HOW BEN CARRIED OFF HIS SISTER.
BEN FAIRFAX did not hurry himself on his journey. The weather was fine,
the nights warm, and the country beautiful; and to this beauty poor
reckless Ben was by no means insensible. He was a keenly observant lad,
too, and would stand absorbed for half an hour, watching a flock of
rooks following the plough, and swooping down into the freshly turned
furrow, cawing with such an intelligent sound that it was easy to fancy
that they were speaking.
To many people that long march would have been extremely dull, and
their only thought to get over it as quickly as possible; it was the
old story of "Eyes and no eyes," in fact. Nothing escaped Ben's bright,
observant eyes, no sound eluded his quick ear, and nothing he saw or
heard was forgotten. He knew all about the rooks, for instance—knew
that they never fail to post sentinels who watch while the flock
feeds, knew that they hold meetings occasionally, apparently to talk
over their affairs. He had even witnessed a trial by jury among them,
followed by instant execution of the well-watched and terrified
criminal, who was fallen upon and pecked to pieces in half a minute,
without the least mercy, and with a horrible noise.
Ben had a great respect for the rooks, but they were not the only birds
he knew something of. He could tell at a glance what kind of bird had
built a new-found nest—how many eggs the little hen would probably
lay, and how long she would sit there, patiently warming her children
into life, and looking at him when he peeped at her, with bright,
half-defiant, half-frightened eyes. Many a young thrush or blackbird
had he put back into the nest when the ugly awkward creature had
tumbled out, to the great distress of its affectionate parents.
Nor was he without four-footed friends. In that strip of plantation
of which I have spoken, he had made acquaintance with divers funny,
fluffy little rabbits, and had spent many a pleasant evening hour
watching them washing their faces, and whisking their fat persons round
in that sudden and slightly unaccountable fashion to which rabbits
are addicted. Hares, too—he had watched them at their weird, graceful
play—half a dozen together, scampering, turning, sitting bolt upright
in the most gravely quizzical fashion, or jumping over each other, like
boys playing leap-frog, until, in an unlucky moment, something betrayed
his presence—a misfortune which the least movement occasioned—when
back went all the long, soft ears, and away sped the hares in every
direction, almost too swiftly for his eyes to trace their flight.
It was in that plantation, too, that he met with an adventure which
pleased him very much—more than any one not gifted with a love of
nature can well imagine. One evening he had been standing very quietly
and silently for a considerable time just behind a gap in the hedge
which bounded the plantation. He was listening to the evening song of
the thrush, and watching a few rabbits frisking about, when the rabbits
suddenly fled to their holes with great precipitation; nor did they sit
down just inside the mouth of their dwellings, and look-out cunningly
as was their usual practice, but disappeared utterly.
Ben stood still, wondering what the little things had seen, heard, or
suspected, when behold! In the gap, walking softly and looking very
tired, appeared no less a person than Mr. Reynard, the fox himself. I
do not know what this elderly gentleman had been about. It was not the
hunting season, but perhaps Tearem and a few friends had been having a
little hunt for their own diversion, or perhaps food was hard to get,
or perhaps he had been to visit a friend at a distance. But at all
events, there he was, footsore, spent, and weary, and thinking only of
getting home as fast as he could; though I don't mean to say that he
could not have delayed a moment to pick up a fat rabbit, though his
drooping brush showed that he was very tired.
Ben held his breath to have a good look; never had he met a fox face
to face before. The weary creature raised his head and saw him. Too
much startled to run, he simply stood and stared as hard as Ben stared
at him. This lasted while you might have counted ten; then Reynard,
without removing his gaze, quietly, silently, hardly stirring the
daisies on which he set down his feet, glided through the gap, and—was
gone; and Ben never got a sight of him again.
To one capable of deriving pleasure from such things as these, it was
delightful to linger on this journey, during which he could indulge his
taste to the uttermost. Yet still Ben kept going on; sometimes, indeed,
feeling the greatest reluctance to face his old acquaintances again,
but always, willing or unwilling, going to "see after little Fan."
So he reached London at last, quite sorry that his journey was so
nearly over. From London he went by rail to F—, his native village.
Leaving the railway station, which was a little way out of the village,
Ben walked briskly along the well-known road, which soon was merged
in the small and mean-looking street of the village. Just outside
the village, he saw some one coming towards him, and recognized his
comrade, Sam Hadley, the companion with whom he had ridden that unlucky
race.
"Well," thought Ben, "I fancied the railway folk looked at me queerly,
but Sam can't look down upon me for getting dismissed, for he's not
a bit better himself—not that he looks as if he 'd been dismissed,
somehow. Hulloh, Sam!" he continued aloud, "here you are; how goes the
world with you, Sam? Has Mr. — taken you on again? Somehow you look as
if he had."
"Yes, he has," Sam replied, curtly. He did not seem delighted to see
his old friend by any means. "And where have you been, Ben?"
"Oh, I've been taking a walking tour for the good of my health," said
Ben, carelessly. "Well, I wonder at Mr. —. When he wouldn't take me
back, I wonder he took you; for, no offence to you, Sam, I'm a better
groom than you."
"But you see, I belong to respectable people," said Sam, primly.
"You be civil, young fellow, or maybe you'll find that I have not
forgotten how to give you a licking. I wonder would the master take me
back?"
"Well, I don't know, Ben. You see, your horse was killed, and mine was
none the worse after a day or two; and the other fellows told him 'twas
you led me into it. And now there's this about your father."
Sam spoke in a much milder voice since that remark about the "licking,"
and seemed to choose his words carefully.
"What about my father?" asked Ben.
"Why, bless me, Ben! Han't you heard on it? Your father's in trouble,
Ben. They've suspected this long time that he was mixed up with the
poachers on Lord —'s place, but some weeks ago he was ketched. 'Twas
in the middle of the night, he and Simon Pettitt and Long Joe, the man
that we knew up at the stables, was ketched with a kivered cart full of
game, going up to London; and they're all in jail, committed for trial.
And what's more, Ben," continued Sam, looking round nervously, and
drawing a little nearer to his companion, "I believe the police are on
the look-out for you, thinking as you may know summat of it."
"Well, they're wrong then. I never knew anything about such doings."
This was true enough; for though Ben had long felt convinced that
his father had some means of making money of which he said nothing,
care had been taken that he should know nothing positively. Fairfax
had often hinted that some day he would admit his son to a valuable
secret, but that he was too idle, and too fond of talking as yet, to be
depended on.
"Tell that to the marines, Ben," remarked Sam, jocosely. "A sharp chap
like you not know what his own father was up to!"
"Well, I didn't, I tell you. But if they nabbed him in the act, with
the cart and all, what do they want of me?"
"Why, you see, your father swears he knew nothing of what was in the
cart, and was only taking a walk in consequence of having had words
with his missus—and as he surely had words, and more than words, with
her that night, poor woman—and Simon and Joe won't split on him; you
see, they want more evidence badly."
"They'll get none from me, anyhow. Let them ask Mrs. Fairfax; if
there's any mischief going, she's sure to have a hand in it."
"Why, Ben! Surely you know—Laws, Ben, here's a policeman. You'd best be
getting on."
And Sam hurried away, not anxious to be seen in conversation with poor
Ben, under the circumstances.
Ben jumped over the hedge at the side of the road, ran along the
field he had thus entered, and made his way to the cottage where his
father lived by various short cuts best known to himself. As he ran,
he thought to himself that it would never do for him to be taken by
the police, for many reasons. First, how account for his long absence,
without running the risk of being brought to book for his dishonesty
at the Lee farm? And secondly, if Mrs. Fairfax also was in jail (as
he fancied Sam had been about to tell him), what would become of poor
little Fan?
At last he stood in the street, close to his father's house. The
shutters were closed, but the door was a little open; and, in spite of
many fears that a policeman might lurk inside, Ben ran quickly past the
door of the next house, not caring to ask news even of good-natured
Mrs. Simmonds, and entered the kitchen of his old home.
There was no one there, no fire on the hearth, and the room was
partially darkened. Ben stood, and looked round, and listened. The
furniture was all in its place, but it was dusty and unused; the ugly
baby's cradle lay upset in a corner. There was an inner room which
looked to the back of the house; the door was shut, but Ben presently
fancied that he heard some one crying softly in the room. He opened the
door and looked in. There were the beds, just as usual, but at first he
thought there was no one there. Then he heard that feeble moan again,
and surely the voice was little Fan's.
"Fan!" he cried, softly. "Little Fan—are you here?"
Something in one of the beds moved, and then a white, white face
appeared, with great, big, scared-looking eyes, and short hair sticking
out straight from the poor head, which "wobbled from side to side,"
as Ben afterwards described it, as if it were much too heavy for the
feeble neck. But when the eyes lighted upon him, such a flash of
gladness brightened them; such a relieved, comforted smile parted the
pale lips, that the face was transformed even before the ghost of Fan's
voice murmured, hoarsely—
"Why, it's our Ben! And so I'm safe."
Ben went over to her. Her poor, thin arms—Fan had never been what you
could call fat, but now a skeleton was what she most resembled—were
soon clasped round his neck, and her cold lips pressed to his. And
he felt, somehow, so big and strong and rough, in contrast with her
feebleness, that he was almost ashamed of himself.
"You've been ill, Fan darling, and I not here to nurse you."
"Oh, so ill, Ben dear! We've all been ill, and—oh, Ben, go away—I
oughtn't for to touch you. The doctor says it's 'fectious, and I've had
it very bad. Oh, go away, Ben! And when I'm well (if I ever get well),
come and see me in the workhouse."
"In the workhouse! You shan't go to the workhouse, Fan. I'm sure you
don't want to go?"
"Want to go! Why, Ben, I'm near dead with fretting! But they said I
must go, for that I'd starve here by myself. But when I thought they'd
take me to the house, and keep me locked up, so as I'd never see you
again, Ben, I thought I'd die on the spot. And I didn't want to die
before I'd said good-bye to you, Ben. But now I've seen you—and you'll
know where I am—and oh, Ben! Do go away, dear!"
"Not a step, Fan. Fever or no fever, I don't leave you. But where's all
the others, Fan?"
"Why, don't you know? Poor father's took away to prison, and mother—Oh,
Ben, I thought you'd have heard that! She's dead. She died of this
fever, and the baby, too—poor little Tommy!"
Ben was shocked—too much shocked even to think that the baby, at least,
was a good riddance.
"Dead!" he repeated. "Why, Fan, how could I know it? It's an awful
thing—and I've been away in the country, miles and miles away. I only
came back this very day, to see after you."
"To see after me," the child said with a happy smile. "You're always
so good to me, Ben. And maybe, if you really won't go away, maybe they
won't take me to the poorhouse. You'll see after me till I die or get
better. The doctor says I'm over the fever, but that very like I may
die of the weakness. But now that you are here, I don't think I shall."
"To be sure you won't, child. I'll take care of you, and no one shall
take you from me. Who was going to take you, dear?"
"The police. You know they took father, and Simon Pettitt, and Joe
Harris, and they came next day for mother, but she was ill, and then it
turned into the fever (for at first, Ben, it was only a thump father
gave her), and they said, after she died, that they'd take me to the
poorhouse as soon as I could be moved."
"And who has taken care of you, Fan?"
"Mrs. Simmonds. She's so kind to me! She comes in constant, though
Jack Simmonds had the fever, and little Billy's in it still. Every
one's been having it. Mrs. Simmonds never forgets me. She's like the
righteous, Ben, 'you' know—'I was sick, and ye visited me.'"
Suddenly the eager voice broke out with a cry—
"Oh, Ben Oh, Ben!"
"What's the matter, Fan dear?"
"It's just the weakness. Oh, dear! I think, Ben—I'm going—this time. I
ain't afraid. 'He' died—and I've seen you again—Ben, dear."
And Fan closed her eyes and fainted dead away. Whereon Ben, big,
stout-hearted fellow as he was, lost his presence of mind so completely
that he raised a roar of mingled grief and fright, which soon brought a
very untidy but kind-looking young woman running in through the empty
kitchen with all speed.
"'Sakes, Fan!" exclaimed the new comer, "How could you, that's weaker
than any new born baby, rise such a—Laws! It's Ben come back. And she's
fainted with joy! Don't be scared, Ben; she's been like this more than
once, and I'll bring her to in a moment. It was just too much for her,
seeing you. Your name is never off her tongue."
Mrs. Simmonds soon made good her words, and Fan opened her eyes again,
and smiled feebly when she saw her brother.
"There, now she'll be all right again. And I've made a cup of tea and a
bit of toast for her, and now I'll run back to my own place for it, and
feed her. And don't you let her talk much, Ben, for indeed she's too
weak for it, and I can answer all your questions while she has her tea."
And away she ran.
"I shouldn't have let you talk, you see," said Ben, "but I'm in such
a maze, Fan, that I don't know what I'm doing, nor where I am. Here's
Mrs. Simmonds again. Well now, Mrs. Simmonds, you're something like a
neighbour; and if ever I get the chance, I'll remember this cup of tea
to you."
"'He' will, anyhow," Fan murmured, half to herself. "Even if 'twas only
a cup of cold water, instead of lovely tea. 'He' don't forget anything."
"Ain't she a queer child?" said Mrs. Simmonds confidentially, to Ben.
"No, I ain't a queer child," said Fan, half fretfully. "There's nothing
queer about it. And I'm glad He never forgets," they heard her mutter
sleepily, "for most likely I shall never be able to do anything for
her."
"Who is it she's talking of?" said the woman in a whisper.
"Blest if I know," Ben answered carelessly. This was not strictly true,
for it was not the first time he had heard Fan talk thus.
"The little creature! She's dropping off into a doze. So much the
better, poor lamb! I'll draw the blanket over her—there. She's stronger
to-day than I've seen her yet, but I'm afraid it will go hard with her
when they take her away."
"But they need not take her now, Mrs. Simmonds. Look here, ma'am;
you've been so kind to her that I'm sure you'd take a little trouble
for her sake. I'll tell you fair and true how the matter stands. I
could care for Fan right well, for I'm as good a shoemaker as father,
and a good hand about horses too; and I'd work hard and keep her better
and make her happier than she ever was in her life, if I could only see
my way out of this hobble. They would never take her to the house if
they knew all this, but there, you see, I can't stay and tell them so.
It seems they think I could give evidence against father—and besides,
I've reasons of my own for not wanting to have words with them."
"And what do you think I could do, Ben?"
"If you'd tell them that you'll keep Fan, and just take her home with
you until I can venture back here. I'll work hard, ma'am, and pay you
for her keep."
"Are you sure she's sound asleep, Ben? Ah yes, she is, poor little
thing! But watch that she does not wake up and hear us, for she only
dozes for a minute or so, mostly. And I've kept the truth from hers
because she's such a soft, tender, little thing, that I'm afraid it
would really harm her to know. I don't know that it is to the workhouse
they'll take her, Ben, though I've told her so. You see, they know that
she can prove that those two men have been in the habit of coming here
and bringing game with them, and packing it here. They say she's seen
it often, but if she did, not a word did she ever say about it; unless,
mayhap, she told you," she added inquiringly.
"She never did. I didn't know anything, whatever I may have suspected.
Fan's a strange child! Little as she owes to father or Mrs. Fairfax in
the way of kindness, she 'd obey them as strict as strict. If they said
'Don't tell,' tell she never would."
"I'm afraid they'll never believe that you didn't know about it, Ben.
And they are to come for Fan to-night."
"To-night! Well, what am I to do?" cried poor Ben, distractedly.
"I'm sure I don't know. They left her in my care, because the poor
thing fainted when they tried to move her, but they said they'd bring
a stretcher to-night when it is dark, and take her away. They want to
keep her under their own eyes, until she's given evidence against her
father. It is a hard-like thing, too; to make an innocent child like
that help to hang her own father; ain't it, now?"
Ben was about to explain to Mrs. Simmonds that to the best of his
belief, poaching is not a capital offence, but he had only time to say,
"It won't be so bad—" when a scream from poor Fan made them turn to
look at her.
There she was, sitting up in the bed, holding out her poor, thin arms
to Ben, and crying wildly—
"Oh, take me away, Ben! Hide me! Don't let the police get me. Oh, I
didn't think people could be so cruel! I didn't know 'twas wrong to
catch birds and hares. And to think that they'd get me to tell about
it, and then hang father for doing it. And I did see them, Ben. I
couldn't say I didn't. And oh, poor father! What would become of him if
they hanged him?"
In spite of the poor child's terror and agony, Ben laughed aloud at
this question. It seemed to him very easy to imagine what would become
of his father in that case.
"They won't hang him, Fan, never you fear. It's not a hanging matter."
"It is, though," said Mrs. Simmonds, emphatically. "My husband's
mother's grandfather was hung for poaching. There now, that's as true
as that you're standing there. Many a time I've heard her tell the
story, as her father told it to her, and he could remember being taken
to the jail to bid him good-bye."
This terrible piece of family history somewhat alarmed even Ben; and as
to Fan, she looked quite wild, and cried out again—
"Oh, what will become of poor father if they hang him?"
"Why, child, if they hang him, he'll be dead; and that's all about it."
"And afterwards?" cried Fan, wringing her hands like one distracted.
"Oh, Ben, where would he go? Poor father, you know he is not—Oh, Ben,
you were always good to me. Help me to put on my clothes, and take me
away and hide me; for if they make me tell about father, I don't think
I could live any more. Dear, dear, good Bennie, do hide me from them."
"I declare, hang or no hang, Fan's about right," said Mrs. Simmonds.
"If you two were safe out of the way, Ben, they would, maybe, never be
able to prove anything against your father. And my advice to you is to
wrap her up well and carry her off as soon as it gets a little darker,
but don't wait too long, or the police may come before you're off. And
I'm not to know a word of it, mind you! My man would be very angry with
me. I'll be struck all of a heap when I miss Fan, and I know nothing
of her since I gave her some tea, and saw her fall asleep after taking
it. I'll go home and begin my mangling; it's little I'll hear of your
doings with the old mangle screeching and groaning in my ears, even if
you rise a howl like the one that brought me in."
"Right you are, Mrs. Simmonds. Only I don't know where to take her. To
London, I suppose. No one could track us there."
"Only mind the railway people don't remark you."
"I won't get in here; I'll carry her to —" (another station, a little
further from London). "But with the child to carry about, I really
don't know where to go. It won't be easy to find a lodging."
"I can help you in that," Mrs. Simmonds replied. "I'll give you the
address of an old woman who lived over in the part of the country I
come from myself. And when I was a girl looking for a situation, I used
to stay with her. She's honest, but she's very cross. And don't you say
anything about the fever, or she'll be afraid to take you in."
"All right. You get me the address. I'll never forget your kindness,
Mrs. Simmonds, you see if I do."
Mrs. Simmonds ran off to her own cottage, and soon returned with a
somewhat dirty scrap of paper in her hand.
"Here it is, Ben; and if you take my advice, you'd call yourself by
some other name for a time. Take care of the little one—and now I'm
off, and know no more about you."
She vanished again, and was soon heard next door, turning her heavy old
mangle with tremendous energy.
Poor Fan had scarcely heard all this talk, which was well for her peace
of mind, as the duplicity would have shocked her greatly. Terror and
weakness, however, had rendered her quite passive.
Ben dressed her as well as he could, and made up a bundle of clothes
for her, as much as he thought he could carry. Then he waited nervously
until it was tolerably dark, when he wrapped her closely in a big
brown shawl which had belonged to the poor dead woman, lifted her in
his arms, and carried her into the outer room. Here he set her down
on a chair while he peeped out, and looked up and down the street. No
policeman, nor, indeed, any other person, was to be seen, so he took
Fan up again and set off at a trot.
The shock of the fresh air was too much for poor Fan, who at once
fainted away, but Ben did not find this out until he was nearly a mile
out of the village. Having seen her in that state before, he was not so
much frightened, and soon managed to get some water and bathe her hands
and face, having laid her down on the grass by the road's side.
He then took her up and went on again. His first object was to reach
a small railway station, where he was not known. It was a fine night,
and he was strong, and Fan very light, so in due time they reached the
station, and took their places in a third-class carriage of the next
train for London.
[Illustration HE TOOK FAN UP AGAIN AND SET OFF AT A TROT.]
Ben was very tired before he found the street and the house to which
Mrs. Simmonds had directed him, but he did find them at last. The old
woman had one single attic unoccupied, which Ben engaged for a week;
and very glad was he to lay his burthen down on the bed. Fan did not
seem the worse for her journey; and having been fed with some bread and
milk, she fell fast asleep.
Then he went downstairs and had a little conversation with his
landlady—a very cross-looking old lady she was, too. He informed her
that his sister had been "like that" for many months—a kind of decline,
the doctors called it; and he didn't think she 'd trouble him long.
Poor Ben! It was a pity that he should try to make himself appear worse
than he was, for really he was bad enough. But it was not true that Fan
was a burden of which he longed to be rid. On the contrary, her death
would have nearly broken his heart. Besides this tale concerning Fan,
he, having a fine turn for fiction, gave her a flowing account of his
reasons for coming to London, in which there was not one word of truth
from beginning to end.
Ben was very anxious to find work by which he might provide for himself
and Fan. His small store of money was running out faster than was
pleasant, and something must be done to get more. He could not depend
on what he might "pick up," now that Fan was dependent on him, even if
he had not felt very sure that she would not altogether like his method
of "picking up" things. He made up his mind to remain where he was
until she was stronger, doing odd jobs (his landlady put him in the way
of several), and then, if nothing better had turned up, he would set
forth on another "walking tour," never doubting that in the country he
would always find employment.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]