CHAPTER I.

REUBEN WINS RENOWN.

THE dwelling which Reuben Roy called his home was neither picturesque nor commodious. It was a small whitewashed cottage, boasting but four rooms, which always seemed full of children and of clothes, in a wet or dry condition as the case might be, for Reuben's mother was a laundress and worked very hard to help her husband maintain their numerous family.

There was a piece of garden ground in front, but it was very untidy, for no one had time to give it any attention, save the little ones and they were not good gardeners. Yet flowers flourished there somehow in a way of their own, though, as often as not, they were smothered beneath pieces of wet linen laid out to bleach in the sun.

There were few leisure moments in Reuben Roy's life. When he was not working with his father in the fields, his mother kept him busy, carrying baskets of linen to and fro, turning the mangle for her, or perhaps helping with the little ones.

And Reuben was a handy lad, although some persons thought him dull and slow. If you had asked his mother about Reuben, she would have said, "Eh, he's a good lad, is Reuben. Not so sharp with his tongue, nor so quick at his books as his younger brother Robert, but a right good lad for all that."

Great quantities of strawberries were grown about Ashworth, and in the spring and summer Reuben and his father were employed in the strawberry fields. As the season advanced and the fruit ripened, there was plenty to be done. Not only had the fruit to be guarded from birds and insects, but watch had to be kept by night lest it should be carried off by marauders of a larger growth.

Reuben was not often out at night, but it happened once that hands were slack, and the fruit-grower asked Reuben to watch during the night in a small field, where some of the choicest of the fruit was just ready to be gathered.

Reuben did not look forward to his task as he took up his position in the field when the gloom of night was beginning to gather over it. His father was watching, too, in one of the fields, but too far off to cause Reuben any sense of companionship. His mother had given him a good warm plaid to wrap himself in, and there was a hole under the hedge into which he could creep for shelter. But Reuben preferred to keep moving about, and he walked up and down till he heard the church clock strike the hour of midnight.

He was just thinking that he would lie down for a bit, when he became aware of subdued voices behind the hedge. Reuben turned cold and trembled. He had a horrible foreboding of what awaited him, and did not at all like the prospect of being attacked, perhaps murdered, by desperate men. Then instantly there arose in his mind a recollection of the words he had recently heard at Sunday-school. Mr. Howe, the superintendent, was leaving the village, and in his farewell address to the scholars, he had reminded them of the need of true courage and prayerfulness in facing the difficulties and temptations of life. And with the remembrance of the words, Reuben called to mind his own resolve that he would be a man and not a coward.

Ere another thought could cross his mind, three men mounted the hedge. One leaped down close to where Reuben stood, and advanced to him.

"Look here, Reuben Roy," he said, "I know you, whether or not you knows me, and I'd have you understand that we'll do you no harm if you leave us alone. We're only going to help ourselves to a gallon or two of these strawberries, just enough to pay for our breakfast to-morrow, that's all. Your master 'll never miss them, and you'll have the satisfaction of knowin' that you've done a good turn to some poor fellows that are down on their luck. What's that you're arter? Keep quiet, I tell you, or it'll be the worse for you."

But Reuben had already drawn from his pocket the whistle with which his father had provided him, and he blew a shrill whistle ere it was struck from his hand, and he sent rolling to the earth. He tried to rise, but his assailant was upon him.

"Be quiet," he muttered, "or I'll beat ye into a jelly."

But Reuben struggled powerfully and shouted for help, in spite of his enemy's endeavours to choke him into silence. It was well for the lad that the other men took fright and dragged their comrade away.

"It's no good fighting now," they said; "let's get away whilst we can. Do you see that light yonder? The alarm has been taken. Come, there's no time to lose."

And they hurried away.

Reuben's father and the other men came up a little later, and found Reuben exhausted and shaken, but not seriously hurt. The thieves made good their escape. Reuben could not identify them. He believed the man who had attacked him to be a low, villainous tramp, who of late had been hanging about the village, but he could not be sure. The thieves had certainly shown little skill in their evil calling.

The incident of that night made Reuben somewhat of a hero in the eyes of the villagers. The owner of the fruit was pleased with him, and praised his courage. Exaggerated reports of his prowess spread through the village. It was said that he had knocked down the first robber who approached him, and the others, affrighted, had instantly fled. Reuben smiled when he heard these tales.

"Far from knocking any one down, I got knocked down myself," he said. "All I did was to whistle for father. It was not likely I should see those rogues take Mr. Brown's fruit and hold my tongue. I was bound to raise an alarm."

"You got knocked about for it, though."

"Well, yes; I got a few blows, but what of that? The fellow did not kill me, though I thought he meant to."

Reuben's midnight adventure was, however, destined to exert a considerable influence on his fortunes. It drew to him the attention of a gentleman who had taken a house at Ashworth for the summer.

This gentleman was the chief partner of a firm of metal-workers in Birmingham. He became interested in the lad, and would sometimes stop to speak to him when they met in the roads. He thought he discerned good intelligence and certain sturdy sterling qualities beneath the lad's quiet, somewhat uninteresting exterior. He questioned him concerning his occupation, and found that it was not entirely to Reuben's mind.

He could have desired something better than to be a field labourer all his days, but he saw no other prospect before him. He was greatly surprised when the gentleman offered him a place in his factory—a humble place, it is true, but with a higher wage than he was earning at Ashworth.

"Of course it means leaving home," Mr. Akenside said; "you'll have to get a lodging near the works. Your parents won't like your going away, perhaps."

"Maybe not, sir. I don't know as my mother could spare me," Reuben replied, "but I'll see. I'd like it well enough myself."

Indeed, the thought of going to Birmingham thrilled him with a novel excitement. Though Ashworth was but about twenty miles from Birmingham, and Reuben was a lad of eighteen, he had never but once been to the great city. He had not forgotten the day he spent there and his wondering vision of the bustling streets, the great houses, the eager, busy people everywhere. The idea of town life had its fascination for him, as it had for Owen Grant, one of Reuben's fellow-scholars, who had just left home to fill a situation in the great manufacturing centre.

He had laughingly advised Reuben to follow him, and "see life a bit."

Reuben was half-frightened, half-pleased at this chance of entering upon such a life.

"Well, talk it over with your parents," said Mr. Akenside, "and let me know in a day or two what you decide."

So Reuben hastened home, eager to tell his news. It created no little excitement in the family circle. The matter was not one to be decided in a moment. Reuben's parents discussed it gravely. His father saw no reason why the lad should wish to change his lot. He was doing well enough under Mr. Brown. Let him stay where he was, and let well alone. By the accounts one heard, people did not always improve their condition by moving off to town.

But Reuben's mother judged differently. She was a shrewd, sensible woman, and she loved her son with a wise, unselfish love. It seemed to her that this was a chance for Reuben which it would be wrong to throw away.

"You see," she said to her husband, "it's not like going to town with the mere hope of finding work. Here's a good master ready to engage Reuben, and I doubt not, if the lad does well, he will rise in his service. And then maybe he'll be able to help on his brothers and sisters. He's our eldest, and we must do the best we can for him."

"Ay, but what will you do without him, wife? You'll be sore set without Reuben."

"I shall miss the lad, no doubt, for he's a good lad, is Reuben. But Robert is growing up now, and ought to be able to do as much for me. It's for Reuben himself to decide, after all. But if he wants to go, we'll not say him nay."

Reuben was surprised, almost startled, at this ready consent; he had not expected the way to be made so easy. But he was glad on the whole, for of late he had begun to feel dissatisfied with his life at Ashworth. He had little thought that he would so soon be able to take Owen Grant's advice, and follow him to Birmingham.

As he heard the lamentations of his young brothers and sisters, and the regrets of the neighbours, and saw how much, though she made little ado about it, his mother felt his going, it was with mingled feelings that Reuben prepared for his departure. But he had scant time to think about it, for Mr. Akenside wanted him immediately. Only two days after the decision was made, Reuben started for Birmingham.

Owen Grant's home was a very different one to that of Reuben Roy. A pleasant, old-fashioned garden, full of sweet-smelling flowers, surrounded the house, which was very old, with a grey thatched roof, darkened by moss, and latticed windows. Such a picturesque rural dwelling, of genuine antiquity, is becoming rare in the England of to-day.

Owen's father had lived there all his days, and "his" father before him. The house, with the garden ground about it, and the bit of meadow beyond, was his own. Former generations of Grants had owned much land at Ashworth; but the fortunes of the family had dwindled, and now all that remained of their property was this small homestead.

Small as it was, however, David Grant was proud of his home. He would show to visitors with pride the old black-lettered Bible, the fly-leaves of which recorded the births, marriages, and deaths of so many departed Grants, and proved that the cottage had been the dwelling of worthies of that name for more than three hundred years. His wife would open a drawer of the old linen press and show a morsel of fine linen, almost as old as the house, spun by the skilful fingers of some good housewife of the race.

The interior of the house showed many a mark of age, but it was carefully kept. The oak flooring was skilfully repaired where it began to fall in, the whitewash frequently renewed upon the walls, and the thatch well mended. David would have done more to the place if he could, but his means were very limited.

He had great hopes, however, for the future. He believed that his son—the clever, bright lad who was his only child and the joy and pride of his life—would be sure to do well in the world, and preserve the old place from ruin.

It was rather disappointing that Owen showed so little interest or pride in the old home. He would laughingly call it an old tumbledown barn, and say that he would far rather live in one of the new red-bricked houses that were being built at Ashworth. But this, and other utterances of his which hurt his parents, they excused as the outcome of the thoughtlessness of youth. When he was older, Owen would be wiser, and would be sure to think as they did.

Owen's father and mother had married late in life, after a faithful courtship of more than twelve years and when David was already far advanced in age. Their union had been a happy one, and the child that crowned it was peculiarly dear to them. It was little to be wondered at that they were more blind than most parents to the faults of their darling, more prone to believe that no other could be compared with him.

David Grant was a hale man yet, able to work in garden and field, though his form, which had been unusually strong, was growing bent, and his hair was white as snow. His wife was a cheery little woman, not over strong, but with so much natural energy, that no one would have suspected her of failing health.

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