Her Benny/Chapter 24
CHAPTER XXIV.
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 rave. He would never have found it, were it not for a curiously 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 had 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 siater 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.
Kneeling by the little grave, he offered up a silent prayer.
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 bis 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 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 aford 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 watch-men 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, "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 weather-beaten 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 belongs 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 youVe 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! 'twere 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 whom 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.