WANDERINGS.
BEN'S plans for remaining in London were all brought to nothing by half
a dozen words from a policeman. And the best of the thing was, that the
policeman knew nothing of Ben and was by no means thinking of him when
he spoke. He was looking idly down into the area window of a house he
was passing, just as Ben came by on his way home after a good day's
work, unloading a waggon at a shop door. Something the man saw in the
kitchen he was peeping into, made him raise his head and exclaim aloud,
looking apparently at Ben, "I'm blessed if that ain't—"
What, Ben did not want to hear, for, feeling certain that the next
words would be "Ben Fairfax, the poacher's son," he took to his heels
and ran.
The policeman looked after him with a curious grin.
"That fellow thought I knew him!" said he.
Ben did not venture to go home for some hours, and he made up his mind
that, if possible, Fan and he must get away soon. He was very late, of
course, when he returned to his lodgings, and there a very unpleasant
surprise awaited him. When his usual hour for coming home passed, old
Mrs. Harris, with more good nature than her appearance promised, went
upstairs to see the sick child; and having asked Fan if she wanted
anything, and Fan having said "no thank you, ma'am," she remarked—
"You're not hungry, eh? Some is, and some ain't. I've know 'd them
as was in a decline that you couldn't keep them in food. They 'd eat
all day, and all night too, if they could get it. And then I've known
others as was like you, child—didn't care if they never saw bit nor sup
at all. It's queer the differences there is in decline."
"But I'm not in a decline, ma'am," said innocent Fan. "I had a fever
that lots of people had where we lived, and mother and baby died of it.
But I'm getting on nicely now, thank you, ma'am."
Whereupon the old woman flew into such a passion that she very
nearly frightened Fan into a fit. She used very strong language, and
threatened to "throw her out into the street that moment!"
Fan clasped her hands and said her prayers half aloud, in the extremity
of her terror. But Mrs. Harris did not touch her, and presently went
downstairs, grumbling and muttering. But she kept a bright look-out for
unlucky Ben. And he, running in, hungry, tired, and frightened, was
surprised and disgusted by a salute from a pail of dirty soap suds,
thrown over him by his hitherto obliging landlady.
"Hulloh, missus what's this for?" cried he.
"You young rogue! Coming here telling me a pack of lies. Decline,
indeed! 'I'll' decline you. Nice decline she has!"
The old woman hissed out her words in a kind of half whisper, half cry;
she did not care to call the attention of her other lodgers to the
dispute, lest they should take fright, and leave her house.
"If it wasn't that I pity that poor child upstairs, I'd have given you
a tidy warming, young man," she went on. "I'd have got them to help me
as would teach you to tell lies—" (Ben might have assured her that this
was quite unnecessary, but the impudence was washed out of him for the
moment)—"bringing the like of that into my house. But I won't hurt you,
for she has no one else to look to—only out you go. This moment, now.
Go upstairs and fetch the child and march out, or I'll raise the house
on you—I will! And just wait till I catch Nancy Simmonds—sending you
here."
Ben was tired, hungry and somewhat frightened, not by any means as good
a match for his enemy as he would generally have been. He tried to
deprecate her wrath, but she wouldn't be deprecated. He tried to bully
her, but she had the best of him at that game. Lastly, he tried to coax
her into letting him stay in the house until morning, but she would not
hear of it.
"But, ma'am, I really don't know where to take poor Fan. So late at
night, too!"
"Just take her to wherever you brought her from, and don't go spreading
fever where people have enough to bear without it. But wherever you go,
get out of my house this moment, or I declare I'll call a policeman and
tell him the trick you've played me."
This threat decided the matter; Ben flew upstairs in haste. The old
woman, whose bark was worse than her bite, cooled down a little when
she found that she had routed the enemy; and she even listened for his
step on the stairs, meaning to allow him to remain until morning. But
she never heard him go, and when at last she went up to have a further
parley with him, she found the room empty. In the hurry of departure
Ben had forgotten to pay his rent.
Ben, flying upstairs with the soapy water dripping from his garments,
rushed into the miserable attic where he had left his sister, and found
the poor child in a terrible state, between terror of the old woman and
fright at his long absence. She had contrived to dress herself, though
still weak, and had her poor little hat ready in her hand as she lay
trembling and quaking on the bed.
"Oh, is that you, Bennie, darling? Oh, Ben, what kept you? I've been
so frightened, dear. The woman called me such dreadful wicked names,
and said she 'd put me out of the house. I dressed myself for fear
she would really do it. But you're all wet, Ben. I feel water on your
jacket. Is it raining?"
"No, dear, no; but that old beast threw a lot of dirty water over me.
How did she find out that it was fever you had, Fan?"
"Why, I told her. She thought I was in a decline."
"Well, you are a little donkey," Ben said, half laughing. "I ought to
have warned you to hold your tongue. Never mind, though; we must be
off out of this. But we must have gone soon at all events, for I met a
policeman to-day that seemed to know me—that's what kept me so late. I
would much rather have you in the country, too. See now, I'll wrap the
big shawl round you, and carry you as safe as anything."
"And where are we going, Ben?"
"Blessed if I know," answered Ben. "But she won't even let us stay
until morning! I say, Fan, is there any bread left? For I'm awful
hungry."
Fan gave him a piece of bread, and he quickly devoured it, while she
fumbled about in the dark, getting their few possessions together.
"There's some milk in the tin cup, Ben. I left some for you."
"Thank you, little one. And the cup's a handy one; I'll put it in the
bundle."
"But it belongs to the old woman, Ben, dear," objected Fan.
"Oh, she gave it to me for a keepsake," Ben answered, with a laugh.
"Then she was not so very angry? I'm glad of that."
"She was angry enough. Now, are you ready? Are you well covered up? You
carry the bundle, and I'll carry you: that's the way we'll divide the
work between us."
Fan's soft little laugh at this joke, and her arms clinging round his
neck, made the big, rough boy feel inclined to cry, he did not in the
least know why.
"Now, hold your tongue and don't let her hear us, or perhaps she'll
send another pail of water after us. I'll carry my shoes till we are
out of the house."
So down he crept, silently, and they were soon in the street.
"Nicely sold Mrs. Harris will feel when she goes up to drive us out,"
chuckled Ben, as he pulled on his shoes, having set Fan down for that
purpose.
"Look, Ben, I can walk quite well now."
"Well done, Fan. You're a long sight better than when I saw you first.
Why, you couldn't keep your head from wobbling about that evening; and
here you're walking like a grenadier."
But Fan would have made a poor grenadier, I am afraid; and very soon
Ben took her up again. Tired and anxious, he soon began to feel very
weary. Fan was considerably heavier than when he had carried her off
from F—. Besides, he had no object in view, and was beginning to wonder
what he had better do. In order to think this over more at his ease,
he looked out for a deep doorway, and into this shelter they both
crept, and made themselves as comfortable as they could. Fan was warm
and snug, wrapped in the woolly shawl, but Ben's damp clothes made him
very chilly, and in spite of the piece of bread, he was still hungry.
Perhaps these unpleasant sensations recalled the warmth and plenty of
good Mrs. Heath's house, for he sighed and said—
"If I could only go back to the Lee farm, what a good thing it would
be."
"That's where you were working, and where you saw the birds and
rabbits? Oh, Bennie dear, let's go there. I'm sure I could walk most of
the way now; and it must be such a nice place."
"I couldn't go there, Fan; more's the pity."
"Why not? They were good to you, weren't they?"
"They were," said Ben, slowly. "But I made a mistake or two the night I
came away. I can't go back, so say no more about it. I was a fool for
my pains."
Ben's will was law to his little sister, so she asked no questions.
"But, Ben," she said after a time, "isn't there other places out in the
country besides F— and the Lee farm? If we went quite a different way,
the police would maybe never find us at all. I think it would be a real
good thing if we went away into quite a strange, new place."
"I think so, too. But the question is, how to you get there; for as to
your walking, my dear, you wouldn't do many miles in the day just yet.
Once we were in the country, we might get on, because we needn't hurry.
We could rest when we liked."
"Can't we go in the railway, Ben?"
"Well, yes; but, you see, it costs a lot of money. Let me think a bit,
Fan."
Fan was silent, and amused herself by looking up into the tiny patch of
blue-black sky over her head, and at the one bright little star which
seemed to be winking at her.
Presently Ben said—
"I have it, Fan! I know how we'll manage. I was helping all day to
unload a big waggon that came in with pears, and apples, and nuts, from
the country, to a shop not very far away from this; and the man told
me he meant to set off for home again to-night. And he came from the
direction we had better take; he seemed a good-natured fellow, and I
daresay he 'd give us a lift out into the country. Should you be afraid
to be left alone while I look for him? He's brother to the man that
owns the shop, so he's sure to be there to the last moment."
"No," said Fan, "I shan't be alone, you know. He'll mind me, for He's
my Shepherd and I'm His lamb, you know. Miss Alice taught us all that.
Why, Ben, He didn't let the poor cross old woman hurt to-day! I was
'so' frightened for a moment, but then I remembered Him, and I knew
'twas all right."
"Ah, well; no one will meddle with you if you keep far back—no one
could see you, in fact. You're a queer child, Fan! See now; I'll tuck
the shawl round you—so; and lay your head on the bundle, like that.
There; get a nap if you can. I shan't be very long away."
Fan lay quite quiet. Once a policeman passed by, but he did not see
her; and she laughed gleefully when he was out of hearing. Many a child
in a pretty, comfortable nursery, tucked up snugly in a warm bed, did
not feel as peaceful and secure that night as did little Fan, lying on
a doorstep, all alone. Yet not alone! Because Fan knew and loved One,
about whom many children never think, because they cannot see Him.
But Fan, poor ignorant child that she was in many ways, having never
been allowed to attend school regularly, had been happy in one thing:
her parents were rather glad to have her out of their way on Sunday
mornings, and she had, therefore, gone to Sunday school regularly
enough. Her teacher, the "Miss Alice" of whom she sometimes spoke,
had a wonderful gift for telling great truths in simple language: her
Bible stories were always listened to with earnest attention; and the
verses she taught the children in connection with the stories were not
easily forgotten. Thus Fan knew many verses perfectly, though she could
scarcely read, and could not write at all. Fortunately for her, her
small size caused her to be reckoned younger than she really was, and
so she had been left in her dear Miss Alice's class longer than she
would otherwise have been.
Many a box on the ear had the child got at home, for talking of things
learned from Miss Alice, or for singing a hymn to quiet the baby: and
Mrs. Fairfax often declared that Fan was "only half-witted." A few
weeks before her illness, Miss Alice had given her a present which she
valued highly—a small New Testament. This precious book, which she
could hardly read, unless when, as she said herself, "she happened on
one of Miss Alice's verses," was in the pocket of her frock, safe and
tidy, wrapped up in a piece of paper. It was the only thing in the
world that Fan called her own.
Ben, returning after some time, found his small sister fast asleep,
and, stooping over her, touched her gently on the cheek and said—
"Wake up, Fan; I've found the man, and he will give us a lift. A great
waggon with two horses! You'll travel like a queen—and he'll take us
fifty miles into the country if we like to go so far."
"Fifty miles!" cried Fan, with sleepy admiration. "Why, shan't we be at
the end of the land before that?"
"Yes; and then we'll swim a bit," said Ben, laughing. "Rouse up, child!
You're just like a young bird in the nest, always nodding its head, and
going off asleep the moment it leaves off being fed. Now, mind, Fan,
not a word of the fever to this man; for he 'd turn us out as fast as
ever Mrs. Harris did."
"Would he, Ben? But why?"
"Why? For fear he 'd take it, of course. So, mind now—not a word.
And don't forget this either, Fan. We'll call ourselves some other
name—Robson will do; it's better not to say Fairfax, because of father."
Fan was silent, considering within herself whether this double
deception were right or not, but surely Ben must know better than
she could. She meant to ask him, but before she had quite shaped
her question to her liking, they had met the great waggon, and Ben
was putting her in. There was a glorious heap of clean straw in the
waggon, and it was so comfortable under the awning, and in spite of the
jolting, Fan was soon fast asleep.
Before she woke again, the sun had risen and they were out of London,
to her great delight. London was so black, so noisy, and so ugly! The
big good-natured driver laughed kindly to see her so happy, and lifted
the awning in front that she might look about at her ease.
"Oh, Ben dear! It is so 'lovely' green, and pretty, and sweet. And
the bigness of it, after that little room, you know. And oh! I see a
flower, a yellow flower, over there. Don't you see it, Ben—and 'would'
you get it for me? Since I had—since I was sick, I have not seen a
flower. It won't be stealing, will it? For you see it is inside the
hedge."
At this Ben and John Ellicott, the driver, laughed until their eyes
were full of tears. Ellicott stopped the waggon, and gathered the
flower (a big dandelion). He brought it to Fan, as she sat peeping out
of the waggon, and brought her also a blue flower, and a straggling
spray of late flowering woodbine.
"That's a dandelion, that is," said he, evidently fancying that she had
never seen one before. "Main good for a pain in the side, my old mother
du say—they're plenty down tu Devonshire, though yew seem to prize her
so. And that's the 'devil in a bush,' child, but though her has a ugly
name, her 's a pretty flower, and in colour somewhat like your own
eyes. And smell to this, little 'un; there's sweetness tu ye."
"Oh, thank you, sir! It does seem so long since I saw flowers. Miss
Alice used to give me a rose sometimes, but—"
Suddenly a bird—a linnet, I think it was—began to sing clear and sweet
in the hedge close by. Fan turned quite pale—listened in a kind of dumb
ecstasy, and when the song ceased, she burst into tears. And she was
still so weak, poor child, that having begun to cry, she could by no
means leave off, and Ben had to lay her down again in her cozy bed, and
let her cry herself to sleep.
The next time she awoke, the waggon was standing still, while the
horses ate a feed of oats out of their nosebags; and Ben was at her
side with a plate of bread and butter, and a huge mug of milk—such milk
as Fan had never tasted before, so rich and yellow was it.
"Here's the stuff for you, Fan! Here's what would soon put a little
flesh on your poor little bones, and set you growing. Milk, Fan—here,
drink some."
"Milk! And such milk! Well, I never saw milk like that, Ben. Don't you
think there's eggs in it?"
"You never got any but skim milk, you see, but I told the people here
that you were poorly, and they gave me this fresh from the cow. Taste
it now—you won't be able to leave off once you begin, it's so good."
"Have you had plenty, Ben?"
"Oh, I've had my breakfast—bacon and eggs."
Thus assured that she might safely drink the milk, Fan tasted it,
stared into the mug, and tasted again. It was very nice, but to the
last, she kept a look-out for egg-shells!
While she was eating her breakfast, her little tongue wagged freely.
The boys about F— would have told you that Ben Fairfax was "a roughish
customer," but he could never have been rough to Fan, for though a
timid child, she had no dread of him, but prattled away happily.
"And while I was going asleep, Ben, that time you left me, I kept
wondering and wondering why the stars wink and tremble so. But I think
I see why, now. It's blowing up there, very like, and there's no
glasses over the stars, as there is over the gas lamps. One gas lamp
we passed had a broken glass, and it was winking and shaking very much
like the stars. It's a wonderful thing the stars don't get blown out!
They would, I suppose, only God watches them. He knows them all and
calls them by their names, and knows where they ought to be."
Ben laughed incredulously.
"That's a likely notion, Fan. Why, there's hundreds and hundreds of
stars, and some of them no bigger than a pin's head; and as to names,
and counting them over, no one could do that, child."
This was Ben's objection, you see, to a revealed truth; and I don't
know that it was more silly than a good many other objections that I
have heard.
"He can do it, for the Bible says so. 'He knoweth the number of the
stars, and calleth them all by their names.' That's a verse in the
Bible, Ben. Miss Alice taught us that. Oh, Ben, that little bird—Miss
Alice has a little pet bird, and one day it sang, when I was at the
rectory with a message—and it sang just like that; and I wonder, shall
I ever see Miss Alice again? Wasn't it good of God to make birds and
flowers for us?"
"We'll see prettier flowers than those by-and-by," said Ben, pointing
to the blue scabious and the dandelion; the woodbine had fallen to
pieces, unfortunately.
"But these are pretty too. I'm sure I could walk now, Ben. I have not
felt so strong since I was ill."
"But you are very snug here, in the waggon. Why do you want to leave
it?"
"It is very nice, but I want to ask you—Bennie darling, you won't be
vexed with me? Don't you think it's very near telling a lie not telling
the man that it was the fever had?"
"Lie or no lie, it must not be told. He 'd just bundle us out neck
and crop. Mrs. Harris would never have let us in only I told her it
was decline that ailed you, and you went and let out the truth, you
little donkey. There, don't fret, dear; it did not really matter much,
because, as I told you before, I met a policeman that seemed to know
me, and so we must have left London soon. Why, what are you crying for,
child?"
Poor Fan! She was indeed crying bitterly. Never, in all her short and
somewhat sad life, had her tender heart been so sore as now. Her father
and mother told lies, and did many other things that were not right,
but Ben had been so little at home that he had not been tempted to say
or do anything in her presence which would have betrayed to her his
true character. Loving him as she did, and always finding him kind and
affectionate, the poor child had believed him to be nearly as good as
Miss Alice herself, and this was, therefore, a terrible blow to her.
"Stop crying, Fan! Don't fret, dear," said Ben, kissing her.
"Oh, Ben dear! Don't you know you must not tell lies? Oh, whatever
shall I do, my own darling good Bennie? I'm so sorry for you."
"Don't be a little fool," he answered, kissing her again. "'You' shan't
need to tell any; I'll say all that's wanted, and you need only hold
your tongue."
"But—but it hurts me that you should do it, Ben. Wait a moment, and
I'll tell you why."
She thought for a moment, knitting her brows with the effort to
remember something.
"It is a hard verse, and I forget part; it's about the New
Jerusalem—that's heaven, you know. Now listen."
She did not remember the words very correctly, and Ben listened with
a half smile, as she stumbled through them; but the last verse she
knew very well, and it came out clear and distinct, making him start
slightly.
"'Neither whatsoever worketh abomination, or maketh a lie.' So you see,
Ben dear, we must not tell lies, or the gates of pearl will be shut,
and never let us in at all."
What Ben might have said, I do not know, for at that moment John
Ellicott lifted the awning close to where Fan sat, and said, gruffly—
"I'm going to start now so give back those cups and plates."
Out jumped Ben, returned the articles in question, paid for the
breakfast, and helped to put the horses to. Very soon they were jogging
along the road again, but the pleasure of the drive was over for poor
Fan.
For about four miles they went at a steady pace, Ellicott keeping by
his horses' heads, and saying never a word. But at last they came to
a cross-road. Here he stopped the waggon, and addressed Ben, who was
sitting in front with Fan on his knee.
"Now, yu young fellow," he said, quietly, "get ye out o' thot. I was
alongside of ye this morning longer than ye thought for, and I know
that it was fever the child had, and that you're hiding from the
police. P'raps I did ought to give yu up to the police, for it's my
belief you're a bad sort, but I can't do it, 'cause of the innocent
child there. You see yon road? I'm going straight on, and you take that
road, and don't cross my path no more, or I'll make you wish you had
kept out of it, with your tricks and your lies. There's your bundle:
good-bye, child, and I wish yu a better caretaker nor he."
"There couldn't be a better," Fan exclaimed, with tearful emphasis.
"He's so good to me, sir, you don't know."
Not a word did poor Ben say. His face was crimson, and he could not
look his accuser in the face, as he jumped out of the waggon, and set
off along the road pointed out to him, with Fan trotting tearfully at
his heels.
At last, he slackened his pace, remembering her weakness, and Fan stole
up to his side.
"Oh, Ben! Wasn't he angry?" she ventured to say. "I was so frightened.
Were you frightened, Ben?"
"Frightened! Not I. Hard words break no bones. Never mind, Fan; we'll
do well enough now. We're a good way out of London. Only you see for
yourself, now, that it won't do to tell everything to every one."
Fan said nothing, but her heart was very heavy. She was soon tired,
too, poor child; and then Ben took her on his back, and carried her
a few miles, but that soon wearied him. Then they came to a little
village, where they bought bread and milk and a lodging for the night.
In the morning, Ben went all over the place seeking for work, but it
was a very small place, and no one wanted a strange lad: there was
no haymaking at that time of the year, and the harvest work was very
light, as it was a grazing district. So the forlorn pair journeyed on,
in hopes of reaching some place where they might find work.
Now, although Ben put a bold face on the matter, he was beginning
to get frightened, for the few shillings he possessed were melting
rapidly; and though Fan was certainly gaining strength every day, she
could not walk very far yet, and a few days of insufficient food would
probably kill her. The nights, too, were getting cold, so that it was
no longer a good joke to sleep under a hay-rick, or in a dry ditch, and
these were the only beds they could now afford.
Ben often thought of the peace and plenty of the Lee farm. Oh, if he
could only have taken Fan there, and gone back to his work under good
farmer Heath, how glad he would have been to do it! But the doors of
that friendly shelter were shut against him, and that by his own act.
Ay, and what was that story which Fan told him the other day about
other doors which would be closed, and never let him pass through at
all? "Whatsoever maketh a lie."
"That's me, for sure," thought Ben; "I do dearly love taking folk in.
It's such fun to spin away your story, and to see 'em swallowing it
whole. It takes a sharp fellow to do it, though. Now, Sam Hadley never
gets people to believe him. But if that city really means heaven, it
might be very awkward for me. Fan," he said, aloud, "I want to hear
that story about the city with the pearl gates and the golden streets
again. While we're resting here, you might give us a spell of it."
Poor Fan! That verse, and others of like meaning, had never been out
of her head since that conversation in the waggon. That her Ben—kind,
strong, good Ben—should be in danger of being shut out of that lovely
city! With a sigh she fumbled in her pocket, and brought out the parcel
which contained her little book.
"I can't say the whole of it right, Ben, nor I can't read it well,
I'm afraid. Miss Alice gave me this, and she marked the verses we'd
learned. It's near the end, I know—ah, here it is! I'll read it all."
And she began stumbling through it. Ben held out his hand for the book.
"Give that here, little un. I can read faster than you do."
Ben could read quite well enough to make the meaning of the words
plain. Fan pointed to the verse, and he began at once. The child
listened with delight.
"Oh, how pretty!" she said. "Ben, it must be very nice to be able to
read like that."
"I'll teach you, when we get settled somewhere—if we ever do. It's very
easy, once you know the letters. But I'm thinking that if no one that
tells lies goes into that city, there won't be many people to live in
it."
"Oh yes, there will, Ben. There's a great many good people in the
world."
"Well, but what's to become of the rest?" said Ben, in a defiantly
careless tone. "For more than half the people I know tell lies
like-like winking."
Fan looked up at him with her whole heart in her loving, sorrowful eyes.
"Oh, Bennie!" she said. "Don't you know there's another place?"
Ben jumped up, and walked a few paces away. He stood there for some
time, and then called out, "Come along, Fan! We'd best be getting on a
bit."
Fan went after him, and they walked in silence for a little way.
"I wish I could get work," Ben said at last. "It will come to starving
soon, Fan, if I don't."
"I ask God every night and every morning, Ben, to send us a friend and
work for you."
"Much good that has done," growled Ben.
"Ah! But you wait a bit, and see. I'm sure He'll mind me when it's the
right time."
After this, whenever they stopped to rest, Fan would coax her brother
to give her a reading lesson, and to "read a bit" for her. Ben never
refused the request, but he made no remark upon what he read after that
first day. One evening she asked him a question, wishing to get him to
talk, and he said—
"It's all very fine, no doubt, but I changed my last shilling this
morning, and I don't see the help you talk of coming yet. If what I
read is any pleasure to you, I'm glad you get it, Fan. But half-a-crown
would be more in my line."
Still, he read for her. And the silken cord was strong, pulling him in
the right direction.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]