CHAPTER VI.

"ARE YOU THERE, BEN?"

IT was an easy matter for Ben, knowing the grounds as he did (thanks to his love of watching the birds and beasts), to conceal himself from his pursuers. He had jumped out through the open window, and though he presently became aware that search was being made for him, and heard his name called loudly, he did not choose to be found. He had no idea that Mr. Harewood had relented, and the voices which called him did not sound friendly, or he fancied so.

When the search was given up, he stole back to the cottage, to secure his clothes and a few shillings that he had saved. Very sad he felt as he glanced round the small room where he and Fan had been so happy, and which, between them, they kept in such beautiful order.

But the softness passed away, and he told himself that now he was free—free to go to London and do the best he could for himself. There, he was sure of picking up odd jobs, and even of making friends who would have no right to look down upon him. He had met with many such acquaintances during the few weeks he had remained in London, and, in his present reckless mood, the remembrance of that time seemed pleasant to him.

For Fan's sake he had resisted temptation, had worked hard and tried to win a good character, but it was of no use. Do what he would, his own and his father's sins would be remembered against him; and so, as nothing better remained to him, he might as well give up, and have a little fun if he could get it. London was the place for such as he, and Ben set his face towards London, and tramped away sturdily until it was quite dark.

He was then entering a small town, so he looked out for a small inn, or rather public-house, and having had some supper, went to bed in a room which contained several beds, all of them engaged for that night. Before he slept, he had quite made up his mind.

Yes—he would go to London. There was no use in trying to be honest and good: he had tried, and was beginning to like it, and here was the end of it. He would buy a wheelbarrow and a load of fruit, and begin life as a costermonger—forget Fan, make friends, and lead a jolly life. He had money enough to travel by rail the rest of the way, and to set himself up in trade afterwards, and he would follow his new calling until something better turned up.

But Ben—poor Fan's own dear Bennie—was not left to himself to go to ruin, as in London he would but too surely have gone! He met with what he considered a great misfortune that night. He was robbed during his sleep (probably by one of the other lodgers) of all his money, and a good many articles of clothing. He made a great outcry, and the landlord, a big, truculent-looking fellow, either believed, or pretended to believe, that he had never had any money, and was only making this fuss to deceive him; and showing him a big stick, he promised him a sound drubbing if he did not at once depart.

"Taking away the character of my honest house—coming here without a copper, and sleeping in a bed fit for a lord—eating and drinking of the best, and then saying you are robbed! Just turn out, you young gallows bird."

"I shall go straight to the police," cried the angry Ben.

"If you do, I'll give you in charge for your expenses. But you won't, my boy. You're the kind of lad that isn't fond of the police, though I dare say the police is fond of you sometimes. Well—you go to 'em—the station is round the corner there."

Ben did not go to the police, however. When his wrath subsided, he thought better of that determination. So his money was gone; and now if he went to London, he would reach it penniless, and must even beg his bread along the road. Any way of life was better than that.

Two days later, as he was entering another town, Ben fell in with a travelling circus. The tent was pitched on a green place by the road's side, and as he lingered to have a look at it, he heard some men, who were lounging about, say that one of the grooms had just met with an accident, and been carried to the hospital in the town. Ben conjectured, shrewdly enough, that the circus was so small that the loss of one groom was likely to be a serious inconvenience to the company, so he boldly entered the tent, and spoke to the first person he met—a magnificent youth in tight flesh-coloured garments and spangles, with a gold fillet tied round a shock head of red hair. The morning performance was but just over, and this gay young gentleman had not yet changed his attire, as the "Celebrated Boneless Boy."

"If you please," said Ben, "does not your master want a groom?"

"Why do you ask?" inquired the boneless one, with a grin. "You look too respectable a card for our shop."

No compliment ever gave Ben such unqualified pleasure as this remark, which the "Boneless Boy" intended as a disparaging one.

"I'm down on my luck all the same," Ben remarked; "and I'm well used to horses."

"Oh, jolly!" cried the bespangled youth.

And to Ben's great admiration, he forthwith proceeded to tie his legs round his neck, and hop on his hands round his new acquaintance, by way of expressing his feelings.

"Oh, jolly! If no one turned up, I'd have to turn groom myself, for I'm the youngest apprentice. And oh, my eye, don't the 'White Horse of the Boundless Prairies,' watch his opportunity to give you a bite, and don't the 'Wild Irish Girl' kick like a good one? And when a fellow has two performances in the day, as 'Boneless Boy,' that's enough for him, without grooming the horses between times! Come along, and I'll take you to our governor."

Ben followed him into a wooden stable behind the tent, where they found several people more or less bespangled, standing about, while a stout, middle-aged man, with a good-natured face, was listening to the surviving groom, who was assuring him that "without 'elp he never could 'ope to send the 'orses into the hairear looking as his 'art could wish to see them."

"Jack, my poor boy," said Mr. Algernon Percy Wilbraham (which was the name of the proprietor of the circus, if the bills were to be believed), "you must just dress as fast as you can, and help Jem, until I get some one in Bob's place—stupid lad to let the mare break his leg when he ought to have been up to her ways by this time. But who's this, Jack?"

"Your new groom, I hope, sir," replied Jack with a grin. "He says he's handy about horses, and wants a job."

The bargain was soon made, for Mr. Algernon Percy Wilbraham wanted a groom very much, and Ben was in no condition to haggle for wages. And in ten minutes, he was hard at work rubbing down the "White Horse of the Boundless Prairies," a patient and Roman-nosed steed, and even assisting in making the animal deserve it's name by carefully whitening over a couple of dark patches on his sides.

Mr. Algernon Percy Wilbraham soon perceived that he had hired a clever groom, and the "Boneless Boy" became quite attached to his new friend.

From town to town they wandered, and the life was one which Ben would have thought very pleasant, once upon a time. The circus people were not bad folk in their way; they were tolerably honest, and drinking was out of the question, as it would have rendered them unfit for their business. Gambling was in fashion among them, but not to any great extent. Ben became rather a favourite with his master, as he proved to have quite a genius for teaching horses and dogs new tricks, and every one was pleasant to him.

Altogether, he thought he ought to be happy, but, as a matter of fact, he was very much the reverse. Once the life would have suited him, but he was changed now. Mind and heart had been awakened, and he could not lull them to sleep again. He missed his pleasant studies; there was no time for reading now, and no books to read. Church-going was impossible, as they were generally travelling on Sunday, and, to his own surprise, Ben missed the quiet Sunday and the hours spent in church.

And then the thought of little Fan! The little white face as he saw it last; the pitiful cry "you couldn't have the heart to leave me;" the look she gave him when he shook her hand off so roughly! He could not rest for thinking of little Fan. Suppose the old woman beat her? She looked as if she could. Suppose the child pined away and died for want of kindness? Suppose, too, that Fan could see him now, and know what a godless, thankless life he was leading; how the oaths and light jests of his companions, though they had annoyed him when he was fresh from his happy, quiet home with her, were so familiar now that he found himself using them frequently; what would she feel if she knew all this? Ah, little Fan, watching and weeping for your wilful brother, you little knew how the silken thread of love was drawing him, slowly, but surely back to you once more.

Fan was miserably unhappy in her grandmother's trim and pretty cottage at first. Mrs. Thirlston, in her laudable desire to "keep her humble," seldom allowed a day to pass without telling her that her mother had been a thankless fool, and her father a worthless rogue; that she was in a fair way to take after her mother, while Ben had already taken after his father, and gone to the bad. Fan seldom answered, but she lost heart, and instead of trying to please her grandmother, she just did what she was desired to do, and kept away from her as much as she could, which vexed the old woman and made her crosser than before.

At first the child was really frightened, remembering how her stepmother used to knock her about, but she soon found out that Mrs. Thirlston used no weapon but her tongue. But as time went on, it became more difficult to bear with the said tongue. It would be hard to say how the old woman expected the child to grow fond of her, but she did expect it, and was angry and disappointed because she did not do so. Much talk about ingratitude was now added to her constant scoldings, but Fan was getting hardened to it all, and did not care. It was bad for the child in every way, and Pearl, who came constantly to see her, did not find her little favourite improved, though she could not have said what was wrong.

Time passed very slowly for Fan, but somehow the winter wore away at last, and summer was nearly over too, when the following conversation passed between Fan and Miss Pearl, who had come to pay her a visit.

"Fan, do you know that uncle Frank is here again?"

Fan sighed. Mr. Sydney had been very kind to Ben.

"Is he, miss? I didn't know it."

"And I was telling him about Ben, and he is so sorry. And he has made such a lovely plan, and he says I may tell you. You know, don't you? that he is very clever and learned, and that he writes books about birds, and beasts, and things."

"Yes, Miss Pearl; you lent Ben a book of his when we were living—"

"In the cottage," she meant to say, but her voice died away.

"Speak up, Frances," said Mrs. Thirlston, severely (she always called her grandchild Frances); "don't be muttering under your breath when Miss Harewood is so good as to speak to you."

"I understand her quite well, thank you," answered Pearl, quietly. "Well, Fan, uncle Frank is going to South America on one of his exploring, collecting journeys, and he wants some one to go with him as a servant, and to help. And he says Ben would be a treasure to him because he likes that kind of thing, you know. And papa says that a few years with uncle Frank, away from all temptation, and where no one would know that he had ever—been foolish, would be so very good for Ben. Uncle Frank will take him, if we can only find him in time. Has he never written?"

"No, never. He will not write. I think he'll come—he will want to see how I am without any one knowing it. He'll come at night. I look-out and call him every night before I go to bed."

"Indeed you do, as I can testify; for most wearing it is," remarked Mrs. Thirlston. "To say nothing of the chance of your letting in some tramp that will murder us all, and rob the house. But under my roof that young vagabone don't set 'his' foot. Mind that, Frances."

"I would not bring him in," said Fan, "you need not fear, ma'am."

"Uncle Frank and Papa mean to put advertisements in the papers, in hopes that Ben may see one of them; and they mean to try if the police can find him. Uncle Frank bid me tell you that he likes Ben, and will be a friend to him if—if—"

"If what, Miss Pearl?"

"If 'only' he has done nothing bad since he left us. But the only thing they have found out yet, is that he went towards London, and they say that if he went there, they would be very much afraid for him."

"Why, Miss Pearl!"

"It seems there are a great many very wicked people in London, who would be glad to get Ben and teach him bad things."

"Well, he wouldn't require teaching," remarked Mrs. Thirlston. "His father's own son; that's what he is."

"Do you think he would go to London?" asked Pearl, pretending not to hear this speech.

"Miss Pearl, I don't know 'where' he 'd go, but I don't think he would go wrong—and I'm sure he'll come back. Oh, if we could only find him in time! This would make him so happy."

"You may be very thankful you can't lay hands on him, Frances. Mr. Sydney doesn't know him as I do, or he 'd never run such a risk. That boy 'd cut his throat and rob him as soon as look at him; and you may tell Mr. Sydney as I say it, that's his grandmother to my sorrow."

"Grandma!" said Fan, suddenly. "Say what you like to me, for I don't care about it, but don't say things like that of Ben. He never hurt any one in his life—and you know nothing about him. Are you going, Miss Pearl? May I go a little bit of the way with you?"

They went off together, leaving Mrs. Thirlston quite speechless with wrath. But Pearl felt quite vexed, and as they walked along she said gently—

"Fan, do you think you ought to speak like that to Mrs. Thirlston? She's very old, you know, and she is your grandmother."

"Miss Pearl, I know I ought not. But indeed she does drive me so, with her tongue, that I'm getting quite wicked. I never knew before how bad I could be; poor mother used to beat me sometimes, but then she 'd let me alone sometimes too, and I think I would rather be beaten than hear grandma going on at me all day."

"I wish you could leave her, Fan. I am sure it is not good for you."

"No, miss—I am getting quite stupid like, but I can't leave till Ben comes. I know he'll come, some time or other."

The advertisements were printed, but Ben did not see them; and the police searched for Ben both in London and in the towns which lay between Comerton and London, but they did not find him. And time was flying, the month fixed by Mr. Sydney for his departure came, and poor Fan was almost in despair.

Grandma was ill too, suffering cruelly from rheumatism, which did not improve her temper, but quite the reverse. And I am sorry to say that her bitter tongue had so disgusted Fan that at first she was not very sorry for the old woman's sufferings.

At last Mr. Sydney came to Harewood again, to say good-bye. He had not filled up the place meant for Ben, as he had not been able to find any one who seemed likely to suit him, but he hoped to get a servant in America.

Now, it happened that just at this time Ben and the circus arrived at the little town where he had been robbed of his money. And, being so near Fan, the longing to know whether she were well cared for and contented, or pining and unhappy, became so strong that he could resist no longer. If he found her well and happy, he would not speak to her, nor do anything to unsettle her, but he must see for himself that it was so. For if not, she would be better off with him, uncomfortable as the wandering life would be to so shy and timid a creature.

So one evening, having thoroughly finished his work, Ben went in search of the "Boneless Boy," whom he found in the deserted arena, in a more than commonly boneless condition, as he was practising a new attitude of marvellous ugliness.

"Jack," said Ben, after contemplating him for a minute, "if you 'could' come straight, I'd find it easier to speak to you. This minute, I don't know where your head is."

Jack's limbs relaxed, and he tumbled down straight enough, and flat enough too, on the ground.

"Wot's up, matey?" said he.

Ben explained that he wanted to go and see his sister who lived some miles off. And he promised that if Jack would undertake his morning work for him, he would return before the morning performance was over.

The good-natured lad promised willingly.

"But you never told me that you have a sister, Ben," said he.

"She's only a child," Ben answered. "Where's the manager, Jack? I must get his leave."

Mr. Algernon Percy Wilbraham, whose intimate friends, for some unknown reason, were wont to address him as Jerry Slaggs, gave his consent willingly, and Ben set off on his long walk without further delay.

[Illustration: THERE THE CHILD STOOD, LISTENING.]

By the time he reached the pretty cottage on the edge of the park, it was very late, and as dark as a summer night ever is. It was so late that he felt sure that Fan was in bed and asleep, but he thought he would go up to the house and have a look at it before he sought out a sheltered corner wherein to pass the night.

To his surprise, there were lights in every room in the cottage, and he could see people moving about, though he could not distinguish one from another, as the blinds and curtains were partially drawn. After a few moments, however, all the lights save one were extinguished.

And then the hall door was softly opened, and some one came out and stood on the little gravelled sweep. It was Fan, taking that "last look," which her grandmother found so wearing! She did it almost without hope now; yet she could not have gone to bed without doing it. She was very late to-night, in consequence of her grandmother's increased illness, which had obliged her to have a woman from the village in to help.

There the child stood, listening. And presently she called aloud—

"Are you there, Ben? Oh, if you are, answer me."

Ben, utterly amazed—for how should he know that this was a nightly ceremony, and that Fan had not discovered that he was near?—moved a step forward. And in another moment, Fan had her arms round his neck.

"Oh, my darling! Oh, Ben, is it really you? Safe and well? Oh, Ben, I was thinking you must be dead, or you'd have come to me."

"It's me, no doubt, Fan, dear; though how you heard or saw me passes my wits. Why, child, you've grown so tall! Come in and get a light, that I may see you."

"No, no; don't go into the house, Ben. Wait one moment. Oh, my heart is jumping about so that there's a buzz in my head. Let me sit down on the doorstep for a minute, Ben dear, I've so much to tell you."

"Well, but come in; there's a great dew, and you'll get damp. Come in, and we can have a talk."

"No; grandma is always saying that I'm not to bring you into the house, and one wouldn't like to do it now, just because she's in bed and couldn't prevent it. I'll go and ask her, and if she says no, I'll go up with you to the House. They want you there, Ben."

She entered the house, and ran upstairs. Ben could hear the conversation as he stood in the doorway, for the house was very small.

"Grandma, Ben has come back at last," began Fan excitedly.

"Has he? I don't believe you, you minx."

"He has, indeed. May I bring him into the kitchen, and talk to him?"

"Frances Fairfax! How often have I told you that that young vagabone don't cross my threshold? 'Bring him in,' she says as cool as possible; bring him in to rob and murder me in my bed. Now, Frances, here's my last word. Go you down, tell Ben to go about his business, and shut the door in his face, and bolt and lock it and look to the windows, or turn out this minute and go with him, and go your own way, for I'll have nothing more to do with you."

"Very well, grandma; I'll go."

"You'll go, and leave me to be cared for by that hussy, Sally Tibbs? And this is your gratitude, when I took you in and fed and clothed you, and done my best to teach you to be humble and keep you from ruin? You'll go!"

"Yes, grandma. You've never been kind to me; you never said a kind word to me since you brought me here; and if you fed me, I worked for you, and you must have had a servant if I hadn't been here. And I never would have stayed, only I knew Ben would come here to look for me. So now he has come, I'll go with him."

"I was a fool to expect any better of your mother's daughter. Go, then. But don't be sneaking back when he leaves you again, as he will. You may go to the workhouse then, for all I care."

"And I'd rather go there," said Fan, as she ran downstairs with her hat and cloak in her hand. "Oh, Ben, did you hear her? Ain't she cross? That's the way she goes on all day long, and all night too, when she can't sleep."

Ben made no answer. He could not have put his feeling into words, but he was surprised, and—not exactly disappointed, but something like it, to hear Fan answer the old woman so doggedly. But Fan was her old loving self again in a moment, and he forgot his half-formed thoughts very soon.

"Now I'm ready. Sally Tibbs will see to grandma. Now, Ben, come to the House, and as we go, I'll tell you why they want you."

"But look here, Fan. I have no comfortable place to take you to. Suppose that old cat won't have you back?"

"I couldn't go back to her. Miss Pearl will manage for me—I know she will. Oh, Ben dear, living with grandma would make me wicked; you don't know what she is. Why, Sally is the fourth woman we've had since she got worse; and Sally will only stay till her week is up."

"But, Fan—I don't want to go up to the House. I—I'm ashamed."

"But only wait until I tell you why they want you."

She stopped, and looking up in his face, anxiously trying to read his history there by the dim starlight, she said less joyously—

"Only first—tell me, Ben dear, where you've been, and what work you are at."

This Ben did, and again the child tripped on beside him with a heart as light as her dancing feet.

"How good he is!" she said. "And I was doubting him. I ought never to doubt him again. Poor grandma! I'm a little sorry for her."

"Why, child?"

"Because I'm so happy. Here's the gate, Ben dear. Do you remember the day you helped me over it, and we crept into the cottage, and I went off asleep? I have never passed it since you went, but it's our shortest way, so we'll climb over the gate. And now I'll tell you about Mr. Sydney, and what he wants of you."

The party at Harewood House were sitting together talking; and Pearl was still up, because uncle Frank was going away so soon. The solemn-looking butler came in with a deprecating air, and said—

"Sir, that little girl of Mrs. Thirlston's, Fanny Fairfax, is at the door and she would take no refusal, but I must tell Miss Harewood that she want to speak to her."

"Oh, dear!" cried Pearl. "I am sure she has found Ben."

"Or Mrs. Thirlston has turned her out," said the Squire.

"More likely the poor old woman is worse," said Mrs. Harewood.

"I am sure it is Ben," Pearl repeated, as she ran out of the room. And one glance at Fan's radiant face assured her that she had guessed rightly.

"Oh, Fan, you've got him!" she cried.

"Yes, Miss Pearl," Fan replied, speaking without any stops in the joy of her heart, "and he's all right; he's been at honest work and kept one place ever since he left me and he's in it still only he's behind that big tree because he won't face the master until he knows you'll befriend him."

"Of course I will. Ben, come here at once!" Pearl cried.

And if the butler did not have a fit when he saw Miss Harewood, with tears of joy in her sweet brown eyes, lead the two Fairfaxes into the drawing-room, I think he will never have one, for it was a trial to him.

"Mamma, I was right. Uncle Frank, Ben's come back, and here he is. And he's all right. Oh, Mamma, are you not glad?"

Ben looked very sheepish, but the two gentlemen spoke so kindly to him that he plucked up courage, and explained the nature of his present employment, giving his master's name, and saying that he thought he would give him a good character. Then Mr. Sydney asked him if Fan had told him of the place offered him, and if he wished to accept it.

"Oh, sir, it would be the making of me! It would be the very thing of all others that I'd like. But I must go back to my master, sir, until he can get a groom, for it would not be fair to take him short like this."

"Quite right, Ben. I'll drive over to — to-morrow, and you can come with me. We'll see what he says."

"Thank you, sir. I know he'll speak well for me, for I've served him honest. And I hope," Ben went on, getting fiery red, "that you and—and every one—knows that I feel more than I can say. I'm sure I don't know why you should be so kind, sir—unless it's for Fan's sake."

"Fan is a good girl," said Mr. Harewood. "But I should try to befriend you for your mother's sake, Ben. She was a great favourite with 'my' mother, and I have always been very sorry for her. Is Fan to go home to-night?"

"Fan was turned out, sir, because she wouldn't shut the door in my face."

"Ah, well; some people never learn by experience. Fan must stay here then, and when we see how your affairs are settled, we will arrange for her. Anna, you had better tell Mrs. Turner to see after them both for to-night."

So the housekeeper was sent for, and the brother and sister remained at the house that night. Fan was wonderfully happy; she thought it odd that she was not perfectly happy, but she could not get her poor, lonely, cross, old grandmother out of her head. Since the old woman's illness had become serious, Fan had felt more kindly towards her until that evening, when her abuse of Ben hardened her heart. And she knew that Sally Tibbs would not fill her place well.

Next day, Mr. Sydney took Ben with him, and went off early to see Mr. Algernon Percy Wilbraham, who gave Ben an excellent character, and was very sorry to lose him, though he at once declared that he "wouldn't stand in the lad's light." Mr. Sydney offered to pay a man to take Ben's place for a time, as he wished to carry him off at once. This made everything square, Mr. Wilbraham remarked, and Ben's bundle was soon made ready for departure.

The morning performance was going on, and the "Boneless Boy" was summoned from the arena to bid his friend good-bye, a farewell which cost the soft-hearted youth many tears. And he returned to his performance with a countenance curiously spotted and streaked, in consequence of his tears having partially washed away the paint with which he was adorned. The audience rather liked it, however, as a decided novelty.

Fan's good-bye was a much sadder affair. With all her unselfish love, she could not but feel very desolate when parting with Ben for a long time—perhaps for years. Still she tried very hard to be cheerful, and even to smile as she kissed him for the last time, so that he might not have a melancholy recollection of her.

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