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.
Here, then, we will end our story--a story that contains more truth than
fiction--and hope that the young people who may read it may learn the
lesson we have aimed to teach, and so be helped to the cultivation of
those virtues that will yield them in this world "a hundredfold more,
and in the world to come life everlasting."
THE END.