CHAPTER I.

BEN FAIRFAX'S WALKING TOUR.

MANY years ago, on one of the loveliest of summer days—a day which seemed made on purpose to enable farmers to save their hay—there was a great haymaking going on in a large field belonging to a farm in one of the midland counties of England. It was so long ago that haymaking machines, if indeed they existed at all, were not common; and so that prettiest of country sights, a haymaking in the old style, was still to be seen.

A long irregular line of men and maidens, each armed with a fork or rake, passed slowly across the sunny field, gathering the hay into ridges, which looked not unlike the waves of the sea after a high wind, when they come in on the shore in long undulating swells, one after another. Then, the other side of the field being reached, the line turned and passed back again, this time leaving the ridges broken up into little haycocks. Ah, how pretty it was! The lumbering, rattling, awkward machine will never look half so pretty; and as I am not a farmer, bound to remember the reasons for preferring the machine (reasons which I know are many and good), I may perhaps be allowed to breathe a sigh for the beautiful past; for the fair sights and sweet scents, the human interest, which made the beauty of many a haymaking which I can remember; aye, and to pity those younger than myself, whose only notion of haymaking will be connected with a great, hideous, fussy, oily-smelling,—"useful" machine.

Well, to return to the hayfield in question.

It had been rather a wet summer so far. And although this was a glorious day, it did not look very settled, and the weather-wise, as represented by two aged men who had just walked down the lane to encourage the farmer by promising him more bad weather, were not very cheerful. And so the farmer, Mr. Heath, a stout, elderly man who was leaning over the gate watching his haymakers, was naturally anxious to get as many hands to work as he possibly could, and so save his hay before the rain came on again. Very likely, if good farmer Heath is still alive and still farming, he has a machine or two at work on such occasions, and considers it a great improvement.

He was just about to open the gate and go in to encourage his men and maidens to work hard, and perhaps to aid them in their task, when a voice behind him said—

"Will you give me a day's work, sir?"

The voice was rough and sharp, but the accent was not that of the part of the country to which farmer Heath belonged. And so when he turned to look at the speaker, he half expected to see a gentleman, who had made the inquiry in fun. However, what he did see was a ragged, stoutly built lad, with a tangle of curly fair hair, peeping out through the slits in a tattered straw hat, and a pair of very roguish-looking blue eyes, shining impertinently out of a good-looking, dirty face. The lad wore a faded blue shirt, and a pair of trousers so much too long for him that he had rolled them up half-way to his knee, and secured them with a highly ornamental piece of knotted rope. A leather belt kept his garments together, and on his arm he carried a coat which looked as if he must have robbed some unprotected scarecrow. He also carried a pair of strong, heavy shoes, comparatively new, and his well-formed feet were naked and dusty. But farmer Heath knew that this lad did not belong to that part of the country, and his appearance rather excited his suspicions, though he could not have said exactly why. He stared hard at the stranger, who awaited his leisure with great composure.

"A day's work, did you say?" asked farmer Heath, slowly.

"Yes, sir. I'm strong and active, and my work has been about horses, so I should know something about hay, too. And if you give me work, I think you'll be pleased with me."

"You don't think small beer o' yerself, young man."

"No more will you, sir, when you've giv' me a try and seen me at work," remarked the youth, with great coolness.

"What's your name, boy?"

"Ben Fairfax, sir."

"And where do you come from? Have you a good character from your last place?"

Ben Fairfax grinned broadly, showing a splendid set of white teeth. He had laid down the heavy shoes, in order to carry on this conversation more at his ease, but now he stooped and lifted them, saying as he did so—

"I've always heard tell that the folks hereabout were slow in their ways, but I couldn't have believed they was quite as slow as this here! Thirty acres of hay down—the sun shining splendid, and a nice breeze blowing—not hands enough to get it saved before night and the weather not to be depended on—and you stopping to ask questions of a stout fellow like me, as only asks for a day's work! No, sir, I've no character, good or bad. I never was in service at all. My father's a shoemaker, and he made these shoes. I don't belong to these parts."

"You're a free-spoken lad," said the farmer, severely.

"They mostly are, where I come from. I'm taking a walking tour for the good of my health, and I'd be glad of a job just now; I don't deny it. But I suppose I should have to get the Queen and Prince Albert to write a line for me, before 'you'd' believe that I wouldn't run off with a hay-fork in one pocket, and a rake in t'other."

Jokes were not plenty at the Lee farm, and this seemed to farmer Heath a most excellent joke. He burst into a hearty fit of laughter.

"You are a cheeky young monkey," he said; "and if I did right by you, I'd give you a hiding; but all the same, what you say about the weather is no more than the truth, and if you'll call it three-quarters of a day, you may go into the hayfield, if you like."

"All right, sir; I'm your man. I suppose my great-coat and Wellingtons will be safe, if I leave them here?"

"Your great-coat and Wellingtons," said the farmer, opening his eyes.

"That's what 'I' calls 'em. You can give 'em any name you like—'twon't alter 'em," replied the imperturbable Ben, as he rolled the thick shoes up in the ragged jacket, and put them in a corner near the gate.

He then followed his new employer, who was still grinning and chuckling over that joke about the line from the Queen. He led the way to where the haymakers were at work, and having provided Ben with a hay-fork, he desired him to "get to work, and let us see what you are made of."

Ben soon proved himself a strong, handy fellow. His sharp, saucy way of speaking amused the farmer. And as the fine weather lasted for several days (in spite of the cheerful prophets), he was allowed to remain among the labourers during the day. What became of him at night nobody inquired, but he had made himself very comfortable. He had contrived to creep into the stable loft through a window, to which he climbed by means of a great pear tree which was trained against the wall. And in this loft he slept, and also smoked his short, well-blackened pipe, regardless of the terrible risk he ran of setting fire to the hay.

By this time you will have decided that Ben Fairfax was not an exemplary member of society by any means; and truly, I fear, you are quite right. Yet there were excuses for poor Ben; and moreover, he was not "all" bad, as you will presently acknowledge.

He was the son of a shoemaker in a small village in Kent, not very far from London. He had learned a little shoemaking from his father, and a great deal of other things, not quite so innocent. He was a sharp, clever lad, and, for reasons of his own, his father was not desirous of his presence at home, as he grew older and more observant. So he got him a place as stable boy in the employment of Mr. B—, who had a great training stable not far from F— (the village where the Fairfaxes lived). It was not a place which any careful father would have chosen for his boy, but Ben's father was very far from being careful. The wages were good, and the boy could get home often; and if he did learn to swear and gamble and drink, ay, and to be dishonest and untruthful, it must be confessed that he could have learned it all quite as well at home.

At these stables, horses for racing and hunting were trained and kept for sale, and Ben, being fearless and active, was often selected by his master to ride such as required a light weight—a task in which the boy naturally delighted, and took great pride. In fact, he was in a fair way to get on in the world, when, unfortunately (or fortunately), he lost his place through a piece of most reckless carelessness. He and a younger lad, being entrusted with two valuable horses to exercise on the heath, finding themselves out of sight, had a race for their private diversion, and Ben's horse, a beautiful creature, worth many hundred pounds, got a bad fall, and was so much injured that he had to be destroyed. It then came out that Ben was in the habit of getting up races whenever an opportunity occurred, and he was at once dismissed in disgrace.

When he went home, his father beat him severely, and that not for having done wrong, but for being found out. Ben ran away from home the next morning, and swore that he would never return, nor see his father again. But there was a silken thread, one end of which was held by a very weak pair of small hands in that deserted home, while the other end was made fast somehow in his own wild heart; and this thread had drawn him home many a time already, and might do so again, let him wander as he would.

He had gone to London, where he spent what remained to him of his wages in amusing himself; and then, having by degrees parted with all his good clothes, he suddenly determined to leave off his foolish courses, and try his luck in the country. I would not be quite sure that the silken cord had nothing to do with this resolution.

It was pleasant weather, and there was no hardship for Ben in sleeping in the open air. He had a few shillings, and eked them out by what he called "picking up a meal" here and there, not always in the most scrupulously honest manner. However, he enjoyed his "walking tour" very much, and it ended in his falling in with farmer Heath.

While the haymaking lasted, Ben worked at that. And before it was over, the farmer had taken a fancy to the lad, who was so bright and quick, and gave him many a hearty laugh. "London Ben," as they called him, was, indeed, a general favourite, and the farmer promoted his stable lad to a better place, and set Ben to take care of the horses. This suited Ben admirably, and old Dobbin, and Jack, and the rest of the stud, soon looked so glossy and sleek, that their master hardly knew them again.

Ben thought he ought to be very happy now, and he almost made up his mind to remain at the Lee farm "for good," and to forget the delights of a wandering, idle life, which he had not led long enough to find hard and full of privation at times. Moreover, he felt a little grateful for the kindness of his master and mistress, and meant to behave well, and to serve them faithfully.

These were good resolutions, but, alas! as the fruit ripened in the garden behind the stables, the temptation was too great for poor Ben. Many a night did he desert his lair in the fragrant hay, and visit that garden, gathering his hat and pockets full of strawberries, gooseberries, or cherries. Mrs. Heath, poor woman, was "terrible put about," to use her own phrase, at these nightly raids upon her fruit, but Ben managed so cleverly that he never was suspected. Indeed, he was supposed to sleep at a village a mile or so distant, as he had not been able to get a bed nearer to the farm, and there was no room for him in the house.

Every evening when work was over, he took care to be seen setting off down the lane, and across a couple of fields, by a path which led through a strip of plantation, and then across other fields, to the village in question. But he never went beyond the plantation, except when he needed a new store of tobacco; on other evenings he remained in the little wood, watching the birds and beasts which lived there—an old and favourite amusement of his. Then, as soon as he thought he could do so unperceived, he crept back, and climbed up into the hayloft. As it was now his duty to get down the hay for the horses out of this loft, no one else ever came there, so the piles of gooseberry skins in one corner did not betray him.

Mrs. Heath tied up the big dog, Tearem, in the garden. But Ben had made friends with Tearem; and whoever he might tear, he never tore Ben, but fawned on him lovingly. No doubt he would have been found out in time, and probably been thrashed as well as dismissed by the indignant farmer, but, as it happened, he left to please himself, though not exactly pleased to do so at the moment.

It was all because of that tiresome little silken string, which kept tugging at his heart occasionally. He refused to think of it for a time, and laughed and joked with the other lads about the place, but it really troubled him for all that, and at last it gave one such terrible pull, that he gave up and made up his mind that he must go home, and "see what end of little Fan."

It was partly his mistress's doing, though nothing could be further from her intention. One day in August she asked her husband to leave Ben with her, to help in the churning, which she said was too much for her and her pretty daughter Alice; and Molly, their one servant, was gone home for a holiday.

So Ben remained with his mistress, and learned how to churn, and did churn manfully; and the butter having "come," he helped to dash in a little water, to make it "go together," as Mrs. Heath called it. And then the butter was taken out of the churn, and Ben stood by, highly interested in the whole process, and saw it thumped, and washed, and thumped again, to free it from drops of buttermilk; after which it was salted, and made into golden bars, each weighing one pound, and packed into a basket with green leaves and damp snowy cloths, ready to be carried off to market the next day. And while this was being done, the following conversation took place.

"Well, Ben Fairfax, you 'are' a handy lad! I must say that for you. You must have been well used to help your mother. You're not like most lads—all thumbs and no fingers."

"Never helped my mother in my life, ma'am. It's native genius—that's where 'tis, as my old master said when I took to riding so easy."

"Your old master!" said Mrs. Heath, surprised, for she fancied she had been told that he had never been in service before.

Ben perceived his slip, and said carelessly—

"I called him so, but it was only an odd job I ever got from him."

"You have a mother, haven't you, Ben?"

"A sort o' mother; and not a nice sort neither," said Ben, with a shake of his curly pate. "Do you see this dint in my nob, ma'am? That's her handiwork. She did that with a saucepan lid when I was only a small chap."

"Laws, child! She might ha' killed you, strikin' you on the head like that."

"And if the coroner wouldn't object, ma'am, 'she' wouldn't; nor my father either."

"What is your father's business, Ben?"

"He's a shoemaker, ma'am. He made these shoes on my feet." Ben often said this, but he did not add, as he might have done, that the shoes had not been intended for him, but that he had helped himself to them as he left the house the morning he ran away. "And he trains dogs and ferrets, and sells rats, and—"

"Rats!" screamed Mrs. Heath. "And for mussy's sake, Ben Fairfax, who wants to buy such vermin as rats?"

"Gents buys 'em for dogs to kill, ma'am. They get up matches, with bets, so much on each dog, to see which will kill most rats in the time named. And then they buy the rats, so much a dozen."

Ben had a very strong suspicion that his father had other means of "turning an honest penny," to use Mr. Fairfax's favourite expression, but he said nothing about that. Mrs. Heath, you see, being a woman of small experience, might not have thought the penny an honest one.

"And do you mean to say that any one can make a livelihood out of the like of that?" inquired Mrs. Heath.

"Father does—along with shoemaking in a small way. A very good livelihood too. They always seem to get along pretty comfortable, as far as eating and drinking goes."

"But, Ben," said Alice Heath, looking up from her tub of butter, "if you had a comfortable home and plenty of food, why did you come tramping through the country for work? And so shabby as you were, too, till mother gave you Ned's old clothes."

"I didn't live at home; couldn't stand the way they licked me."

"I dare say you deserved it," said Alice, laughing.

"Maybe I did, sometimes, but I didn't like it any the better for that. So I—ran away at last."

"And are there no more in family, Ben? Have you any brothers and sisters?"

"One brother, a baby, and the ugliest thing you ever saw in your life, ma'am; and such a one to squall. And one sister, little Fan."

"How old is she?"

"Well, she must be eight or nine, but she's very small for that. She can't be so old, surely; and yet—yes, she must be. Poor little Fan!"

"Is she pretty, Ben?" asked Alice.

"Well—no, miss; I don't think you'd say so. But—she's better nor that. She's the lovingest, tenderest-hearted little thing—"

He broke off abruptly and remained silent for some time. At last he said half angrily—

"Why did you make me talk of Fan? I didn't want to talk of her."

"Well, but what harm, lad?"

"If harm comes of it, 'twasn't of my seeking, any how. There's the master now with Dobbin and Jack, mud up to their blessed noses! Where on earth have they been? I'd better go and see after them, ma'am, if you don't want me any more."

And he ran out of the cool, dark dairy in a great hurry. But the thought of little Fan, his only sister, the only being in the world who loved him, or whom he loved, was not thus to be got rid of. Once fairly roused, it refused to be left behind in the dark dairy. By hard work, rough play, smoking many pipes, and sleeping sound after his midnight diversions in the fruit garden, Ben had almost succeeded in stifling the thought of Fan until now. Not quite, however; and now this talk about her had given his memory a jog, and oh, how that string began to pull at his heart!

Little Fan, gentle, timid, good little Fan, left to bear all unaided the blows and bad words of an unkind mother, and the neglect of a worthless father; to carry the ugly baby until she was ready to drop, and then punished when it squalled, which it did frequently; left to have her food seasoned with unkind words and scoffs at her frightened face and want of strength; left, in fact, to battle with her wretched life without the occasional visits of her only friend and protector, "our Ben," as she fondly called him—visits which had long been the one happiness of her life. He could not get Fan out of his head.

He resisted long. For nearly a week, he fought against his longing, and he called innocent Mrs. Heath every bad name he could think of, and I can assure you they were not few; he raged at himself for his folly; he thought of the oath he had taken never to go back; he asked himself what good he expected to do to Fan or anyone else. But it was all in vain. Fan's pale little face, looking even sadder and more forlorn than when he last saw it, was ever before him. He seemed to see it change, and become full of the brightness of joy, and he heard her voice saying,—

"Why, it's our Ben," as he had often heard it in reality.

Finally, one night he jumped up from his comfortable bed in the hay with a shout. "I must go, I suppose. Bother the woman! Why must she go and talk of Fan? It's not a bit of real good to her; and yet I must go and see after her, and let her know I'm all right. She do love me so, poor little Fan! And she must think 'twas hard of me to go away and never look after her, when I know I'm the only comfort she has in the world."

He pulled on his clothes, not very handsome ones, unless by comparison with those he had been wearing when he first came to the farm. Having dressed himself and made up all his possessions in a bundle, he climbed down by the pear tree, and looked about to ascertain what hour of the night, or rather morning, it was. His mind being now made up to go home, he determined to be off without giving notice to any one, partly for the fun of the thing, but partly also for the following reasons. He had been paid his week's wages the day before, seven shillings; and of these he owed two to another lad about the place, whom he had been teaching to play at pitch and toss for halfpence. And he also owed a few shillings to the woman of the little shop in the village, for tobacco. Moreover, Tom Digges, his comrade, not having been present when the master paid the wages, Ben had offered to take his for him, and to give them to him the next day, which he doubtless would have done, as he had several times done it already, but for this sudden determination to go away. Tom's wages were higher than his, because Tom went home for his meals, and Ben lived at the farm.

Seven shillings was very little to begin the world on, and so Mr. Ben marched off with poor Tom's ten shillings also, without, I am sorry to say, the least compunction. Also, as he crept along the line of farm buildings, which ended in a large drying green, he saw something dangling on a clothes' line; and on drawing nearer, he perceived that it was a blue cotton frock, belonging to Mrs. Heath's little grandchild, Etty Spence, who was staying at the farm to recover from whooping cough. The frock had either been overlooked the night before, or (which was more likely) was believed to be quite safe in so honest a neighbourhood. It was just the right size for Fan; for though she was much older than Etty, she was so very small for her age; and it was so pretty and neatly made. Fan had never had such a frock in her life, and how kind she would think him for bringing her one; and oh, how Mrs. Heath would squall and search about for it when she missed it. So, with a chuckle, Ben twitched the frock down from the line, and it was quickly stowed away in his bundle, which contained some shirts, socks, etc., all presents from kind, unsuspicious Mrs. Heath.

Being now fairly off, Ben's spirits rose with every step he took, and he ran lightly down the lane and past the gate where he first met farmer Heath, without giving himself time to think; and having now reached the high road, quite out of hearing even if any one at the farm was awake, he began to whistle a tune—very sweetly, too, for he had a quick ear for music.

Now Ben Fairfax was a clever lad, as I daresay you have discovered by this time; and yet, setting aside all ideas of right and wrong, what a stupid thing he was doing! Here, for the first time in his life, he had an opportunity of gaining really good and respectable friends (for I cannot say that his first patrons had been either the one or the other), and, by his bright ways and quick intelligence, he had made them all like him. Had he gone to farmer Heath and told him that he must go home and see after his little sister, the farmer might have grumbled a little (farmers generally do grumble), but he would certainly have let him go, and promised to take him back when he returned.

But instead of this he went off, leaving the proofs of his evil doings to be seen by all at the farm, and carrying off things to which he had no right, so that, instead of friendly feelings, every one would be filled with anger and disgust. But, clever as he was, Ben never thought of this; never reflected that good friends are not always to be picked up; nor remembered that he might chance to meet some of these people again, when their good word might be of consequence, and their bad word fatal to him.

In fact, the idea of meeting any of them again never entered his head; here were they in Derbyshire, while he was going to London, on his way to his old home, and he was too young to know how small the world is after all, and how certain we are to meet again with people we have known. So he departed gaily—it would undoubtedly sound better if I could describe him as depressed by a sense of wrong doing, but truth compels me to state that he felt very jolly, something like a young horse which has slipped its head out of the halter and gone off for a frisk. Life at the Lee farm was certainly dull and monotonous—the old employment was far pleasanter, and perhaps Mr. — would have forgiven him by this time, and would take him back. Now that the plunge was made, Ben wondered how he had borne the quiet life so long.

"What would Sam Hadley" (the other party in the fatal race), "say, if he knew that I'd gone in for a respectable life without a bit of fun from week's end to week's end? He 'd never believe it, that's one thing."

And Ben laughed aloud at the notion of Sam's face if asked to believe this tale; thereby startling a most respectable elderly blackbird who was half asleep in the hedge by the road's side, so that he fled with a long wild cry, and startled Ben in his turn.

It seems, does it not, as if the silken string had pulled Ben out of safety and into danger this time. Yet, was it really so? Was Ben really safe at the Lee farm, deceiving his kind employers, stealing their fruit, and teaching their ploughboy to play pitch and toss all Sunday? The answer must depend upon our idea as to what Ben wanted to be saved from.

Before even the early hour at which Mrs. Heath's cheery call roused her household to their daily tasks, Ben Fairfax was several miles on his way to London. He had a long tramp before him, for he did not wish to diminish his small store by paying railway fares, preferring to keep it to begin the world upon.

Mrs. Heath called her family at her usual time—half-past five, and at half-past six they were all seated at breakfast in the clean and cosy kitchen. All, that is, except "London Ben;" where was he? He had not come, as he generally did, to tie up the wicked old cow for Alice to milk her, nor had he run in to aid red-armed Molly to draw water for the day's washing, nor had he carried off little Etty to see Dobbin and Jack munch their oats. All these things Ben was wont to do, for he was thoroughly good-natured and pleasant in his ways. But to-day he had done none of them.

And after breakfast a search was set on foot, and in process of time all Ben's delinquencies came to light. It was first discovered that he had been in the habit of sleeping in the hayloft, and the strong smell of tobacco betrayed the fact that he had also been in the habit of smoking there. Secondly, the gooseberry skins and strawberry stalks flung into a corner accounted for the nightly robbery of the garden.

Thirdly, poor Tom's lamentations made every one aware that Ben had gone off with his week's wages, and also with "Two shillin' wich he owed I, he did!" But when Tom, in his indignation, made known how the said two shillings had been lost and won, farmer Heath registered a solemn vow to "trounce Ben Fairfax well" if he ever had the opportunity, for introducing a taste for gambling among his farm boys.

Finally, the blue calico frock was missed, and the impression on Mrs. Heath's mind was that Ben had taken it. But, to do her justice, she grieved more over the ingratitude and dishonesty of the lad she had liked so much, than over the loss of the blue frock, or even over the fruit.

"He'll come to a bad end, will Ben Fairfax," she said, to her pretty daughter Alice. "He's none of your dull fellows, to be content wi' such small pickins' as he's made here. He's too clever by half, poor boy! And you mark my words, Alice Heath, he'll come to the gallows yet, or get sent to Botany Bay at the very least."

By this speech you may judge how far behind the times Mrs. Heath was; for it is many a long day since thieves were sent to Botany Bay, and as to hanging, we all know that it is really very difficult to get hanged nowadays, even for murder. And poor Ben with all his faults, was not likely to murder any one, for he was not a cruel boy. He was kind to those who were weaker than himself, and animals were safe with him, even from teasing. Tearem quite missed him, and stupid old Dobbin kicked at the lad who succeeded him in his stable duties, while as for the wicked brindled cow, she became (Mrs. Heath declared) "that rampagious that no one but a fairy could milk her at all," so she had to be sold at the next fair.

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