and refreshing, and in the morning he awoke
to the song of birds and to the rustle of a thousand leaves. The music
sounded 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 for
the coming of the Lord, but He had not come. Heaven seemed farther away
from him than ever this morning, and earth was painfully real. He felt
himself too weak to stir at first, so he lay still, occasionally opening
his 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 open
long, 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 and
twisted like snowflakes in a storm.
"P'raps I kin get on a little furder if I tries," he said to himself at
length, and suiting the action to the words, he rose from his ferny bed
and staggered out of the wood. He had scarcely strength left to get over
the gate, but he managed it at length, and then fell down exhausted by
the roadside.
How long he lay there he never knew; but he was aroused at length by the
lumbering of some kind of vehicle coming towards him along the road, and
by 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 what
seemed an empty cart, staring at him with a look of wonder in his great
round eyes.
Benny had reached a stage of exhaustion which made him indifferent to
almost everything, so he only blinked at the boy, and then dropped his
head 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 lifting
Benny 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 the
horse. "Gee, meth-a-way," and the horse moved on at what seemed a
stereotyped 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 a
turmut is." And he untied the mouth of one of several bags lying at
the bottom of the cart, and took out two, and by the aid of a large
clasp-knife had both peeled in a "jiffey."
Putting his teeth into one, he handed the other to Benny, who readily
followed his example, and thought he had never tasted anything more
delicious.
By the time our hero had finished his turnip they had reached a small
village, and Benny was able to get out of the cart unaided. Here were
houses at last. Perhaps he might get work here; he would try, at any
rate. And try he did; but it was discouraging work.
At many of the houses the door was slammed in his face in answer to his
inquiry. At a few places the person addressed condescended to ask Benny
where he came from, and when he replied "from Liverpool," he was told to
be off about his business, as "they wanted no thieves nor pickpockets in
their 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's
perticlerize a bit. Can you spud thistles?"
Benny looked bewildered. He knew nothing about "spuds" or "thistles," so
he 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 in
a few moments a stout red-armed girl brought Benny a pint mug, brimful
of rich new milk.
"Ay, ay," said the old man, "I see thee canst do thy part in that
direction 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 thee
couldn'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 scarcely
noon, and the day was melting hot. Outside the village the sun's rays
beat down pitilessly on his head, and made him feel sick and giddy. All
the trees were on the wrong side of the road, and he looked in vain for
a shady spot along the dusty highway. Still on he tramped, with fast
failing strength. A little way before him he saw a farmhouse, with trees
growing around it. "If I can only reach that," he thought, "I'll rest
awhile." Nearer and nearer, but how strangely everything was swimming
around him, and what a curious mist was gathering before his eyes!
Ah, there is the sound of voices; a group of haymakers just inside the
gate getting their dinner in the shadow of a tree. Was help at hand? He
did not know. Gathering up all his strength, he staggered towards them,
stretched out his hand blindly, for the mist had deepened before his
eyes, then lifted his hands to his temples, as if struck with sudden
pain, reeled, and fell senseless to the ground.
In a moment a woman raised him from the ground, and supported his head
against her knee, while the men crowded round with wondering faces.
Then Farmer Fisher came up with the question, "What's to do?" and the
haymakers 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, especially
to children, and just now she was particularly so, for a month had not
elapsed since she had laid one of her own children, a boy of about
Benny's age, in the silent grave. And when she caught sight of Benny's
white suffering face, her heart went out to him instantly.
"Take him into the house, John," she said to her husband, the tears
starting in her eyes, "and send for the doctor at once."
So without further ado Benny was carried into the house, stripped of
his dirty and ragged attire, put into a warm bath, and then laid gently
in a clean soft bed, in a cool pleasant room. Once only he opened his
eyes, looked around him with a bewildered air, then relapsed again into
unconsciousness.
The doctor, who arrived toward evening, pronounced it a very bad case,
ordered port wine to be poured down his throat in small quantities
during 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 a
hard time of it, and to such death should not be unwelcome."
During the next day Benny was conscious at brief intervals, but he lay
so perfectly still, with half-closed eyes, that they hardly knew at
times whether he was alive or dead. His face was as white as the pillow
on which he lay, and his breathing all but imperceptible. The doctor
shook his head when he came, but held out no hope of recovery.
So that summer Sabbath passed away, and Monday came and went, and
Tuesday followed in the track, and Wednesday dawned, and still Benny's
life trembled in the balance. The doctor said there was no perceptible
increase of strength, while the pulse, if anything, was weaker. Hence,
without some great change, he thought the boy would not live many hours
longer.
Outside the birds twittered in the trees, and the songs of the haymakers
floated on the still summer air; but within, in a darkened room, little
Benny to all appearance lay dying. He had reached the border land, and
was standing on the river's brink. On the other side of the stream
was the everlasting home, where his Nelly dwelt, and where hunger and
weariness and pain could never come. Why did he linger, when he wanted
so much to cross and be at rest for ever?
He had no fear, and to the onlookers it seemed easy dying. No sigh or
moan escaped his lips; he lay as still as the dead.
The day waned at length and darkened into night, and Mrs. Fisher and
one of the servants remained up to watch by the little invalid. It was
about midnight when they observed a change come over him. The brow
contracted as if in pain, the wasted fingers plucked at the clothes, and
the breathing became heavy and irregular.
Mrs. Fisher ran to her husband's room and summoned him at once to
Benny's bedside. John Fisher was a kind man, and needed no second
bidding. With gentle hand he wiped away the big drops that were
gathering on the little sufferer's brow; then turning to his wife, he
said,
"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, she
sobbed, "Let me know when it is over, John," and hurried from the room.