CHAPTER II.

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.

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