CHAPTER V.

HOW BEN'S SIN FOUND HIM OUT.

THIS adventure caused a great change for the better in the fortunes of Fan and Ben Robson, as they were called, Ben having still kept to that adopted name. This deception was the only thing which troubled Fan now, and even she sometimes forgot it, she was so happy. Pearl Harewood had, as she usually did, persuaded her father to consent to her plan, which was, to establish the pair in her Fairy Cottage, and there to visit Fan, and teach her all the arts of cooking baking, cleaning, etc., which she had herself acquired during that merry summer.

Ben was at first given work in the garden, but as he said he was more accustomed to stable work, he was soon put under the orders of the head groom, and quickly showed that he might be made a very valuable servant. He was most anxious to establish a good character; the danger of his idle, dishonest habits, had been made plain to him of late, and his readings with Fan had also made a deep impression on him. He was quite determined to "turn over a new leaf," and this was the easier, because he was very happy.

Pearl and Miss Ayrton took a great interest in him, and having discovered his taste for natural history, they lent him books on that subject and encouraged him to study it. Pearl had an uncle, who was a great naturalist, and she had very often helped him to arrange his treasures, and heard him discuss them, so that she could appreciate Ben's really accurate and intelligent habits of observation. This uncle, Mr. Francis Sydney, came to Harewood after a time, and paid a long visit, during which he took quite a fancy to Ben, and gave him a good deal of instruction.

What a happy time it was! Ben had never been so happy in his life; and as to Fan, her bliss was all but perfect. "Miss Pearl" taught her to read, to write, to sew, to knit and to sing; also to make bread (which Fan soon did a great deal better than her teacher, whose bread was a very uncertain matter), and finally to wash and iron. These lessons in ironing resulted in some terribly scorched garments—in fact, poor Etty Spence's blue frock came to an untimely end on one occasion. But then, as Pearl remarked, "everything must have a beginning." It was the end of the frock, but the beginning of success, for they never met with so serious a misfortune again.

As soon as Ben was settled in his new place, he wrote to kindhearted Mrs. Simmonds, begging her to let him know what she heard of his father. The answer came in due time. Fairfax had got off for want of sufficient evidence against him, and had returned to his old cottage; only, however, to sicken and die of the fever which still lingered in the place. So there was no danger of his appearing to claim his children, and Ben felt that a fair prospect lay before him.

"But, Ben, may we not tell people now that our name is Fairfax, not Robson?" said Fan. "I do feel so vexed when Miss Pearl says that name. I hate to think that we are telling a lie."

"It's not a lie, exactly," said Ben. "One name's as good as another, and I've a right to call myself what I like."

"Yet it is 'not' true, Ben. And 'now' it's of no use, that poor father is dead."

"But how could we go and tell every one that we gave a false name at first? And besides, I have another reason," added Ben, nodding his head, "so say no more about it, Fan."

Then after a minute's silence, he said—

"Guess what I found out yesterday about that cross old woman, Mrs. Thirlston,—she who lives at the pretty cottage where we asked for help, do you remember? Well, you know she threatened to set dogs at us, and called as if she had dogs there ready; and Tom Johnson tells me she has never a dog at all, and always calls like that when any one asks her for anything! It's well for her that I've made up my mind to go in for no more nonsense, or she might find that her dogs wouldn't protect her apple trees, some of these moonlight nights."

"Oh, but you wouldn't, Ben! She does look cross; and the other day she stopped me, when I was going to the shop, and asked me my name, and how old I was, and she stared at me so hard all the time. Indeed, she frightened me so that I very nearly forgot, and said Fairfax, but just in time I remembered. And she said, 'Have you a stutter, child? Or are you a fool?'"

Something in this story tickled Ben's fancy very much. He roared laughing, and made Fan repeat it several times, each time enjoying it as much as the first. Fan was quite surprised.

"Well," said he, at last, "I must be off, for my dinner hour is up. 'Twas well you remembered in time, Fan; and mind you're careful, for the name of Fairfax would do us no good here. And if we are only careful, we are made up for life here."

"Be sure your sin will find you out" was a text which Ben had never met with. It is a very true saying, and one often misunderstood. It is your sin that finds you. No arbitrary punishment for it, but the very sin itself. So surely as you will burn your hand if you put it into the fire; so surely as you will suffer agony if you swallow poison; so surely will your sin prove its own punishment—so surely, sooner or later, will it "find you out." And this, though it does not look like a blessing, will prove a blessing if we will take it humbly and use it well.

Months passed away. Winter came and went, spring brightened the land, summer brought warmth and beauty; and still Ben and his little sister lived in their toy cottage, and were very happy. Fan grew tall and rosy, and looked very different from the stray, forlorn child, who had dropped asleep on the floor of Pearl's Fairy Cottage.

The brother and sister attended church regularly; and one hot Sunday they were coming out of church among the rest, when a girl exclaimed, suddenly stopping before Ben and staring at him—

"Ben Fairfax! Why, how came 'you' here?"

Ben turned crimson, and then pale. His usual quickness deserted him, and he stood silent. Fan looked from one face to another but could not make out what was going on. "Fairfax!" cried the person to whom the girl seemed to belong. "Why, child, that's Ben Robson; he is one of the under-grooms at Harewood."

"Robson! I don't care what he may call himself, Esther, nor where he may work. That's Ben Fairfax, who was with us last summer, and ran away after robbing the garden, and stole Tom Digges's wages, and Etty's blue frock, besides owing money in the village. And father says 'twas just a providence that he didn't burn the place over our heads, sleeping in the hayloft without leave, and smoking his pipe in it! And, if you don't believe me, just look at him."

Poor Ben! He was a spectacle at that moment, it must be confessed. He looked ready to sink into the ground with shame, and so plainly had lost his wits for the moment, that Fan, controlling her great desire to cry, caught him by the hand and led him to the gate.

Once away from the girl who had thus recognized him, Ben came to himself and hurried away, Fan running along at his side with a scared look.

"What is it, Ben?" she said.

"It's ruin! That's what it is," he answered bitterly. And he muttered words under his breath, which filled the child with horror though she only half heard them.

"Oh, Ben dear! Don't do like that."

"Why not? What's the use of trying to go right, when a thing like this turns up and ruins you. Hold your tongue, child, and let me alone. I give up."

The girl who had recognized Ben Fairfax was no other than pretty Alice Heath, who was come to pay a visit to her married sister, Mrs. Spence, mother of little Etty, whose blue frock Ben had stolen, and Fan had worn, and Pearl had burned! Several people had stopped to listen to what was going on, for, in her agitation, Alice had raised her voice not a little. Among these was a groom from Harewood, and old Mrs. Thirlston, in her well-preserved black silk, looking as cross as usual. She could hardly have looked crosser. Mr. Spence was there, too. He was a very respectable man, and kept a grocer's shop in the village, and he was not a little annoyed at what had happened, as he knew that Ben was rather a favourite with the ladies at Harewood.

"What's the meaning of this about young Robson, Mr. Spence?" said the groom.

"Some fancy of my wife's sister, but I dare say she's mistaken. Say no more, Alice—you'll only make mischief, and you can't be so very sure."

"But I am sure! I never was surer of anything in my life. That's Ben Fairfax, and he's a real bad boy, and behaved most ungrateful to father and mother, as was very good to him, and stole Etty's blue frock the night he ran away."

"Well, do you know," said Mrs. Spence, disregarding her husband's expressive looks, "when the two first came here, the girl had on a frock that was very like the one I made for Etty when she was going to grandma's. Do you remember I said so to you, Dick?"

"I don't remember anything about it," replied Dick.

Here the old woman of the severe countenance put her hand on Alice Heath's shoulder and asked in her grating voice, making the girl start—"Did you say his name is Fairfax?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Ha! Then I was right. Well, if he is a Fairfax—and he is—he couldn't be honest if he tried. Here's a pretty kettle of fish."

She looked so savage that poor Alice shrank back, saying nervously—"It is not my fault, ma'am."

"Who said it was? And if I did say so, I should have told nothing but the truth. Blabbing a thing out before every one, like a feather-gated fool as you are."

"That's just what I say too, Mrs. Thirlston, ma'am," said Spence. "Where was the use of injuring the lad? And very likely vexing Miss Harewood, for 'tis well-known she makes quite a pet of this girl, and the lad has been very correct in his conduct since he came here."

"Correct in his conduct!" the old woman repeated, eyeing Mr. Spence with strong disfavour. "My good patience! What fools men are!"

And she stalked away, leaving Spence rather crushed.

But the groom very properly told Mr. Harewood all that had passed, next morning.

And Mr. Harewood went to Spence's shop and heard Alice Heath's story for himself. He was a hot-tempered man; and when he was convinced that he had allowed Pearl to make a favourite of "such a young ruffian as this Ben," he was extremely angry; all the more angry because he felt that he ought to have made more searching inquiries before he allowed his daughter to befriend him. Home he went in gathering wrath, and rushed into the dining-room, where the ladies sat at luncheon.

"Why, Tom! I had given you up, my dear. What is the matter?" said Mrs. Harewood.

"Matter, my dear! Matter enough, I assure you. Here's a pretty discovery I've made. That young rascal, Ben Robson—his name is not Robson, by the way—he's a regular young scamp, a thief and a liar, and—and everything else that's bad. A pair of young impostors."

"Oh, Papa, there must be some mistake. Fan is such a good little thing. Now, is she not, Miss Ayrton? And Ben is so steady and clever. Uncle Frank says—"

"Clever, my dear? Not a doubt of that. Too clever by half. But I'll tell you all about it, and then you'll see that they must be sent about their business."

"Oh, Papa!"

"Pearl, my dear, do not speak just now. Let us hear the story, Tom. The boy may be able to explain matters, you know. I am sure you won't do anything in a hurry."

Which was exactly what Mr. Harewood, left to himself, would have done. However, he told the story at length, and even quiet Mrs. Harewood shook her head over it. Pearl's pretty brown eyes grew so round with horror and dismay that there really seemed to be some danger that she might never be able to close them again.

Miss Ayrton said quietly—

"Is it not possible that the girl may know nothing of all this? I should be sorry to have to think badly of Fan. She seems to me so particularly innocent and conscientious."

"All acting, believe me," said the Squire testily.

"Well, but, Tom dear, you know you won't condemn either of them unheard, nor punish the girl if she is really innocent. Don't look so grievous, Pearlie; Papa never did an unjust thing in his life. Send for Ben, and for the girl too, and let us hear what they have to say."

Messengers were sent off, and Mr. Harewood cooled down sufficiently to eat some luncheon.

While he was thus engaged, a servant came to tell him that "old Mrs. Thirlston wanted to speak to him."

Mr. Harewood groaned.

"She's in the study, I suppose. All right; I will go to her. Come with me, Anna. I cannot face granny Thirlston alone: she makes me feel as if I had eaten a sour apple!"

"Mamma," whispered Pearl, "may I come too, that I may hear what Ben says? I will be very quiet."

"You may come, then. But remember, my dear, you are not to interfere. Will you come too, Miss Ayrton?"

So they all three went to the study. As they entered, Mr. Harewood was saying—

"It is no trouble, Mrs. Thirlston. I am always—glad to be of use."

He could not say "glad to see you," as he had intended. Indeed, any one who was glad to see Mrs. Thirlston must have had a peculiar taste.

"Indeed, sir, it is but seldom, I may say, that I trouble you. I never was one for pushing myself forward. I know my place, and I know my claims, but I never push them. I came just to ask you a question, and I'm sure you'll excuse it. Do you know anything about that lad Robson, that you have taken into the stables?"

"Why, surely, Mrs. Thirlston, he has not robbed you? Why do you ask?"

"Because, sir, I was told yesterday as how his name is not Robson, but—Fairfax." She dropped her voice a little as she said the last word. "And the girl's face has puzzled me from the first. She has a likeness, sir,—there's no denying it."

"Whew!" Mr. Harewood uttered a low whistle. "How stupid of me! The name never struck me. You are right, though; the girl is like your poor daughter."

"No daughter of mine, sir."

"Nay, Mrs. Thirlston, you can't help yourself. Fanny was your daughter, poor soul! and a good girl, too, though a silly one, in that one act. Poor Fanny! The lad has a look of her, too. I never could remember who it was that they reminded me of. Here they come! I had sent for them, for I heard the story from the girl at Spence's this morning."

Before I go any further, I must tell you that, in his agony of shame and anger, Ben had told his sister the whole story of his misdoings at the Lee farm. He had wanted to make his escape before Alice Heath had time to publish the story any further, for he felt as if he could not bear to meet the altered looks of those who had so kindly befriended him, and whose good opinion he had begun to value highly.

But Fan had some hope that Mr. Harewood would be merciful, and with difficulty she coaxed him to remain quietly where he was.

I do not know that he would have yielded but for a plan which came into his head, by which he hoped to save her from another period of wandering and privation. On the Monday morning he went to his work as usual, and found that the story was already known in the stables; and the contempt and avoidance of his companions roused his temper, bringing back the old reckless, defiant mood once more.

The brother and sister entered the room together. Ben looked flushed, sulky, and defiant; Fan, anxious and frightened, her eyes going from one face to the other as she made her little bob of a curtsey, a ceremony which reminded Ben of his manners, and made him pull off his cap with an attempt at a bow. He looked with interest at old Mrs. Thirlston, who sat bolt upright and stared at him.

"Do you know why I have sent for you?" said Mr. Harewood, seating himself in a great easy chair and clearing his voice.

Ben nodded, but Fan answered softly—

"Please, sir, I think we do."

"Bold as brass," ejaculated Mrs. Thirlston.

"What is your name, boy?" said Mr. Harewood, very desirous to make him speak for himself.

Ben cast a defiant glance at Mrs. Thirlston, and answered promptly—

"Benjamin Thirlston Fairfax, sir. My poor mother named me for her father, which was steward here years ago."

"Then why did you call yourself Robson when I engaged you?"

"I called myself Robson ever since I left where we lived until last year; and I gave that name here, because I did not think Fairfax would be forgotten, and it wouldn't have done us any good."

"It would have done you no harm. It was very foolish of you to give a false name. Why did you leave F—?"

"Because," said Ben, in the same reckless way, "my father was in trouble. It was the old story over again. He was took for poaching, just as happened here before he was married; and Fan must have given evidence against him because she 'd seen game in the house (though she didn't know it was any harm). She 'd been ill, and it would have been her death, for she had a kind of feeling against it, though father never was good to her. I came home just at that time, and I stole her away and took her to London."

"And where had you been, sir, during that first absence from F—?"

Ben laughed—such a reckless, unmirthful laugh, that Fan burst into tears at the sound.

"You know all about it, sir. I was at farmer Heath's, and I left him to see after Fan; and I stole the child's frock; and I smoked in the hayloft; and I robbed the garden; and I took Tom Digges's ten shillin', and I did everything as ought not to be done. I don't deny nothing, sir; it's all true. But I've not wronged you, nor any here. You'll not believe me, though, so I'll say no more, only this—Fan is as innocent as the babe unborn; as innocent as Miss Pearl yonder, and it's the more credit to her, for she's never seen much good example, and it's not easy to be good when you're reared as we was. But Fan went to Sunday school, and always took to good ways—and she's 'your' grandchild, Mrs. Thirlston! She's your only daughter's child, and she never had but the two of us, and died when Fan was a baby. My father married again, and got one more fit for him. But you look at Fan and you'll see for yourself whose child she is—for she's the image of my mother, and you can't deny it."

"Oh, Ben!" exclaimed the girl, who had listened to this speech as if spell-bound. "Was poor Mother not my mother really?"

"Not she. Your mother was Fanny Thirlston, the daughter of that old woman yonder, that made believe to set the dogs on us when we first came here."

"I'm so glad," Fan said to herself. "I'm sure my own mother loved me."

"What has become of your father?" asked Mr. Harewood.

"He's dead, sir. He got off for want of evidence against him, and then he took ill and died. There's the letter I got, telling me of it," and he laid on the table a dirty scrap of newspaper, containing the account of the trial of the poachers, and Fairfax's acquittal, which Mrs. Simmonds had sent him in the letter, which he also produced.

"These papers certainly confirm your story," remarked Mr. Harewood, who, kindhearted man, by this time only wanted an excuse for forgiving Ben, and giving him another trial.

"It don't need no confirming, sir. I ain't asking anything for myself, and it's not likely any one would tell such a story of himself and his father if it wasn't true; nor 'then,' if he could help himself. I know you'll never trust me, and I don't deserve it. But if Mrs. Thirlston will give poor Fan house-room, and keep her till I come for her, I'd go away at once—and I'd 'never' trouble any one here any more—I swear it," with a meaning look at the old woman.

"He means, he 'd never come back!" cried Fan, springing to Ben's side, and holding fast by his arm. "I won't be left, Ben! Where you go, I'll go. You wouldn't have the heart. Ben—you couldn't do it! I'd break my heart. I wouldn't stay without you."

"There must be some good in the fellow," said Mr. Harewood to his wife, in rather a husky voice.

Ben was ready to cry, but he looked at Mrs. Thirlston inquiringly, and she nodded her head, to intimate that she would befriend Fan. And in the strength of his very love for the child, he determined to answer her in such a way as should make her content to let him go. It was a hard thing to do, but he remembered the weary, hungry, sickly little creature, who had toiled so patiently after him in his wanderings, and whatever might become of himself, he would secure comfort and plenty for little Fan. So he shook her hands off roughly, and said—

"I can't be bothered with ye, Fan; that's the plain truth of it. I can do well for myself, if I haven't you to keep too."

Fan looked up in his face—her eyes had a wild, unbelieving terror in them that went to his heart, but he hardened his face, and frowned. Without a word, the child fell at his feet as if he had killed her. Miss Ayrton and Pearl ran to raise her, but Ben had lifted her in his arms.

"God bless you, my poor little darling! 'Twas hard to do—but you'll be better off without a rascal like me."

He put his sister into Miss Ayrton's arms as he spoke. For some minutes all was confusion; it was difficult to bring Fan to life again, and when she had become conscious, and there was time to look about, Ben was nowhere to be seen. He was searched for in every direction, for Mr. Harewood was fully determined to give him another trial. But this poor Ben could not guess, and he was gone, however he contrived it.

Fan sat on the ground, and shivered from head to foot, as she listened to the cries of the searchers. She did not seem to hear what was said to her, but looked so utterly miserable that at last Pearl, guessing what was the worst part of the grief, sat down beside her and said—

"Listen, Fan dear. You know Ben only said that to make you let him go. And he took you in his arms, and said, 'God bless my little darling, you'll be better without me;' and he kissed you 'so.' Fan, he loves you dearly."

Fan laid her weary head down on the young lady's dainty muslin, and cried "till her heart was light," as the song says; or if not light, much lighter, at all events.

"He will surely come back to me, since I know he loves me," she said. "And oh! Miss Pearl dear, I do love him so."

Then Mrs. Thirlston arose from her seat, and made the following proclamation, in her least gracious manner:

"Well, sir and madam, if this child—and she's old enough to know better—can leave off behaving like a baby and spoiling Miss Harewood's beautiful blue muslin, which she ought to be ashamed for ever of making so free, I have just a word to say to her."

Poor Fan stood up, and tried to smile in a meek and conciliating manner, but she only succeeded in making a queer little face, and it was, perhaps, well for her that Mrs. Thirlston was looking at Mr. Harewood, not at her.

"It seems, sir, that this child 'is' my grandchild; there's no hope that it's a lie?"

"No 'fear' of that," Mrs. Harewood answered. "I think it is certainly true."

"Well, if she is, I suppose I must give her a chance of turning out decent. I haven't a mite of hope that she will. I gave her mother every advantage, and brought her up strict; and you know how that ended! But as the boy is gone—I'll have nought to do with he—and as I've been thinking lately of having a girl to do odd jobs—for I'm not so young as I was, and the rheumatiz is powerful bad sometimes—I'll take the girl home with me, and see if she'll go on steady. I don't expect it, but I'll keep her humble, and I'll give her a chance."

"Be kind to the child, Mrs. Thirlston," said the Squire, looking pityingly at Fan.

"Oh, certainly, sir. I never rose my hand to her mother, and I won't to her."

"Papa," whispered Pearl, "don't let her go—keep Fan here. Dear Papa, do! She'll be so wretched."

Fan heard the whisper, and to Pearl's great surprise, she said earnestly—

"You are very good to me, Miss Pearl, but I'll go with her. You see, if I don't, Ben won't know where to find me when he comes back. And I'll be always watching for him."

So Pearl let her go, promising to come often to see her. And Fairy Cottage was deserted, for it was long before Pearl cared to play there again.

And as to Fan, she would walk all the way round through Comerton, rather than pass the closed door of her dear little home.

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