Recognition.
"That strain again; it had a dying fall:
Oh, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odour."--_Tempest_.
When our hero reached the bridge that spanned the narrow dell, he paused
for a moment and looked over the low parapet at the deep gully that had
been worn away by the action of the water, and shuddered as he thought
of what would have happened had he failed to grasp the bridle-rein. "I
expect this breakneck place will be remedied now," he said, "that a
couple of lives have come near being lost over it. If the horse had
not been stopped there could not have been the least possible chance of
their escape. Well, well, I'm thankful the affair ended in nothing worse
than a broken arm."
Passing through the lodge gates, he wended his way slowly along the
carriage drive towards the house. High above his head the leafy canopy
swayed gently in the summer breeze, making pleasant music, and here
and there an industrious bee droned dreamily on leaf and flower. From
distant fields the sheep-bells jingled gently, and mingled with the
whistling of a plough-boy riding home his tired team, while from a
neighbouring farmyard the patient cows lowed lazily while waiting to be
milked.
When Benny reached the door of the Munroe mansion, he felt strongly
tempted to turn and go back again; but concluding that such an action
would be exceedingly foolish, he seized the bell-handle, gave it a
vigorous pull, and waited.
"Is Mr. Munroe at home?" he inquired of the servant who opened the door.
"Yes; but he's engaged at present. Will you give me your name?"
"Bates. But never mind, you need not disturb him; another time will do
as well."
"I think the master has been expecting you to call," with a glance at
Benny's arm.
"Very likely. I said I would call some afternoon."
"I'm sure he will see you, then. Come this way, please, into the
library."
Benny followed without a word, and soon found himself surrounded on
every side with books.
"Oh, my!" he said, "I think I should enjoy spending a fortnight here.
I wonder how long it would take me to read all these books, and how
much longer to understand them? Ay, that's the rub--understanding and
remembering what one does read."
Then he ran his eye along shelf after shelf, reading only the titles.
"I expect I should feel like a boy in a sweet-shop, not knowing which
bottle to start with. Ah, Wordsworth!" as his eye caught the name. "I've
heard of him. I wonder what the inside is like?"
He must have found something very interesting, for when Mr. Munroe came
into the room half an hour later, Benny did not notice his entrance.
Mr. Munroe watched him with an amused smile on his face for about five
minutes, then said,
"I'm glad you've found something to take your fancy, Mr. Bates."
Benny started, and blushed to the roots of his hair. In the first place
he thought he was alone, and in the second place it was the first time
that he had ever been addressed as "mister."
"I beg pardon," he stammered out at length. "I did not know you were in
the room."
"Don't mention it. I'm glad to see that you are fond of books; and I'm
glad to see you here."
Benny blushed again, but did not reply.
"I was afraid you were not coming," went on Mr. Munroe; "but how is your
arm?"
"Getting on nicely, thank you; the doctor says it will soon be as right
as ever."
"I'm glad to hear it. It's a mercy we were not every one of us killed;
but I'm having a new bridge built. I've been _going_ to have it done for
the last ten years, but kept putting it off; however, they are going to
start with the job next week."
"I'm very glad to hear it," said Benny. "It's not safe as it is at
present."
"No, no; you're quite right there."
Then there was an awkward pause, and Benny began to feel uncomfortable.
Mr. Munroe was the first to speak.
"I wanted to see you here," he said, "to have a little conversation with
you about--about--yourself," bringing out the last word with a jerk.
Benny did not know what reply to make to this, so he said nothing.
"I understand you have not always lived in the country?" questioned Mr.
Munroe.
"No, sir; I lived in Liverpool till I was twelve or thirteen years of
age."
"And how do you like farming?"
"Very well, I think; but, really, I've scarcely thought about it."
"You are not uncomfortable, then?"
"Oh, no! far from it. Mr. and Mrs. Fisher took me in when I was
houseless, homeless, friendless, and all but dead, and ever since have
treated me with the utmost kindness. I have a better home now than I
ever had before in my life, and as for the work I do, I feel that it's
but poor compensation for the kindness bestowed upon me."
"You have no wish, then, to be anything different to what you are?"
"I did not say so, sir; but as I have no expectation of being other than
what I am, I try to be content."
"Ah, just so; and yet I am told you have paid considerable attention to
intellectual pursuits."
"I have tried to make the most of my opportunities for acquiring
knowledge. I'm fond of books--very; and knowledge I love for its own
sake."
"Well spoken, Mr. Bates. I like to hear a young man talk in that way.
You are a good penman, Mr. Jones tells me."
"He has paid me that compliment before, but I am scarcely a judge."
"You understand bookkeeping?"
"A little."
"Double entry?"
"Yes."
"Quick at accounts?"
"I should think not. I have scarcely had sufficient practice."
"I suppose if you stay on the farm there is no prospect of your rising
to anything higher than a day labourer?"
"Not much, I fear."
"Well, now, Mr. Bates, I may as well out with it first as last. I am
very much pleased with you; I am, indeed. I cannot forget that you saved
my life, and the life of my niece; and I am anxious to help you to
something better than being a farm labourer if you will let me. Almost
any one can do farm work, and I think you are deserving of something
better, because you have educated yourself for it. Now, I shall be
glad to take you into my city office, and give you a start in life. I
commenced as a clerk at the desk, and what I have accomplished there is
no reason why you may not. What do you say, now?"
"I hardly know what to say," said Benny. "I am very much obliged to you
for your kind offer, but I would like to talk with Mr. and Mrs. Fisher
about the matter before I come to a decision."
"You are quite right, Mr. Bates. Let me know this day week; and now let
us go into the drawing-room and see the ladies."
Benny followed Mr. Munroe like one in a dream up a broad flight of
stairs, and into a large and luxuriantly furnished room. Then commenced
the introduction which he had so much dreaded. He bowed to each one in
turn, Mr. Munroe mentioning the name of each person; but Benny never
heard a word he said, and was never quite certain whether he was bowing
to a lady or gentleman. It was over, however, at length, and he sat down
with a feeling of infinite relief, and took up a volume of Milton that
was lying on a table near him. Then Miss Munroe came forward with the
question--
"Are you fond of poetry, Mr. Bates?"
"Yes, very."
"You know Wordsworth, of course?"
"No. I ought to be ashamed to say so, but I do not."
And then followed a conversation about poets and authors of various
kinds, and Benny soon forgot his shyness, and chatted away with as much
freedom as if he had been at Scout Farm.
By-and-bye Eva Lawrence came forward shyly, and with a soft blush
tinging neck and face; and Miss Munroe rose and left her and Benny
together. It was growing dusk by this time, and she sat with her back to
the light, so that Benny could scarcely see her face.
"I am very grateful to you, Mr. Bates," she began in a low voice, "for
your bravery in stopping our horse the other night."
Benny started, for something in the voice reminded him again of other
days, and he did not reply for a moment; and Eva went on--
"Uncle tells me that if you had not stopped the horse, nothing could
have saved us;" and she shuddered slightly.
"I am very thankful, indeed, that I have been permitted to be of service
to you," began Benny.
Then Mrs. Munroe came forward, and the conversation drifted off into
matters in general, for which he was very thankful, and ended in Eva
being requested to sing.
"What are your favourite songs?" asked Mrs. Munroe.
"Well, I hardly know," said Benny, blushing. "I know so very few; but
the simpler they are the better they please me, as a rule."
"Could you mention one or two?"
"Yes; there is one called 'Love at Home,' which I like very much."
"Oh, that's one of your old songs, dear," said Mrs. Munroe, turning to
Eva. "You remember it, don't you?"
"Yes, quite well; but I don't care to sing it, aunt, unless Mr. Bates
very much wishes to hear it."
"I should like to hear it again very much," said Benny; "but don't sing
it if you would rather not."
"I will do my best, anyhow;" and she got up and went to the piano.
"Ring for lights, dear," said Mrs. Munroe, addressing her daughter; "it
is getting quite dark."
"No, no, aunt, please," said Eva; "I know it quite well without the
music, and I think the gloaming is the nicest part of the day;" and she
sat down and began to play over the air; then there was a long pause,
for Eva's thoughts had wandered away elsewhere.
"We are all attention, dear," said Mrs. Munroe.
"Excuse me," said Eva; "but I was thinking of something else. I will
tell you all about it directly, if you care to hear."
Then, clear and sweet, rang out the words,
"There is beauty all around,
When there's love at home."
And Benny felt thankful that the lights had not been brought, for in the
gloom he could hide his emotion. When the song was finished, Eva swung
herself round on the music-stool, and said,
"You will think me very silly, I have no doubt, but I never sing that
old song without thinking of what happened years ago."
"Dear me, how old you talk!" laughed her cousin.
"Well, Dot, I _am_ getting old; but never mind, I was only a little girl
then. Pa and I were returning from Chester, and when we landed from the
railway-boat, a pale hungry-looking lad came up to pa and asked him to
carry his bag. Well, pa had been delayed, and consequently he was in a
hurry, so he said 'No' to the boy in a stern voice, and pushed roughly
past, and I saw the boy turn away and begin to cry; so scarcely thinking
what I was doing, I went to the boy and asked him why he cried, and he
said he was hungry and cold, that he had no father or mother, and that
he had just buried his little sister, and nobody would employ him; so I
gave him a new shilling that pa had given me, and asked him if he was
generally on the landing-stage.
"'Yes,' he said; and his face brightened wonderfully at the sight of the
shilling, and an honest-looking face it was too; 'I'm mostly hereabouts.'
"Well," continued Eva, after a pause, "I thought no more about the lad
for several days, when one afternoon I was in the dining-room alone, and
I began to play and sing 'Love at Home.' When I had finished, I rose to
close the window, and there just outside was the very boy I had given
the shilling to, his eyes full of tears; but when he saw he was noticed
he shrank away, as if ashamed he had been caught listening."
"And so you conceived a romantic attachment to the lad?" chimed in Mr.
Munroe.
"Of course I did, uncle; but to be serious. Teacher had been telling us
that we ought to be little missionaries, etc, and I thought this was a
likely case to experiment on. So I got pa interested, and in the end the
boy was taken into his office, and a better boy pa said he never had. He
was honest, truthful, industrious, and seemed very anxious to learn."
Then there was another pause, and if Benny ever felt thankful for the
darkness, he did then. It was all clear to him now. This, then, was his
little angel, grown into a grand lady! and yet she had not forgotten the
poor street boy. He would like to have spoken, and put an end to further
revelations, but he dared not trust himself to speak. Then Eva went on
again:
"I am come to the most painful part of the story. This boy had been with
pa six months, when one Saturday afternoon he left him in charge of
the office, but he had scarcely got a hundred yards from the door when
he remembered that he had left a bank note on his desk, and instantly
turned back for it. Well, when he got into the office the note was
gone. Nobody had been in the office but the boy, and yet he denied ever
having seen it. Well, pa was quite in a way. He searched everywhere,
but it was not to be found. So the boy was apprehended on suspicion,
and taken to the police-station. I was in a great way too, for it was
through me that pa had employed the boy; still, I could not believe
that he was dishonest. At the trial he was given the benefit of the
doubt and dismissed, and has never been seen or heard of since. But the
strangest part of all is, about a month later pa wanted to look at the
Directory--a book he does not use very often--and the first thing on
which his eye fell as he opened the book was the missing bank-note. He
_was_ in a way when he came home, and we chatted about nothing else all
the evening, for he remembered then very distinctly how he had laid the
note on the open book, and before he went out had shut it up quickly,
and placed it on the shelf. What troubled pa so much was, the boy had
been robbed of his character, for the magistrates had little doubt of
his guilt, though there was no positive evidence; and when a lad's
character is gone his fortune is gone. All inquiries concerning him have
been fruitless. And pa says sometimes that he feels occasionally as if
he had driven the poor boy to destruction. So you see whenever I sing
that song it always brings back to my mind this painful story."
After the story was ended there was silence for a few moments. Benny
would liked to have spoken, but his heart was too full--to think that
the shadow was lifted from his life at last! He wished he could have
been alone for a few moments, that he might out of the fulness of his
heart have thanked God.
"What a pity," said Mrs. Munroe at length, "that the boy could not be
found."
Then Benny got up, and said in a voice tremulous with emotion, "I must
go now, please; but before I go I would like to say that I am the lost
boy."
"You!" they all said in chorus.
"Yes. I cannot say more now." And he sat down again, and hid his face in
his hands.
"How strange!" said Eva; "but I see it all now. I could not think who
you reminded me of; but you have strangely altered."
"Yes, I suppose I have," he said huskily; "and yet, perhaps, not more
than you have."
"How thankful pa will be!" she said, not heeding his last remark. "I
will write and tell him to-morrow."
"Well," said Mr. Munroe, speaking at length, "if this is not the
strangest ending to a story that I ever came across!"
"It's as good as a novel," said Miss Munroe. "I declare it would make a
capital tale."
"And your father is satisfied that I am honest now?" said Benny, going
towards Eva.
"Yes; but I don't think that he ever really believed you were dishonest."
"And you never doubted my honesty?"
"No, never."
That was all that passed between them.
When he had gone Mr. Munroe remarked, "A wonderful young man that; I
never in my life met with a more remarkable case. How the young fellow
has managed to bear up and fight the world as he has is beyond my
comprehension."
"And he has the bearing of a gentleman too," remarked Miss Munroe. "I
expected we were going to be highly amused at his behaviour and his
dialect, and so on; but really he speaks quite correctly."
"He always was a well-behaved boy," remarked Eva; "and during the time
he was in pa's office he told one of the clerks that he was very anxious
to speak correctly."
"He must have worked very hard, however," said Mr. Munroe; "and a lad
with such application, pluck, and determination is sure to get on. I
confess I shall watch his future career with great interest."
"But what surprises me most," said Mrs. Munroe, "is the sterling honesty
that seems always to have characterized him. As a rule, those street
Arabs have the crudest notions of right and wrong."
"He told me once," said Eva, "that he could just remember his mother,
who told him to be honest, and truthful, and good; but his little sister
Nelly, who died just before I met him, seems to have been his safeguard,
and but for her he said he felt certain he should have been a thief."
Meanwhile the subject of this conversation was making his way along the
silent lanes that lay between Brooklands and Scout Farm like one in a
dream. Could it be really true, he mused, that he had seen his angel
face to face, that he had listened again while she sang "Love at Home,"
and that he had heard from her own lips how the lost bank-note had been
found, and how that now no stain rested upon his name? What a wonderful
day it had been! Could it be possible that his long-buried hopes might
be realized at last?
In a lonely part of the road he paused and listened, but no sound broke
the stillness. Above him twinkled the silent stars; around him all
nature lay hushed and still.
"God is here," he said; and lifting up his face to the sky, and clasping
his hands together, he poured out his heart in thanksgiving.
"O God!" he said, "I thank Thee for all things; for the sorrow, and
pain, and loss, for the darkness through which I have wandered, and
for the burdens I have had to bear. Thou hast never forsaken me. Thou
hast always been good. I thank Thee for bringing me here, and for the
discipline of toil. And now that Thou hast lifted off the cloud that so
long has darkened my life, help me to praise Thee, and love Thee more
and more. I want to be good, and noble, and true. Help me, O Father, for
Thy mercy's sake."
Benny slept but little that night. In the long silent hours he lived all
his life over again, and wondered at the mercy of God.