;, ir
BEN OWEN.
BEN OWEN,
BY
JENNIE PERRETT.
"He that does good deeds here, waits at a table
Where angels are his fellow-servitors."
TORONTO :
WILLIAM BRIGGS,
78 A 80 KiNQ Strkkt East.
1881.
CONTENTS.
CHATTER. PAOB
I Kept in 7
II. Ben's Home 18
III. An Evening Visit 25
IV. Sam'l Hornby's General Shop 35
V. A Bitter Disappointment 43
VI. The Strangers 50
VII. Mr. Henry Ashpord's Refusal 57
VIII. A Painful Discovery 62
IX. In the Works 70
X. New Year's Eve 79
IX. At Liberty 87
BEN OWEN.
CHAPTER I.
KEPT IN.
THE heat had been intense all the day, for
more than a week no rain had fallen ; the grass
in the fields, and along the roadside, was brown
and scorched, the thirsty flowers in the gardens
drooped upon their stems, only the tall sunflowers
held their heads erect, and looked proudly up to the
blue, cloudless sky.
The church clock of the village of Ashleigh had just
struck four when a slight breeze arose, stirring gently
the branches of the trees in the playground of the
village school, und the birds that had been venture-
some enough to build their nests there, peeped cau-
tiously and expectantly around. ,
The breeze might mean that rain was coming, or it
8 BEN OWEN.
might not ; anyhow it was a new topic for conversa-
tion ; there had been nothing but the heat to chatter
about for some days past ; so the birds chirped and
twittered away, and the most weatherwise amongst
them watched a tiny, white, fleecy-looking cloud pass-
ing along the sky. \
Some one else as well as the watchful little song-
sters saw the first signs of the coming shower. A tall,
stalwart man, who had been walking through the dusty
lanes, and now came slowly up the street where there
was no shade or shelter from the sun's burning rays,
looked up, and as he saw the cloud, a grim smile of
satisfaction passed over his hard, stern face. And a
little girl who stood at the open door of the school,
watching a butterfly with bright, coloured wings, saw
the same tiny cloud, but it was no longer alone, others
larger and darker were spreading themselves rapidly
over the sky. ,
The child left her post, and hastened across the
room.
"What is it, Nancy?" asked the schoolmaster
kindly ; " you may stand at the door a few minutes
longer."
" Please, Mester Deane, it's comin'," said the child.
" What is coming, Nancy ? "
"Please, sir, th' rain's comin'."
The schoolmaster went to the door, and looked up
at the dark clouds.
" Yes, Nancy, you are right," he said, " we shall have
a heavy shower, and then the air will be cooler."
BEN OWEN. 9
Mr. Deane rejoiced at the thoup;ht, for he ht.d found
the intense heat very trying.
It had certainly affected the children's coi.duct ;
they had been restless, fidgety, inattentive, and shepy
the whole of the day. More than one little head had
fallen weariedly upon the desk, the book or pen had
dropped from the tired hand, and certain unmistakable
sounds had borne witness to the fact that for a time at
least sleep had conquered any desire for knowledge.
Mr. Deane had not attempted to awaken the sleepers,
he put the cushion from his chair under a little girl's
curly head, and he placed another wearied child in a
small recess near his own d k.
More than once he thought of dismissing his scholars
early in the afterroon, and giving them an additional
hour's instruction another day.
But the schoolmaster was a quiet, methodical man;
with him each hour of the day had its allotted amount
of work, and he shrank nervously from any deviation
from the existing school routine.
Therefore, instead of closing before the appointed
time, he exerted himself to the utmost to make the
afternoon lessons as pleasant as he possibly could, and
exercised an unusual amount of patience on behalf of
his scholars.
They were troublesome and unruly, these children ;
almost unconsciously they had taken up the idea that
a schoolmaster was a tyrant whom they were bound
to outwit, and cheat, and conquer if they possibly
could.
10 BEN OWEN.
Some of them would have rebelled openly had they
dared, or if they couid have gained anything by so
doing, at being obliged to attend a school at all. They
were not so entirely to blame for this, as any one un-
acquainted with the facts of the case might have sup-
posed them to be.
For the children knew what Her Majesty's Inspector
who visited Ashleigh at certain times did not know,
how some of the parents grudged the few pence weekly
for " th' school wage." And also how they grudged
still more the precious hours which bore no fruit, so
far as they in their shortsightedness could see. The
children knew, too, how they were kept at home on
the faintest pretext of an excuse to help with the work
of the household.
Still, parents and children had sense enough to
know that it was useless fighting against the laws of
the country. The Government had taken all children
from collieries, factories, and workshops of every de-
scription into its own hands, and was fully prepared to
carry out all it had undertaken.
But, if the Ashleigh children could not unsettle the
Government, they could, and theg did, make one of its
representatives, in the form of the schoolmaster, very
uncomfortable at times.
The village was a few miles away from busy, noisy
Manchester, and some of the oldest inhabitants of Ash-
leigh could remember the time when the houses on the
high' road to the city were few and far between.
BEN OWEN. 11
But the houses were very numerous now, and in the
village itself whole rows of workmen's cottages had
been built during the last few years for the accommo-
dation of families who worked at the Ashleigh Calico-
print Works.
To these Works, the calico woven in the cotton mills
was brought, here it was bleached, and passed from
the men working in the "dyehouse," "steaming " and
" raising rooms," to the women and girls who did the
" plaiting " and " folding," the " sewing " and the
" marking."
When it left the warehouse placed in immense bales
on large lurries it was no longer plain calico, but print
of all colours and various patterns.
Some of the bales we^t direct to the Manchester
market, and from thence all over the United King-
dom ; and some went to Liverpool, and from thence
across the broad Atlantic, and away to far distant
lands.
The Print Works found employment not only for
men and women, but also for children.
At the age of ten they could enter as " half-timers,"
working one part of the day, and attending the school
the other part. Working among men and women,
many of whom had not " the fear of God before their
eyes," seeing and hearing much that was wrong ; was
it any wonder that the children soon lost the inno-
cence of childhood, and that their finer feelings were
dulled and blunted ?
12 BEN OWEN.
Mr. Deane endeavoured to bear these facts in mind
in all his dealings with his scholars. And on this hot
summer afternoon, wearied as he felt, not one impa-
tient word escaped his lips, and when he saw the gath-
ering clouds he resolved to dismiss the children at
once, so that they might reach their homes before the
rain came. So he rang the bell, and gave the word of
command, "All books closed."
At that very moment a little boy sitting on one of
the back seats took a hard, green apple from his
pocket, and deliberately threw it at a boy who was
sitting on a form in front of him.
The apple went too far, it missed the boy, and hit
the master instead.
Mr. Deane's pale face flushed ; some of the children
laughed, and looked round at one another, and then
stared at the master, wondering what he would do.
They were not left to wonder long. Mr. Deane
looked gravely at them, and said quickly, but firmly,
" How many times have I forbidden you to throw
anything across the schoolroom ? Only a week ago
one of the windows was broken by a ball, and the
other day a little girl was hurt by an old knife thrown
by a thoughtless boy ; now, children, I ask you who
has thrown this apple ? "
All were silent for a few moments, then little
Nancy's voice was heard.
" Please, Sir," she said, " yo' dunnot need to think as
onybody throwed it at yo', yon apple were na meant
foryo'."
BEN OWEN. 13
" I don't think it was, Nancy, it was intended to hit
some one else, and I hope the boy or girl who threw it
will at once tell me the truth. I would rather have a
dozen apples thrown, and every window broken, than
that one of you should tell me a lie ! "
There was silence again, onl^ broken by the ticking
of the clock, and the patter of some raindrops on the
stone step at the door ; then came a dull, heavy sound
like thunder in the distance.
A pale-faced lad about thirteen years of age started
as he heard the sound ; the master looked steadily at
him, the boy felt rather than saw the look; his face
flushed crimson, and his eyes sought the ground.
Naturally unsuspicious though he was, Mr, Deane
felt certain that the lad had some knowledge of the
point in question, and he was grieved at the thought ;
he liked the boy, and up to the present time had
always found him truthful and obedient. He waited
a little while, hoping that he would speak, then he
said, " Ben Owen, did you throw that apple ? "
The boy looked up then. " No, Sir," he replied.
But his eyes dropped again as soon as he had
spoken, and the bright colour rushed to his face.
Mr. Deane was grieved and puzzled, and the chil-
dren began to look impatiently towards the door.
" Ben Owen," asked the master, " can you tell me
who did throw the apple ? "
The boy raised his head, an earnest, beseeching look
in his blue eyes.
1% BEN OWEN.
" Did you hear my question ? "
"Yes, Sir."
" Am I right in believing you know who threw that
iapple?"
" Yes, Sir."
" Who was it then ? "
" Please, Sir, I canna tell yo' ! "
" Very well, if you cannot, or rather you will not,
tell me, you will be kept in after the others have left.
Mind, children," added llr. Deane, "I do not wish to
encourage you to tell tales of one another, but I am
determined that this dangerous practice of throwing
things across the schoolroom shall be put an end to."
When the school was dismissed, a few boys lingered
near the door, and Ben Owen went back to his own
seat.
" Ben Owen," said the master, " I will leave you
three sums to work while I am away, numbers ninety-
one, ninety-two, and ninety-three ; I will return pres-
ently. Run away home, boys," he added, as he locked
the schoolroom door, and walked quickly away.
Ben Owen took from his desk his slate and book ;
as regarded his task he would rather have had a page
of history or poetry to learn. He was not quick at
figures, and the three sums given him meant for him
an hour's hard work.
An hour's work ! And his head ached and throbbed
now ; he had been up since five o'clock, in the Print
Works by six, in the hot schoolroom all the afternoon ;
BEN OWEN. 15
he had behaved well himself, and had done his best in
his quiet way to persuade the boys in his class to be-
have well too.
As he thought of this his mouth quivered, and he
leaned his head upon his hands ; there was no tor-
menting schoolfellow near to call him " a cry baby,"
the hot, burning tears fell fast now.
They fell upon his slate, rubbing out the figures he
had just made. He pushed back his hair from his
forehead ; such beautiful hair it was, as fair and curly
as that of any dainty drawing-room pet.
" I'm a brave soldier, I am," said Ben half aloud, as
he commenced his sum again ; " it is na such as me as
will win th' prize. Th' Great Master did na stop to
think about Himself when He were on earth, He had
a world of trouble and died a shameful death for usj
but we think we mun ha' no trouble, we're noan so
ready to take up our cross and follow Him."
The rain was falling fast now, the wind had risen,
the peals of thunder were long and loud, and the
flashes of lightning bright and vivid.
The boy all alone in the large schoolroom looked up
to the window nearest to him, and a bright smile
passed over his face.
" It's a real storm an' no mistake," he said, " an' I'm
glad now I've done as I have, poor little Jimmy is so
feart of thunder, he would ha' shrieked if he'd been
here alone, an' I'm noan feart mysen ; it's all of God,
Mrhether it be thunder, or hail and tempest, or th' still
nail voice."
16 BEN OWEN.
Ben applied himself with redoubled energy to his
task.
Half an hour passed away ; the storm was at its
height now, the rain falling in torrents.
" It does na' stop," said Ben ; " there's a mighty
sight of water outside, I wish there were but a gill-pot
full in here, I'm real dry, I am ; what with th' heat an'
th' dust I feel pretty near choking."
On the floor, by Mr. Deane's seat, just where it had
fallen, lay the apple, the innocent cause of all the
trouble.
The boy's eyes brightened as they rested on it;
green and sour, and uninviting as it looked, it was
only too tempting to the thirsty lad. He left his seat,
and stooped to pick it up ; he held it for a moment in
his hands, and then dropped it as suddenly as if it
were a burning coal.
" It's like as if th' heat had turned my brain," he
exclaimed, " Lord Jesus forgive me, I were na' thinking
rightly what I were going to do, I conna steal!
"No, I conna, bj- th' Great Master's help I will na
steal," he said, as the tempter whispered to him that
the apple no longer belonged to any one, no one
wanted it, it would never be thought of again.
" Yon apple's not mine, an' I will ha' nowt to do wi'
it," exclaimed Ben.
And praying for grace to resist the temptation,
thirsty and wearied though he was, he finished his
task, and sat quietly waiting for the schoolmaster's
BEN OWEN. 17
return. More than an hour had passed away before
he heard the sound of the key in the lock, and saw
Mr. Deane coming towards him. Ben rose from his
seat, and gave the slate to the master.
" The answers are correct," said Mr. Deane, as he
handed back the slate, and looked earnestly at the
boy's face.
Very tired the pale face looked now, the features
worn and thin, there were lines about the mouth that
told their own story of the boy's powers of endurance
being tried to the extreme point at times.
But there was no trace of sullenness there, no
resentment. '
" Ben," said Mr. Deane, " I must have been away an
hour and a half, I never intended to stay so long, but
after I reached my house and was waiting for a cup
of tea (it does not sound very manly, Ben, and you
need not tell any one), I almost fainted."
" Yo' did. Sir ? Ay, but yo' are noan strong enough
for such like work as yo' have here, we're a rough lot
here ; I reckon they are a deal smoother spoken, softer
mannered sort o' folks, where yo' come from. I'm
sorry, 8ir, as I couldna' feel it reet to tell yo' what yo'
axed me, but I knew him as had throwed yon apple
would ha' had to be kept in, an' I could na' think of
letting a little chap who's f eart of his own shadder,
bide here alone ; yo' will forgive me, will yo' not, Sir ? "
" I will, my lad," replied the master, as he turned
his steps homeward again.
B
CHAPTER II.
BEN S HOME.
Ti^HE cottage in which Ben'lived stood alone, near
the church.
To this cottage, sixteen years before, Ben's
father, an industrous, steady young man, had brought
his bride. Four years of quiet happiness passed by,
then the messenger who visits the homes of rich and
poor alike came to the cottage, and called away the
kind husband, the loving father.
Ben was a baby then, a year old, and became the
joy and delight of his widowed mother's heart.
The widow was not left wholly unprovided for.
Her husband had saved a little money, and had bought
the cottage in which they lived.
Mrs. Owen commenced again her former business of
dressmaking, and earned sufficient to keep her child
and herself in comparative comfort.
When Ben was six years of age, his mother became
the wife of a man named Bell, the night-watchman at
the Print Works.
BEN OWEN. 19
Those who knew Bell best, knew how utterly un-
suited he was in every way to Mary Owen, and with
true northern frankness did not hesitate to tell her so ;
they reminded her that he was not a godly man, and
that he was considered selfish and miserly.
Mrs Owen listened quietly to these objections ; as
to being selfish, she said, well, all men grew more or
less selfish who always lived alone, and who had only
their own comfort to study.
As to being miserly, she granted John Bell took
great care of his money, still it was better he should
do that than squander it at the public-house as so
many did.
And as to his not being a religious man, well, he
did not drink, nor swear, nor gamble, nor quarrel with
his neighbours ; and when once they were married she
knew she should be able to persuade him to attend
Church with her ; she would win him away from his
love of gold, and teach him to " set his affections on
things above."
" Tha' art makin' a mistake, Mary Owen," said old
James Wynnatt, one of the oldest inhabitants of the
village, "tha' art goin' to be onequally yoked, an
there's never no good comes o' that : yon chap's ways
are not thy ways ; if I'd twenty darters John Bell
should na' ha' ony one o' them, that he should na'."
*• Mary's made up her moind, oim thinkin', an'
hoo'U noan listen to thee, James," said the good man's
wife, " hoo'll do her own."
20 BEN OWEN.
She " did her own ;" that is to say, she refused to
listen to her friends, and had her own way.
After her second marriage she still lived on in her
old home. Her friends surmised, and rightly too,
that the days of her widowhood, sad though they
were, had yet been brighter and happier than those
which followed.
But whatever disappointments and troubles befell
Mary, she never complained of them, she kept her own
counsel.
She had her boy, her fair-haired darling, she could
not be utterly miserable so long as he was spared to her.
And she worked away more industriously than ever
at her business, for, though John Bell earned good
wages, and had few personal expenses, yet he only
gave his wife a few shillings weekly for house-
keeping.
So Mary had to supplement the small sum from her
own earnings, and she also put by some money weekly
for a special purpose.
The kind, loving mother wanted to keep her only
child at home, and at school, longer than was cus-
tomary in Ashleigh, and then apprentice him to some
business.
She had her own hopes and ambitions, this quiet-
looking woman, who rose early, and sat up late, and
kept her home so scrupulously clean and tidy, and
who was never heard to murmur or repine.
Mary Bell not only hoped, and planned, but she
HEN OWEN. 21
sought help where alone true help is to be found ; by
exercise of faith in a crueiiied Redeemer she sought
and found forgiveness for her sins, and rejoiced in the
love of God. '
And, as tlie mother Hannah took her child to the
Temple, and " lent him to the Lord," so Mary took her
boy in faith and prayer to the Saviour ; and He who
said, " Sutter little children to come unto me, and for-
bid them not," heard and answered the mother's
prayers, and before Mary passed away from earth she
had the happiness of knowing that her child, young
as he was, was a true follower of Christ.
Ben was nine years old when he lost his mother ;
how keenly he felt her death he alone knew.
It was sudden, and unexpected. For some weeks
Mary had not been well, but she was one who would
never complain about any ailment until compelled to
do so ; she put down some work one day intending to
finish it the next, but ere the sun set on the following
day she had reachevl the city where " there is no more
pain, neither sorrow, nor sighing."
Some said John Bell did not feel his wife's death at
all. He certainly felt it, in so far as it aftected his
own personal comfort ; but if he had ever had any
real, true affection for her he would have shown more
regard to her wishes than he did, when he entered her
boy at ten years of age as a half-timer at the Works.
Ben knew his mother's wishes, and pleaded earnestly
v/ith his stepfather to let him go to school at least
another year or two.
22 HEN OWEN.
" Tha' wilt go to th' school half the day until tha'
art fourteen," replied John Bell, " what more dost tha'
want ? Dost tha' want to be one o' th' gentry, or a
lamed man same as th' parson ? Tha' dost try to
mince thee words foine same as he does !"
" I should like something different from yon Works,"
replied Ben ; and, almost unintentionally, he gave
utterance to the longings of his heart, " I should like
when I'm a man to be a missionary."
" Tha' would loike to be a missioner ? That comes
o' church goin', an' meetin' goin', and Bible readin' ;
now look here, young Ben, oi'U ha' no more o* such
loike nonsense ; let them go to furrin' parts as 'ave
got no carakter to get work in their own country, an
honest man does na' need to leave his own land."
" But missionaries go to do good."
" Let em bide whom oi say, an' as for thee, tha' wilt
go to th' Works, an' earn thysen a carakter same as oi
did."
So that question was settled.
Ben ottered no further opposition to his father's
wishes, and John Bell rejoiced that he had, as he con-
sidered so easily, and so effectually, settled the ques-
tion of the boy's future life.
Had he known the thoughts and plans passing
through the young mind ; had he heard the earnest
prayers the boy offered, that if it were the Lord's will
he might one day realize his heart's desire, John Bell
might not have felt so elated, lie had his own schemes
BEN OWEN.
with regard to the future, and for the present the
wages the boy earned weekly purchased hiH food and
clothing.
For the food wa.s plain, and poor as to quality, and
as to quantity, Ben had not the amount of nourish-
ment a growing child required ; often ho rose from the
table at meal times only half satisfied, yet unwilling
to ask for more.
Sometimes he would look longingly at the loaf on
the table, and John Bell, seeing the look, would cut
him another piece of bread, and tell him at the same
time that if he himself ate as greedily as Ben did they
would both soon be " in th' Union."
The poor boy, who was not greedy, but was pain-
fully sensitive, would make some stammering apology,
and resolve to eat less for the future.
Then, Ben's clothing certainly could not have been
very costly, a common suit for week days, and a better
one for Sundays, and these of the cheapest and plainest
material.
And those who knew how neatly and carefully the
boy had been dressed during his mother's lifetime,
made remarks about his present appearance which
were anything but complimentary to John Bell.
But Bell had decidedly too good an opinion of him-
self to trouble greatly about the opinion of others.
He visited no one, and no one visited him ; a more
unsociable man could scarcely be found.
He allowed Ben to go to church, though he boasted
24 ■ BEN OWEN.
of the fact that he had never been there himself since
the day of his wife's funeral.
Sometimes he would give Ben permission to read to
him, and on these occasions would either sit in dogged
silence, or give utterance to sneers and contemptuous
remarks. He was a man of one idea, of one fixed
purpose, he meant to save and to make money, he was
determined to die a rich man.
Other men as poor as he had made fortunes for
themselves : why should not he succeed as they had
done ? To this end he worked, and pinched, and
saved, and each year the sum in the savings bank
became larger, and the man's life and sympathies grew
narrower, and his heart became harder.
He did not hesitate, in order to add to his gains, to
take advantage of the widow, the poor, and the father-
less. In his case " the love of money " was indeed
« the root of all evil."
CHAPTER III.
AN EVENING VISIT.
)EN found his father standing at the door when
he reached his home after the long afternoon
he had spent at school,
" A minute longer an' oi should ha' been off," said
John Bell. " Tha' hast been kept in, oi hear ; it's not
for me to say if tha' desarved it or not, but th' Govern-
ment says we are boun' to u^-hold th' skoomesters, so
happen oi owt to thrash thee, but as 'tis th' first offence
oi dunnot want to be too hard on thee, tha' wilt ha' to
go bowt thee tea, an' think on as it does na happen
again, lad."
" Shall I bring your supper ?" asked Ben.
" Ay, tha' con bring it at noine o'clock, it's wrapped
up in yon hankercher, an' thine is on a plate in th'
cupboard ; come, Jess, we mun go."
Jess, the watchman's dog, looked up wistfully in
Ben's pale face, and followed her master slowly, and
apparently unwilling : the dog obeyed her master, but
she loved the bov.
26 BEN OWEN.
John Bell was not one who valued the affection of
man or beast, or else he might have felt jealous of the
preference Jess invariably showed for his stepson.
" It's better walkin' now nor it were this afternoon,"
muttered Bell ; " what a graidely foo' yon skoomester
mun be if he conna tackle sich a lad as Ben, he's ower
quiet to gi' onybody mich trouble."
Ben closed the garden gate and entered the cottage,
hung up his well-worn cap, put his books on the table,
and sat down on a low rocking-chair. The room was
clean and tidy, there had been a small fire lighted to
boil the water for John Bell's tea, but it had been
allowed to go out directly after, and the tiny kettle
stood on the hob tilled with cold water.
" I'm not so very hungry," said Ben, as if trying to
convince himself, " but I am thirsty ;" and taking a
cup from the shelf he filled it with water and drank
it eagerly. Then he washed his hands and face and
sat down to learn his lessons. He did his best to fix
his attention on his books, but he was sick and faint
for want of food.
He opened the cupboard door and loc .ced at the
plate upon which his father had placed his supper.
A hard crust of bread, and a very small piece of
cheese, about two mouthfuls altogether for a hungry
boy.
" If I eat it now I shall be hungry again before I go
to bed," said Ben thoughtfully, as he left the food
untouched and sat down again. His tired eys wandered
round the room as if in search of some beloved object.
BEN OWEN.
There was the chair near the window, his mother's
favourite seat, and the table she used for her work ;
the book -shelves in the corner containing her modest
library, her Bible, and " The Pilgrim's Progress,"
" Foxe's Book of Martyrs," and two or three hymn-
books. The boy's thoughts went back to the time,
the never-to-be-forgotten time, when he had his
mother ever with him as his constant friend. He
heard the gentle tones of her voice again as she read
to him from the precious Book the sweet story of old,
he saw her pleading with his stern stepfather to grant
him some childish pleasure, or to forgive some childish
offence; again he wandered with her through the
fields and lanes, and filled his hands with daisies for
her to weave into chains for him.
Again he sat by her side near the bright fire, when
the snow lay white on the ground, and the bright-eyed
robins came up boldly to the window-sill for the
crumbs his mother never forgot to place there.
Once more he knelt at her knee, and offered up the
prayers she had taught him, and heard her gentle
whisper, " God bless you, my boy," the mother's hand
again pushed back the curly locks from the boy's fair
brow, he was clasped tightly in her arms, and felt her
loving kisses on his face.
"Mother, mother," he cried, "oh, tell me that you
will never leave me again."
" Ben, Ben," exclaimed a child's voice, " dunnot
carry on so, I'm feart» I am." Ben opened his eyes,
28 * • BEN OWEN. •
and saw the little schoolfellow on whose account he
had been punished.
" Why, Jimmy," he exclaimed, " how long have you
been here, how is it I did na' hear you ?"
" I opened th' door an' corned in," replied Jimmy,
" an' then I seed as tha' wert asleep, an' I waited a bit
thinkin' tha' would waken up, but when tha' called
out * Mother, mother,' I were feart, I were, so I shrieked
out a bit : see I've brought thee some cakes an' a tin
can full o' tea. I told mother tha' had been kept in
all along o' me, an' she said as she were sure tha*
would ha' to go bowt thee tea, so when I knowed thy
father were safe in th' Works I comed along, an' I ha'
na' spilled a drop, no that I ha' na'," said the little
fellow proudly.
" Your mother is real kind to think o' me," said Ben,
as he poured the tea out into a cup.
"Nay, it's thee as is kind," exclaimed the child.
" Mother said there were nor a lad in th' whole school
as would ha' done as tha' did to-day. How is it tha'
art different like from th' rest o' them, Ben ? "
" I dunno as I'm so different," replied Ben, who was
quietly enjoying the tea and cakes. " I try to say my
words same as Mr. Deane an' Mr. Mervyn, but I'm
noan a graidely talker for all that."
" It's not just the talkin', tha' dost na' fight nor
swear nor knock th' little uns about same as th' other
big uns do."
" No, I dunnot," said Ben, " because th' Bible tells
BEN OWEN. 29
me I mun think of Christ, an' try to follow th' ex-
ample He left us, an' tha' knows how kind an' gentle
He was."
" Ay, it says in th' hymn-book, • Gentle JesuR, meek
an' mild.' Ben," added the child, looking timidly
around, " art na' tha' feart to bide here alone at neet?"
" Feart ! Nay, Jimmy, why should I be ? I am as
safe here alone as in a room full o' people. Father
goes away at six an' I take him his supper at nine,
then I come back an' go to bed, an' never see him
again until six in th' mornin' !"
" Does he sleep most o' th' day ? " asked Jimmy,
wonderingly.
" He sleeps in the forenoon mostly, an' sometimes
he goes out a bit before tea for a walk."
" He went out this arternoon, mother seed him go
up th' street just before t' rain came ; how it did come
down, Ben, an' th' thunder an' th' lightnin'. Oh ! I
did wish as I'd never throwed yon apple. I meant it
to hit Charlie Wills, I did, he'd been teasin' me all th'
arternoon, an' I thowt I'd give him a real stinger on
th' side o' his head, an' then I were real feart arter
when I thowt I'd ha' to be kept in all alone ; it were
mean o' me to let Mr. Deane keep thee in instead
though, that it were."
" I think tha' should tell Mr. Deane th' truth about
it, not for my sake," said Ben, gently, " but because
it's right an' pleasing to God when we tell th' truth
an' tha' does na' need to be feart o' Mr. Deane, he's
as kind as he can be."
30 BBN OWEN.
" Ay, he is," said Jimmy, " how long has he been
here now, Ben ? "
" Three months."
" I'll tell him in th' mornin' I will."
" Tha' had better tell him now."
" What, to-neet, Ben ? "
"Why not?"
" It would be troublin' him."
'•' Not so, Mr. Deane would na' think it a trouble
he's been noan so well to-day, an' happen he'd sleep all
th' better for knowin' a little lad had found courage
to tell him th' truth."
" Wilt tha' come wi' me ? " asked Jimmy.
" Ay, I'll come, we'd best go reet off at once."
The little hand Jimmy placed in Ben's friendly
grasp trembled.
" Come along," said Ben, cheerily, " haven't I told
thee tha' dost na' need to fear ? "
" Tha' wilt knock at th' door an' ax for him," whis-
pered Jimmy.
" Ay, sure I will," replied his friend.
Mr. Deane himself opened the door in answer to
Ben's gentle knock.
There stood the two boys, Ben pale and tired, Jimmy
trembling and tearful. The schoolmaster looked at
them inquiringly.
" What is the matter with Jimmy," he said, " has
any one hurt him ? "
" Tell him," sobbed the child, clinging more closely
to Ben, " I conna."
BEN OWEN. 81
" Come in, boys," said Mr. Deane, leading the way
to his pleasant sitting-room ; " now tell me all about
it," he added, as he closed the door.
" Jimmy wants to tell yo' as he throwed yon apple
at school to-day, he wants to be a good boy, an' always
speak th' truth," said Ben.
The ice was fairly broken now, and venturing to
look up in Mr. Deane's kind face, Jimmy saw how
needless his fears had been.
" I throwed it at Charlie Wills," said the child,
whose tongue was loosened now, " he'd been teasin' me
for ever so long, pullin' faces at me, an' callin' me cry-
baby; an' I forgot all as yo' said about thro win*
things in th' school-room, an* then I were so feart o*
bein' kept in I dare na' tell yo*, but Ben said I mun
tell yo* the truth."
" Ben was right," said Mr. Deane, " never be afraid
to speak the truth, Jimmy ; whatever it may cost you,
or however hard it may seem, still, never hide the
truth; I am thankful to find I have a boy in my
school who not only tries to be good and upright him-
self, but also endeavours to help and teach others."
Just then the door opened, and an old lady came
quietly into the room. Such a beautiful old lady Ben
thought as he looked at her.
She wore a black dress, not a silk, but of some soft,
shiny material, and a small grey shawl upon her
shoulders, and a white net cap with pale lavender
ribbons.
32 BEN OWEN.
She would always have worn black ribbons in her
snow-white cap in memory ot* her precious dead, had
she not yielded to the wishes of her only son, with
whom she lived, who begged her not to dress herself
entirely in mourning.
She spoke kindly to the boys, and smiled approv-
ingly when her son told her briefly their errand.
" You will never be sorry for what you have done
to-night," she said to Jimmy ; then noticing Ben's
wearied look she turned to him and said, " You ought
to be in bed and asleep, my boy, you look so tired."
" I am tired," replied Ben, " but 1 must take my
father's supper to him before I go to bed."
" Does your father work at night then ?"
" He's watchman at the Works, ma'am, he's there
from six at night to six in th' mornin'."
" Is your name Ben Owen ? "
" Yes, ma'am."
" Ah ! then I heard about you to-day at old James
Wynnatt's. You see I am only beginning to know
some of the people now, Ben, we have not been here
long, and I have been very busy since we came. Good
night, my boy, and remember, Ben, if I can help you
at any time I will."
Thanking her for her kindness, the boys hurried
away, Jimmy ready for any amount of conversation,
Ben more quiet and thoughtful than ever.
" Wasn't they kind, Ben ? An' isn't schoolmaster's
mother like a pictur*, an' flowers all o'er th' carpet, an
BEN OWEN. 33
a big chimbley glass, an' a sight o* books, did'st tha*
not see it all ? "
" Yes, I saw it all," replied Ben, to whose imagin-
ation tlio room had seemed like a leaf out of a story-
book ; the pretty paper on the walls, the plain but
tastefully arranged furniture, the white curtains looped
with bows of coloured ribbon, the books ai id ot-nam its,
the sweet summer flowers on the table and mantel-
piece ; all the nameless, little refinements ; Ben was
conscious of all these.
But to the motherless boy, the sweetest and the
fairest of all had been the sight of Mrs. Deane, her
motherly presence, and her kind words.
He recalled each glance of the loving eyes that had
shed so many tears, but had not forgotten how to
smile upon the young, and his heart beat faster when
he remembered her promise of help.
How Mrs. Deane could befriend him he could not
tell, he did not stop to question, but rejoiced at the
remembrance of her promise.
He took his father's supper to the Works, and on
his way home called to thank Jimmy's mother for the
tea so kindly sent.
It was too dark to attempt to learn his lessons, and
he had only a very small piece of candle (" enough to
last him a week," his father had told him the day
before), so he resolved to rise an hour earlier the next
morning.
He ate his supper standing by the window, and
c
34 • BEN OWKN.
talking to a iark in a tiny cage. His father had
brought the lark home a year ago, and had kept him
a prisoner ever since.
Ben had begged and pleaded for the bird's freedom
far more earnestly than he ever had done for any
favour for himself, but John Bell only laughed at him.
So the boy, thwarted and defeated in his kind pur-
poses, did all in his power to make the poor little
songster's captivity less painful.
There were two cupboards in the room, in one some
of the food was kept, in the other John Bell kept his
lantern, and a few books and papers.
The second shelf in the cupboard was given to Ben.
Here he kept a slate, his old copy-books, and some
of the toys his mother gave him when a child.
One of these toys was a small money-box in the
shape of a house, and this Ben kept far back in the
darkest corner of the cupboard.
Any one opening the door, and not stopping to look
carefully, would never have noticed the little box, but
Ben knew exactly where it was, and before he went to
bed he climbed upon a chair and carefully reached it
down. He emptied its contents on the table, and
lighted the candle just for a minute while he counted
the money.
" Only one more," he said, " then I shall ha' enough."
He put the money back again, and replaced the box,
blew out the candle, and went to his lonely little bed,
confiding himself first to the all-watchful care of Him
'* who neither slumbers nor sleeps."
CHAPTER IV.
SAML HORNBY S GENERAL SHOP.
[f'AY I go as far as Eastiield to-night, father ?"
asked Ben the following afternoon.
" Ay, tha' con go," replied John Bell un-
graciously, " it's a good three miles to Eastfield, an*
three back agen makes six, there's nothin' like trampin'
along country roads for wearin' out shoe leather, an*
tha' wilt come whom as hungry as a hunter ! "
" I shall na' want more supper than I have other
nights," said Ben quietly.
"More supper ! No, oi should think not, we should
very soon be in th' Union if tha' started eatin' more
nor tha' dost now."
And John Bell, having found as he thought sufficient
cause for grumbling, grumbled away until it was time
for him to start off to his work.
Eastfield was a queer little place, half village and
half town, three miles away from Ashleigh.
36 BEN OWEN.
There were no large Print Works there, but there
were two cotton factories. There was not much inter-
course between the two places.
The Eastfield people trooped over once a year to the
annual fair, "th' wakes" at Ashleigh, and the
Ashleigh people returned the complinient by at-
tending "th' wakes " at Eastfield, and that was
about all. Each of the two places had its own shops,
and co-operative stores, therefore each was independent
of the other as regarded business transactions.
Little Ben Owen had at this time a private business
transaction pending at Eastfield.
There was a shop there known to all the boys in
the neighbourhood, the like of which was certainly
not to be found in Ben's native village.
The proprietor of this renowned establishment
designated it modestly as "A General Shop," but, as he
did not deal in soap, candles, treacle, or blacking, and
various other useful articles which are always to be
met with in a genuine bond- fide " General Shop," this
designation might prove rather misleading.
A curious collection of useful and ornamental articles
Samuel Hornby (or " Sam'l " as his neighbours called
him) always kept in stock.
He had ironmongery of every description, from
bedsteads, and bright, shining fenders and fireirons,
to small, clasp-handled knives, and pennyworths of
brass-headed nails and tin-tacks. Crockery ware of
all kinds was also to be met with here ; jugs and
BEN OWEN. 87
mugs of all sizes hung on nails around the shop and
warehouse adjoining, while dinner and tea services
of various colours, and most remarkable patterns, were
placed safely row above row' on high shelves.
Here the hawker could replenish his stock of note
paper and envelopes, thimbles, buttons, hooks and
eyes, paltry jewellery and picture frames ; and here,
too, the thrifty housewife could buy needles by the
hundred, and reels of cotton at so much per dozen, at
a lower price than at the draper's.
No wonder Sam'l's shop was a popular institution,
and Sam'l himself a successful and prosperous man.
Sharp and shrewd, he made but few mistakes in
buying or selling.
He made a sad mistake once, though !
It was after a trip to Blackpool, where Sam'l and
some of his friends went one Whit Monday, and
where they enjoyed themselves greatly.
During the few hours they spent there they man-
aged to have a drive, a donkey-ride to South Shore,
a walk through the town, and along the promenade
and pier; and in memory of their visit they were
photographed by a travelling photographer.
Nor was this all.
They dined at an eating-house, and had tea and
shrimps in a damp arbour, they had a bathe in the
sea, and a row in a small boat, in which they struggled
bravely through all the earlier stages of sea-sickness,
and presented themselves afterwards with pale, sickly
faces at a chemist's shop.
\
38 BEN OWEN.
The chemist was a humane man, and seeing at once
that in their present state of feeling any attempts at
conversation would not be pleasant, he kindly refrained
from asking them many questions, but quickly mixed
some powders in soda water glasses, and handed them
the mixture with an air of quiet sympathy.
"He were precious sharp a mixin' up yon fizzin*
stuff," observed one of the party, as they left the shop.
" It's noan th' first toime as he's seen pasty-faced
looking foaks," replied Sam'l, " he knows by this
toime pretty well what to do ; them little boats ought
to be put down, they didn't ought to be allowed to
upset people's feelin's in this way."
But Sam'l soon forgot his vexation, and sat down
for a little rest. While resting he listened with de-
light to the music played by a German band, and to
the songs sung by some negro minstrels. Sam'l seated
himself about half-way between the two rival repre-
sentatives of the musical world.
One of his friends suggested that they should go
nearer the one or the other, in order that they might
hear more distinctly, and more fully appreciate the
merits of the performance.
" Tha' con go reet in th' front o' th' minsters, or
reet in th' front o' th' Prussians, oi shall bide where oi
am," replied Sam'l, " an' get all oi con for my money,
oi dunno' come to Blackpool every daj^" So Sam'l
remained where he was. It might have been more
than slightly trying to a musical, or highly sensitive
BKN OWEN. 39
ear, to hear " Die Wacht am Rh3in " vainly trying to
assert the supremacy over ' Ring, Ring the Banjo ; "
but to Sam'l it was delightful ; and with praiseworthy
impartiality he bestowed the same remuneration on
the grinning black-faced man in the coloured cotton
suit and grey hat, who collected on behalf of the
minstrels, as he did on the solemn-faced German who
asked for a small donation for the band.
" Tha' does na' need to think as oi'm deceived by
thee black face," he said to the minstrel, as he placed
some coppers in his grey hat ; " oi come fro' Eastfield
i' Lancashire, an' we're noan sich foos there as not to
know a nigger when we see one ! "
" Tha* art th' genuine article," he said to the aston-
ished German, "but oi'm feart tha' wilt do thyson
some harm some day if tha' blows yon trumpet so
hard."
It was soon after this memorable visit that Sam'l
made a rash, and as it proved, an unfortunate specu-
lation.
His quick, observant eyes had seen in the market
at Blackpool, a number of pretty china cups bearing
this inscription, " A present from Blackpool for a good
boy."
The idea suggested itself to Sam'l's enterprising
spirit why should he not have china mugs for sale
similar to these, only with the name Eastfield substi-
tuted for Blackpool ?
He wrote off at once to the Potteries to order fifty.
40 " BEN OWEN.
A reply came by return of post to say that an order
could not be executed for a smaller number than a
hundred and fifty.
"Then send a hundred an' fifty, an' look sharp
about it," wrote back Sam'l.
In a wonderful short space of time the goods
arrived.
Sam'l carefully unpacked the large crate ; not one
of the precious mugs was broken, nor, so far as he
could tell, even cracked.
He rubbed and polished each one separately with a
correr of his large apron (a very useful article was
Sam'l's apron, it answered the purpose of teacloth,
duster, and pocket-handkerchief, and occasionally did
duty as a table-cloth), and then placed them in rows
in his window.
He made room there for as many as he possibly
could, even taking down a timepiece, a set of lustres,
and some figures under glass shades which had been a
source of wonder and admiration to the juveniles of
Eastfield for many months.
" No fear that they'll sell," said Sam'l to himself as
he looked at his window, " oi shall ha' to order more."
But he never did order any more, simply because he
found himself unable to dispose of those he had.
Whether it was because the boys at Eastfield (and
there were plenty of them, of all ages and sizes) could
nor truthfully be said to belong to the class for whom
the mugs were intended ; or whether the boys them-
BEN OWEN. M
selves " iiowed a lamentable want of taste by persuading
their parents to bestow upon them as rewards for good
conduct, other gifts, such as balls, tops, knives, kites,
etc., certain it is that the mugs remained on hand,
greatly to Sam'l's annoyance.
The village schoolmistress bought nine, and gave
them awav to the most docile and diligent of her
pupils.
" Have yo' no cups for good girls as well as good
boys, Sam'l ? " asked a motherly-looking woman one
day when she was making several purchases at the
shop.
" Nay, oi never gave th' lassies a thowt," replied
Sam'l.
" Well, oi'm surprised," said the good woman, " tha'
knows oi've three girls, an' oi would ha' bowt them
each a gill-pot like yon, for they're real pretty."
" Then why no ha' them ? " exclaimed Sam'l, " what
does it matter if it says boy or girl ? Th' tea ull taste
all the same, an' little uns like youm conna read, yo'
know." ;
" Martha Ann can read a bit," said the mother, with
a slightly injured air.
" They sell a sight o' cups like these at th' seaside,"
said Sam'l to another customer the same day.
"Oi know they do," replied the party addressed,
" but Eastfield is na' th' seaside, an' children would na'
set as mich store by them there mugs same as they
would if they'd comed fro' Blackpool and Southport."
42 BEN OWEN.
In vain Sam'l spoke about the beauty and utility of
the mugs ; he invariably offered them for approval to
any strangers passing through the village, who hap-
pened to find their way to his shop.
Perhaps they did not care to be troubled with such
breakable articles as china cups, or they may not have
admired Eastfield sufficiently to wish to carry away a
memento of it; anyhow they always declined the
purchase. - •
In his anxiety to dispose of his large order, Sam'l
even offered the unfortunate mugs at a little more
than cost price, at so much per dozen, but all in vain.
He sold about twenty of them, kept a few on a shelf
in the shop, and packed the remainder away in his
warehouse, " a livin' moniment of my folly in imitatin'
waterin* places," Sam'l would sometimes say.
CHAPTER V.
A BlTTEIl DISAPPOINTMENT.
IfT was after seven o'clock when Ben reached East-
I field ; and Sam'l was busy in his shop.
Ben waited until several customers had been
attended to, and then stated his business.
, " A cage tha' says," said Sam'], "oi ha* a graidely lot
o' cages, lad, what sort were it ? "
" A wicker cage," replied Ben, *' a good sized un, yo*
said it were two an' six but yoa would let me ha' it
for two shillin' ! "
" Ay so oi did now oi think on't ; well dost tha*
want to tak it wi' thee now ? "
" Nay, I ha' only getten one an' eleven pence, but I
thowt I'd come an' make sure that as th' cage were
na' gone, I shall soon ha' another penny, an' then I'll
come again, good night, an' thank yo'."
"Here, stop," exclaimed Sam'l, "hast getten th*
money wi' thee ? "
" No," replied Ben.
44 BEN OWEN.
" Tha should ha' browt it, oi would ha' letten thee
ha' th' cage, an' ha' trusted to thee bringing me th*
other penny, tha' looks honest."
" I am honest," replied the lad, " an' no fear but I'll
come soon an' fetch th' cage away.
" I shall soon ha' it now," said Ben to himself as he
walked homewards, ' an' the lark will be a sight better
off in yon than in th' little cage. I wish father would
let it go free, it seems to long to fly away, an' beats
itself against th' bars of th' cage till I'm sure it must
be hurt sometimes ; an' when it sings it seems to
be beggin' an' prayin' for its liberty."
A year ago John Bell had greatly astonished Ben by
telling him that he had resolved to give him a penny
every other Saturday for pocket-money. Not a very
large sum certainly, not half the amount other boys of
Ben's age spent weekly in marbles and sweets, but
&mall as it was it was a great surprise to Ben, who
knew his father's love of money.
" A penny every other week, Ben, makes two an'
tuppence a year," said his father, " think o' that, Ben ;
think o' all as con be done wi' two an' tuppence ; why
there's mony a mon i' Manchester ridin' i' his carriage
as did na' ha' more nor two an' tuppence to start wi'
i' life."
Ben spent the first three pennies he saved in pur-
chasing some daisy roots, which he planted on his
mother's grave.
He then began to save his money again, intending
BEN OWEN. ^
to buy some more plants for the same purpose early
in the spring.
But when the spring came, Ben had resolved to
spend his mony on something else. " Mother loved th
birds," he said, " an' she would ha' grieved to see th'
poor lark frettin' itself in its little cage, she'd be far
better pleased if I spent th' money on th' poor bird."
That very week a boy passed the cottage, carrying
in his hand a jnfood-sized wicker ca<xe.
" What might yo' give for that ? " asked Ben.
" I gave one an' sixpence at Sam'l Hornby's o'er at
Eastfield, but he has some a deal bigger for two
shillin' an' two an' six, but this is big enough for a
throstle."
"It's cruel to keep 'em," said Ben.
" To keep what," asked the lad, " th' cages ? "
" No, th' birds."
"Not it, they're as well off in th' cages as flyin' all
o'er the country."
" Happen yo' think as yo' would be as well off in th'
prison as yo' are out," said Ben.
" Nay, oi dunnot."
" Well, th' cage is a prison for th' bird, an' what
stone walls would be for thee th' bars of th' cage are
for th' bird."
" They conna feel th' same as us."
> " Conna they ? I'm noan so sure o' that, there's a
power o' things in th' world we know very little about,
happen we'll be wiser some day, but I'm sure an'
46 BEN OWEN.
certain for my own part as everything that has life
can feel."
" Oi dunnot clem my bird," said the lad sullenly.
" They dunnot clem folks in th' prison, they give
'em their vittles reg'lar ; but there's not many as likes
goin' there for all that. It isna' enough for th' bird
to ha' a bit o' seed to eat, an' a drop o' water to drink,
it wants its nest an' th' sunshine, it wants to watch th'
dew fall, an' see th' sunset, it wants to hear what th*
winds are whisperin' about to th* trees, and see th'
flowers grow. Ah ! there's a sight o' things a bird
must miss when he's shut up in a cage."
From that time Ben's decision was made.
The first two shillings he could save should be given
for a better cage for the captive lark. For this pur-
pose he saved his tiny hoard of pocket-money, and
went over to Eastfield, and inspected Sam'l Hornby's
assortment of cages.
Now he had only to wait until Saterday, when he
would receive another penny, then he would have the
sum required.
The time would soon be here now, only another day
before Saturday.
On the Friday evening he took down from its
hiding-place his little box, and opened it.
Alas for poor Ben !
What a bitter disappointment for the boy's tender,
loving heart ! The money was gone, the whole of it !
Poor disappointed Ben !
BEN OWEN. 47
He stood by the table gazing absently at the empty
bo ; he climbed upon a chair, and searched among
the books, papers, and toys in the cupboard, all in
vain.
No stray pennies had found their way out of the
box, and hidden themselves elsewhere.
" Father has taken them," said Ben, " he might ha,
told me first."
He closed the cupboard door, and sat down on the
low rocking-chair on which his mother had sat and
nursed him when he was a little child. He thought
of his mother then, and a hard lump rose in his throat.
He laid his head upon the table, and remained per-
fectly still for a few minutes ; then he rose, and with
trembling hands took from the shelf his mother's
Bible.
" She said it were always a comfort to her an' it
has been to me. I'll read some of her favourite
verses."
He turned to the twenty-third Psalm.
" The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want."
" No, I shall not want," he exclaimed, " The Lord
will take care of me."
Then he read many of the precious promises written
in the New Testament.
" There's one grander an* greater than any other, in
Revelations," he said : then, having found the verse
he sought, he read, " Him that overcometh will I make
a pillar in the temple of my God, and he shall go no
48 • '. BEN OWEN.
more out, and I will write upon him the name of my
God, and the name of the city of my God, which is
New Jerusalem, which cometh down out of heaven
from my God, and I will write upon him my new
name."
Then he read the twenty-first verse of the same
chapter, " To him that o^'^ercometh will I grant to sit
with me in my throne, even as I also overcame, and
am set down with my Father in His throne."
" To him that overcometh," repeated Ben, as he
closed the Book ; " that means there's a battle to fight,
a victory to win ; Lord Jesus, give me grace and
strength to conquer, and oh, bless my father, for
Christ's sake."
John Bell made no remark about the money when
Ben took his supper to the Works that evening, but
the next day he put a penny on the table.
" That's for thee," he said, " an' oi'm real pleased,
Ben, to see as tha' does na' squander thee money same
as some lads : oi put another penny to them as tha'
had saved, an' oi've put it in th' Savings Bank in thy
name."
" Thank yo'," replied Ben, " but I'd set my heart on
buyin' a bigger cage for th' lark. I can get one for
two shillin'."
" Th' bird's reet enough where it is," said his father
impatiently ; " tha' dost getten sich fancies, Ben, oi
never seed such a queer lad in my life."
No more pennies found their way into the little
money-box in the cupboard.
BEN OWEN. 49
Ben went to Mrs. Deane, and asked her if she could
kindly take care of his pocket-money for him.
" There's plenty in th' village as would do that an'
more for me if I axed 'em, but they might talk about
it," said the boy.
" I understand," said Mrs. Deane, " I will take care
of anything you bring me, Ben, but will not say a
word about it." ''
Not even to this kind friend did Ben tell the story
of his disappointment, he bore it patiently and uncom-
plainingly.
Only through the bright summer's days, when the
lark seemed to droop and pine in its tiny cage, Ben
would think of his two shillings in the Savings Bank,
and turning to the bird would say, " I ha' na' th'
power to set thee free, but tha' should ha' had a better
home than that, if I could but ha' spent my money as
I wished."
And Sam'l Hornby, in his shop at Eastfield, won-
dered what had become of the boy, who had seemed
so wishful to purchase the wicker cage.
CHAPTER VI.
THE STRANGERS.
THE bright summer days were over, the leaves
had changed their colours, and fallen from the
trees, and were blown hither and thither by
the cold autumnal winds.
The summer had been unusually hot, and it was
foretold that the coming winter would be very severe.
Prudent housewives as they heard this looked over
their stock of blankets, and winter clothing, and
bought as many warm garments as they could afford*
in order to be well prepared to meet the cold weather.
Anxious, careworn women, whose husbands spent
the greater part of their earnings at the public-house,
and who knew by past experience how much easier
it is to meet the home wants in the summer than in
the winter, sighed, as they thought of the cold days
and the long dark nights, towards which they were
hastening.
" Coals will be dear an' food will be dear, it's to be
BEN OWEN. 51
hoped we'll be able to keep out of th' Union," said
John Bell.
Ben had j^rown accustomed to his father's imaginary
picture of their residence in " th' Union;" he had
cried " wolf " so often that Ben was not to be easily
frightened now.
He only wished that his father would buy him a
warmer suit, and allow him to have a small fire in the
evenings, for the nights were chilly, and Ben himself
was far from well.
" If tha' art cold tha' con come to th' Works to me
an* Jess, it's warm enough there," said John Bell, in
answer to the boy's request.
But Ben did not care to be in the Works longer than
he was obliged to be, so he made no further complaint
about the cold.
When once December had fairly set in, his father
would have a fire lighted each morning, and kept in
the whole of the day ; a poor, miserable apology for a
fire certainly, still it would be better than none at all.
" What a bad cough tha' hast got, Ben," said old
Mrs. Wynnatt, as the boy was passing her door one
Saturday afternoon, " come in, lad, come in."
Ben went in, and took a seat near the large, bright
fire.
" It looks comfortable here," he said.
" It is comfortable," said Mrs. Wynnatt, " we ha' a
many mercies to be thankful for, Ben."
" That we ha'>" said old James, from his seat in the
52 BEN OWEN.
chimney-corner ; " there's somebody knockin' at th'
door," he added, turning to his wife.
" Nay, it were but th' wind," she replied.
" Th' wind dunnot gi' double knocks at doors i' that
way," said the old man.
" Perhaps it's father looking for me," said Ben, and
he jumped up^ and opened the door.
Two men stood outside, strangers to Po^ Lwo men
in warm overcoats, and round felt hais. .
Old James caught sight of them.
" Come in," he said, " come in out of th' rain."
" Thank you," said one of the strangers as they
stepped inside the clean, warm kitchen, and wiped
their feet upon the mat.
" Could you tell me where we could get lodgings ? "
asked the other stranger.
"Lodgings," exclaimed old James, "what, in th'
village ? "
" Yes," replied the stranger with a smile, " is my
request a remarkable one ? "
" No one takes a house or lodgings in th' village
unles they're boun' to work here."
" We might be here a week or two," said the stranger
carelessly, " we have some business matters to attend
to in Manchester, and some friends we want to look
up, but we do not wish to stay in Manchester, we are
accustomed to the country." r
" It's considered healthy here, is it not ? " inquired
the other stranger.
BEN OWEN. 53
" Healthy ! ay, yes, it's healttiy enough," replied old
James.
" There's Mrs. Thorp's," said Mrs. Wynnatt, who was
busy thinking about the lodgings, " she hps two rooms
she lets sometimes."
" We could manage with two rooms, though we
should prefer three," said the younger of the two men.
" Would you kindly tell us the way to Mrs. Thorp's,
and we will make inquiries about her rooms ? "
" I will show you th' house," said Ben, putting on
his cap.
" Ay, do, Ben, that's a good lad, an' then come back
an' h' a cup o' tea with us," said Mrs. Wynnatt.
" Thank yo', if father does na' mind, I will."
The strangers followed Ben dow^n the lane, and into
the village street. It was a dull November day, a
damp day of mist and drizzling rain, and the children
seemed one and all to have decided to spend their
weekly holiday indoors.
Some of the fathers of the families had sauntered
into the public-houses, and some were, to use their
own expression, " cleanin' themselves," that is to say,
having a wash, and changing their working clothes for
their second-best suits, in which, after tea was over,
they would go out shopping w^ith their wives, or go
and smoke a pipe and have a chat with a neighbour.
Some were nursing the baby, or giving Tommy or
Bobby " a ride to Banbury Cross," while the mothers
got the four o'clock tea ready, for they kept early
hours on Saturdays at Ashleigh.
54 BEN OWEN.
So it happened that Ben and his two companions
made their way to Mrs. Thorp's cottage without at-
tracting much attention.
Joe Brown, the dirtiest and most neglected boy in
the village, saw them, and rushed home to tell his
mother that "Ben Owen were walkin' along o' some
stranger chaps."
Martha Brown, who had the most unruly children,
the most miserable home, and certainly the longest
tongue, in the parish, ran out into the middle of the
road, and was just in time to see the strangers' coat-
tails disappear into Mrs. Thorp's house.
" They've gone to Mrs. Thorp's," exclaimed Martha,
" happen they're relations o' hers ; what were they
loike, Joe ? "
" Oi dunno'," replied Joe, moodily, " an' oi dunnot
care, nother ! "
Mrs. Thorp's husband was the gardener at " Ash-
leigh House," the residence of Mr. Ashford, the owner
of the Print Works.
Mr. Ashford intended to build a cottage for James
Thorp in a field behind his house, but until this was
done James was to live rent free in one of the houses
in the village street.
James' wife was " noan Lancashire," the Ashleigh
people were wont to say. She came from the south of
England, and was a quiet, retiring woman.
Ben Owen's mother had been her only intimate
friend in the place ; to every one else she was " Mrs.
Thorp," civil and obliging, but nothing more.
BEN OWEN. 55
She had only two children, Jimmy, Ben's little friend,
and a little girl. Her family being so small, and her
husband away at his work all the day, she liked to let
two of her rooms when she could.
But "apartments" were not greatly in request at
Ashleigh ; sometimes a respectable workman would
occupy Mrs. Thorp's rooms while waiting to obtain a
suitable house, but for the greater part of the year
they were unoccupied.
This was the case now ; and after hearing the
reasons the strangers gave for their stay in the village,
she showed them her parlour and spare bed-room,
made all the necessary arrangements about terms, and,
leaving them upstairs unpacking the carpet bags they
had with them, she went down to the kitchen, where
she had left Ben talking to Jimmy.
" They are going to stay for a week at least, Ben,"
said Mrs. Thorp ; "don't hurry away, stay and have
tea with us, my husband will be home directly. He
said only yesterday that he never got sight of you now."
Jimmy and his sister Susy added their entreaties to
their mother's invitation, but Ben thanked them, and
told them he had promised to go back to old James
Wynnatt's, if his father would allow him.
John Bell readily gave the desired permission, and
Ben walked quickly back to the old man's cottage.
The tea was ready on a small, round table, drawn close
to the fire. The bread was home-made, and so were
the currant-cakes, and the hot muffins.
Ben thought of tea-time at home, the stale, hard
56 BEN OWEN.
crusts with their thin scraping of butter, and the poor,
weak mixture which was supposed to be tea.
The boy often wondered how his father bore the
many privations of their daily life.
If he gave Ben only the plainest and the poorest
fare, the boy was just enough to acknowledge that he
did not purchase luxuries for himself.
To get and to save was the end and aim of the money-
lover's existence. „ ._ _ __ - ,_, _,
"An' so th' strangers have gone to Mrs. Thorp's,"
said old James, as he handed Ben his tea.
" Yes, they've taken th' rooms for a week at least,"
replied Ben; "they axed a sight o' questions as we
went there."
" Did they now ? "
" Yes, they axed if Mr. Ashf ord were at home now,
or away. They said some one had told 'em as th'
Print Works belonged to a Mr. Ashford, who were
away for a month or two at once sometimes, on account
of his health, an' they axed me my name, an' where I
lived, an' where my father worked ? "
"Did'st tha' hear their names ? "
" Grant ; they said they were cousins.'* '
" They're uncommonly loike one another, oi should
ha' took 'em for brothers," said Mrs. Wynnatt.
" I showed 'em th' church," said Ben, " an' told 'em
what time th' services began."
"That were reet, lad," said old James approvingly;
" if they're God-fearing men they'll find their way to
His house to worship Him."
CHAPTER VII.
MR. HENRY ASHFORD S REFUSAL.
V\UNDAY was the happiest day in the week to
Ben : he always went twice to the Sunday-
school, and twice to church, and was one of the
most attentive listeners to Mr. Mervyn's faithful
sermons.
Mrs. Deane would often look across from her seat
by her son's side, to the corner where the boy sat, and,
as she noticed the eagerness with which he listened to
the truths of the Gospel, she thought of the hopes and
plans he had confided to her.
Ben had told her that he lonored above evervthinor
else in the world to try to teach others about Jesus.
" If I conna be made learned enough to go abroad
an' teach th' heathen about th' Saviour, still I mighn
happen get learning enough to work in some o' th'
streets an' lanes o' th' cities. Some left their fisher-
men's nets, an' some th' plough, an' some their business,
to work for th' Great Master. I dunnot think He'd
58 BEN OWEN.
despise me because I'm but a poor lad," Ben had said
to her.
" No, my boy," was Mrs. Deane's reply, " the Saviour
would never despise your willing services ; if it be His
will that you should work for Him, a way will be
opened. Remember always that the Lord knows
best."
The boy's longings and desires for future usefulness,
did not so engross his mind as to cause him to neglect
the opportunities to work for Christ that day by day
presented themsehes.
He was ever ready to show kindness to any one
whom he could in any way befriend ; he bore patiently
the taunts and jeers of his schoolfellows and work-
mates; and refrained from murmuring at the many
hardships of his lot in life.
The two strangers who had taken Mrs. Thorp's
apartments did not make their appearance at church
on the Sunday.
Ben saw them walking about the village in the
afternoon, and pointed them out to his father.
" Oi wonder who they con be," said John Bell ; " does
Mester Deane know owt about 'em, Ben ? "
" Mr. Deane ! " exclaimed the boy, " no, how should
he know anything ? "
" Nay, oi conna tell, lad, oi thowt happen he moight,
he's look in' a deal better is Mester Deane since he
comed here."
" He is better," replied Ben, " he is stronger than he
was."
BEN OWEN. 59
This was really the case; Mr. Deane's health had
certainly improved, he said himself that he felt
stronger than he had done for years.
His work in the school was not so hard a task as it
had been at first, the children were not so rebellious.
Some of them felt perhaps that it was useless fighting
against a master who was quietly resolved to be
obeyed, but the majority of them had learned to love
Mr. Deane, and did not find it difficulfc to obey him.
The first week in November passed away, and then
the second, and the two strangers still stayed on at
Mrs. Thorp's.
Sometimes they went away for a day or two, and
then returned.
They stopped Ben one morning on his way home to
breakfast, and asked him if he thought they could
obtain an order to see the Works before they left the
village.
" There's no orders given as I knows on," replied the
boy : " no one is allowed to go through th' Works
unless they're friends o' Mr. Ashford's"
" Is Mr. Ashford still away ? " asked the younger of
the two men.
" Yes, he's still away. Mr. Henry Ashford is at
home, he comes to th' Works every day."
" Mr. Henry Ashford is the son ? "
" Yes, th' eldest son. Mr. Lionel does na' live here,
he's in th' army."
" Then I think we must ask Mr. Henry Ashford's
60 •' BEN OWEN.
permission," and bidding Ben good morning the two
men went on their way.
That same morning a note was brought to Mr.
Henry Ashf ord as he sat at his desk in his father's office.
He read'it carefully through, and smiled.
" No, no, Mr. Robert Grant," he said, " we cannot
tell what your business may be, and, therefore, certainly
cannot write out an order for you and your cousin to
view the Print Works. My father's word is law here,
and if we broke our rules for one we might break
them for twenty strangers." And, taking a sheet of
note-paper from his desk, Mr. Henry replied briefly,
" The Works are not allowed to be viewed by strangers ;
this is our rule." The answer was given to one of the
clerks, who carried it to the outer office, where the
elder of the two strangers was standing.
" This reply is from Mr. Henry Ashford himself I
presume ? " said Mr. Robert Grant.
" From Mr. Henry himself," replied the clerk.
" Thank you," said Mr. Grant, " my cousin and I
would like to have seen the Works before leaving the
neighbourhood, but it does not signify."
Mr. Robert Grant and his cousin spent the remainder
of the day away from the village, and when they re-
turned in the evening they told Mrs. Thorp they
thought they should remain a week or two longer if
convenient to her.
Mrs. Thorpe raised no objections ; they paid for
their rooms regularly, and did not keep late hours, or
disturb her in any way.
BEN OWEN. d
They were respectably dressed, and appeared to
have plenty of money.
" They don't belong to th' gentry, an' they don't
belong to th' workin' class," said John Bell, " but
they're civil-spoken men for all that ; if they'd axed
me oi could ha' telled them they'd noan get leave to
go o'er th' Works, th' master's more particular now nor
ever he were sin' he's getten th' new machinery in ;
besides, there's things in th' colour shop an dyehouse
it would na' do for every one to see ; there's trade
secrets here same as elsewhere ; there's nobbut one or
two as ha' worked there as knows all th' processes."
"Oi know as mich as onybody," said old James
Wynnatt, who was listening to Bell, " boy an' man,
I've worked there all my life."
" Ay, no doubt tha' knows as mich as onybody," re-
plied John Bell, " take care tha' dost na' tell thee wife ;
there's nowt con be kept quiet when once a woman
knows it."
" Dost think so," said old James ; " th' Good Book
tells me it were nor a woman as betrayed th' Lord an'
th' Saviour into th' hands of the chief priests and
captains for thirty pieces o' silver, an' it were a woman
as browt th' alabaster box o' ointment, an' poured it
on th' Saviour's head ; an' it were th' women as fol-
lowed Him from Galilee ministering unto Him ; an' it
were th' women as were at th' sepulchre early in th'
mornin'. Nay, nay, John Bell, they're noan so bad,
tha' dost na' need to think or speak lightly o' th*
women foaks."
CHAPTER VIII.
M
A PAINFUL DISCOVERY.
OVEMBER was drawing to a close, and Ben's
cough grew worse each day.
Mrs. Deane sent him some medicine, and
gave him some flannel vests, and warm stockings.
And John Bell, miser though he was, took pity on
the boy so far as to allow a fire to be lighted and kept
in each evening.
One afternoon Mr. Deane asked Ben to go to his
house for a book he wanted.
The nearest way from the school was across a field
at the end of the playground. ^
A gate at the other side of the field opened into the
lane where the schoolmaster lived.
It was a quiet spot, only a few houses had been
built there.
There were fine tall trees on either side of the road,
and on summer evenings "Low Lane," as it was called,
was a favourite walk for the children and lovers from
the village.
BEN OWEN.
There were no children, and no lovers in the lane on
this November afternoon, but to his surprise, just as
he reached the gate, Ben saw his father, Mr. Robert
Grant, and his cousin, walking slowly along the lane.
The boy did not wish to speak to any of the party
just then, he wanted to hurry on to Mr. Deane's house,
so he drew back from the gate, and stood near the wall
that separated the field from the road.
On came the three men talking eagerly. Ben thought
at first they were quarrelling, and hoped that they
would not decide to return home the very way that he
had come, or look over the stone wall and discover
him standing there.
On they came, nearer and nearer. Now the boy
could tell from the tones of their voices that they were
not quarrelling as he had feared at first, but arguing,
or discussing some question very earnestly.
" Twenty pounds," he heard Mr. Robert Grant say,
" it's really too high a figure, my good man."
" Please yoursen," was John Bell's sullen reply, "it's
not my business."
" Don't speak so loud," said the younger of the two
Grants cautiously.
Ben drew a long breath and looked round.
Yes, they had gone now ; he waited a few moments,
then opened the gate and hastened away up the lane.
Mrs. Deane gave him the book he had been sent for.
" Did you come across the field ? " she asked.
" Yes, ma'am«" replied the boy.
64 ' BEN OWEN.
" Don't go back that way, then," said his kind
friend, " tlie grass is so wet."
So Ben returned by the lane. He saw nothing,
however, of his father or the two Grants, and John
Bell made no reference at tea-time to his afternoon's
walk, and Ben asked no questions.
Only as he sat alone by the fire, at night, he
wondered what business transactions his father could
possibly have with Mrs. Thorp's lodgers.
What was the money for ? -- —
JIad the two strangers got into debt, and borrowed,
or wished to borrow, money from John Bell, who in
return required the sum of twenty pounds as interest ?
No, that was too wild and silly a notion, and Ben
laughed at himself for having entertained it for a
moment.
Besides, how should they know, even supposing
them to be in pecuniary difficulties, that the night-
watchman at the Print Works had saved money ?
The next afternoon, when school was over, Jimmy
Thorp showed Ben a sixpence.
" It's moine," said the little fellow, " th' lodgers
gived it me, they've gone away to-day for good."
" Have they really ? " asked Ben.
" Yes, they shook hands with mother, an' said good-
bye quite perlite," said Jimmy, who was evidently
greatly impressed.
" Mother says she wishes oi'd learn to speak same as
they do," he continued, "she's goin' to give me a shillin'
when I don't say toime an' moine,"
BEN OWEN. 65
" But time and mine instead," said Ben, who knew
Mrs. Tliorp's dislike to the Lancashire dialect.
" Ben," said his father, as he started off to the Works
that evenini(, " oi'll noan tak' tli' dog to-neet."
" Not take Jess* ! " exclaimed Ben.
" Not tak' Jess," repeated Bell, " th' dog's moine, oi
con tak' it or leave it if oi choose."
" Of course," said Ben, wondering in his own mind
what new whim or caprice this could be.
Even Jess looked puzzled, but was very well pleased
to remain at home with Ben.
" He'd ha' thowt it queer or else oi would ha' tolu
him not to ha' browt my supper," said Bell to himself
as he walked along.
The person referred t^ was Ben, and why on o. ,3
occasion his father should trouble about what he
thought, seeing that at other times he cared nothing
for his opinion, Bell only knew.
Ben had finished learning his lessons, and was
reading a book Mrs. Deane had lent him, when he
heard a knock at the door.
" Who's comin' now ? " he said.
He opened the door, and to his surprise saw his
little friend Jimmy, almost breathless f roi. haste and
excitement, and with tears running down his rosy
cheeks.
" What is the matter ? " asked Ben.
" Oh, please, Ben," panted the child, " mother says
wilt tha' go to Leyton for th' doctor ? "
E
66 BEN OWEN.
"The doctor? Who is ill ?"
" Susy, she's real bad, an* father's gone off to-day,
he will na' be back before th' mornin' ; it could na' ha'
happened worse, mother says, th' lodgers gone an' all,
they'd ha' fetched the doctor."
" I'll fetch him," said Ben, getting ready at once ;
" who said he'd gone to Leyton ? "
" Th' housekeeper," replied Jimmy, " oi went to his
house an' she said he'd gone to Leyton Lodge to dine
an* spend th' evenin' ; them were her words ; they
dunnot ha' their dinner afore seven, tha' knows."
" No," said Ben, " but th' doctor will na' be long
comin' when once I've seed him. Bun back, Jimmy,
an' tell mother not to fret, we'll soon ha' Susy well
again, please God."
The nearest way to Leyton was past Mr. Deane's
house.
With Jess by his side Ben hurried on ; his cough
was very troublesome sometimes ; now and then he
was obliged to stop for a few moments, in order to get
his breath.
It was a rough, windy night, and it was bad walking
along the roads after the heavy rains.
" Th' doctor will ha' his trap an' drive me back wi'
him," said Ben ; " two miles will na' seem far when
one s nam .
Scarcely had the thought passed through the boy's
mind when he heard the sound of wheels.
" Happen some one else ha' sent for th' doctor," he
said, and stood still to see the conveyance pass.
BEN OWEN. 67
" I'll shout out if it's him, an' tell him about Susy,"
he thought.
But the conveyance did not pass the spot where the
boy stood, holding Jess tightly by the collar, for the
dog was apt to be rather too demonstrative sometimes
to strangers.
Instead of passing, the conveyance drew up at the
side of the road, and two men got down from it.
" I have paid your master for the trap, and here is a
shilling for yourself," said a voice which Ben recog-
nized instantly as Mr. Robert Grant's.
" Thark yo', Sir," replied the driver, " it's a good
step to the village, oi'll drive yo' on wi' pleasure."
" No, than '. you," said Mr. Robert Grant, " we prefer
to walk after our long drive."
"There," Ben heard him say as the conveyance
drove back towards Leyton apain, " I hope you are
satisfied, my dear brother ; our appointment with our
mutual friend is at half-past twelve, and here we are
at nine o'clock in these delightful lanes."
" Better too soon than too late," replied the younger
Grant, " if we were five minutes late. Bell would think
we had turned faint-hearted. Let us w^alk back a few
yards and then turn into the Eastfield road."
Poor Ben ! There he stood, still holding Jess by
the collar, fearing he knew not what if the two men
should find him there and know that he had overheard
their words, — words spoken so rapidly and quietly Ben
wondered that he had overheard them.
68 BEN OWEN.
But the boy's sense of hearing was wonderfully
quick, and he had recognized Grant's voice at once.
It was too dark to see many yards ahead, so Ben
waited until he thought he had allowed the two men
sufficient time to get into the Eastfield road : then he
hastened on.
He reached Leyton Lodge and asked for Dr. Eliot.
When the doctor heard Ben's errand, he prepared to
return with him immediately.
A kind, good, and clever man was Dr. Eliot, respected
by all who knew him.
Seated by his side in the dog-cart, Ben thought
anxiously about the discovery he had made of the
return of the two Grants.
What was their business with his father ?
What appointment had they made with him or he
with them.
Only one answer to these questions presented itself
to the boy's agitated mind.
His father must have consented to admit tiiem into
the Works on condition that they paid him a sum of
money.
His father must have been tempted, bribed, to com-
mit an act so base, so treacherous, that Ben's pale face
flushed crimson at the mere thought of it.
Should he be in time, could he do anything, to pre-
vent their accomplishing their purpose ?
" What a bad cough you have, Ben," said the doctor,
BEN OWEN.
69
"you ought not to be out these wet, cold nights; I
shall have you laid up next."
" I hope not, Sir," replied Ben, but he shivered as he
spoke, and Dr. Eliot bade him wrap his ruo- tio-htlv
round him.
It was as much from nervous agitation as from cold
that the boy was trembling, but the doctor did not
know this.
" Get away home and to bed, my lad," he said, as
they stopped at Mrs. Thorp's door, " and keep out of
the night air until your cough is better.'
CHAPTER IX.
IN THE WORKS.
WITH trembling hands Ben unlocked the
cottage door, and not waiting even to
strike a light, he groped his way to the
cupboard and took out his father's supper.
Jess stood at the gate, prepared to follow him to the
Works and home again as faithfully as she had fol-
lowed him to and from Leyton.
" Nay, nay, Jess," said the boy, " tha' must bide
here," and he sent the good dog back into the cottage,
and locked the door.
Jess whined piteously, but Ben went on his way as
though he heard it not.
" I mun stop theie," he said to himself, " I mun stop
there, but ho%u ?"
He rang a bell at a small side gate near the large
ones leading into the yard.
He heard his father open a door, and walk across
the yard.
BEN OWEN. 71
" Who's there ? " he asked.
" It's Ben, father," said the lad.
Bell unfastened a bolt on the small gate by which
he admitted himself, the large ones were not unlocked
before morning for the workpeople.
The small gate closed itself with a spring, and could
not be opened from the outside without a key.
Ben noticed his father did not stop to fasten the
bolt after admitting him, evidently he expected him
to return home very soon.
Lately Ben had always taken his father's supper to
the Works, and Bell found the boy's short visits a
pleasant relief to the monotony of his duties.
In his own hard, stern way, the watchman cared
more for Ben than he ever had done for any one else.
" Tha' art late," he said, as they entered a little
room on the first floor where he sat to eat his supper,
" where hast tha' been ? "
" I'm very late, I know," replied Ben. " Jimmy
Thorp came to ask me to fetch th' doctor fro' Leyton
Lodge, little Susy were very ill an' James Thorp
away ; I went as fast as ever I could, an' th' doctor
drove me back, but I'm very late for all that."
" It's strikin' ten now," said Bell, with his mouth
full of bread and cheese, " tha' mun be off sharp.
How yon door bangs in one o' th' rooms, oi mun stop
that." .. •
Taking up his lantern the watchman slowly climbed
the stairs. : ^ _ l _ _ „:^ . _.:. - .: - ' .— .-^
72 . HEN OWEN.
Ben was too much accustomed to his father's un-
ceremonious conduct to offer any remonstrance at
being left alone in the dark. Besides, could anything
have served his purpose better ?
He had been wondering how he could contrive to
remain all night in the Works ; now an opportunity
had presented itself.
In a moment he rushed from the room and went as
quickly as he could down a long passage.
He had no difficulty in finding his way about in the
dark, he knew the Works so well.
There was a door at the end of the passage down
which he hastened, which opened in a room where
large baskets, or " skips " as they are called, were kept.
As quick as thought Ben slipped behind a row of the
skips, and crouched down on the floor.
" So Ben's gone," said John Bell, when he returned
to the little room, and his half -finished supper ; " well
it isna th' first toime as he's found his way out in th'
dark, an' it were toime he were gone, oi'll fasten th'
bolt now," and taking his lantern in his hand, Bell
crossed the yard, and bolted tlie gate.
Ben heard his footsteps in the yard, and heard him
return and lock the door.
What should he do now ?
Go back to his father, and beg, implore, and entreat
him to allow no stranger's foot to cross the threshold
of the door ? : ,„
And what if his father laughed him to scorn ? Or,
indignant at the accusation, refused to listen to him ?
BEN OWEN. 78
What if, after all, his father were innocent of all
this ; what if it were but some dreadful dream, some
vision of his disordered imagination ? Ben was no
coward, but he shrank from the thoufifht of accusing
his father of acting in so mean and despicable a
manner.
Better that he should stay quietly where he was,
and when daylight drew near he would seek his
father, and tell him why he had remained in the
Works all night, to save him if he could from that
which was sinful.
He would tell him, too, how ill he felt, and ask his
permission to rest for a day or two.
Poor Ben, his whole frame trembled, and his brain
seemed to be in a perfect whirl.
" Lord help me," he said.
He tried to clothe his thoughts and longings in
other words, but words failed him.
" Lord help me," he murmured again.
The large clock struck eleven, and soon afterwards
Ben heard his father coming down the passage that
led to the room where he was.
He crouched down behind the skips, and remained
still and quiet on the floor. He heard his father's
heavy footstep as he crossed the room, and, fearful
lest his cough should come on, and betray his hiding-
place, he took from his pocket a lozenge he had had
given him, and as quietly as possible put it in his
mouth. In doing this, however, his arm rubbed against
one of the skips, making a slight noise.
74 BEN OWEN.
" Rats," said John Bell, " oi mun ax for some more
poison for 'em."
With his lantern in one hand, and his watchman's
staff in the other, he walked through the room and
out of the other door.
Then the thought entered Ben's mind, what if his
father should leek the doors at the end of the passages
leading to the long-room where he was hiding !
He groped his way to the nearest door, the one by
which his father had entered, and went cautiously
along the passage.
No, there was no door locked there. Ben could, if
he wished, return to the little room in which Bell took
his supper.
A fit of coughing came on, long and violent, and
Ben crept back to the long-room and skips again.
The watchman away up in the rooms where the
silent machinery stood never heard the sound.
He only heard the splash of the rain against the
windows, and the wind rising and moaning around
the building. i
The clock struck twelve, and Ben, who was listening
to every sound, heard his father descend the stairs, and
unlock the door by which he went in and out.
" He's goin' to th' engine-house now," said Ben, for
his father had told him the times at which he went to
attend to the fires.
Then Ben left the long-room, and the skips, and
w ent nearer to the door, and listened.
BEN OWEN. 75
The clock struck the quarter, and his father had not
returned.
Then tlie half -hour, and Ben heard the gate opened
and closed again, and footsteps coming ^(juietly and
cautiously towards the door.
Could Ben reach the door first, and bolt and bar
them out ?
The thought came too late, for as the boy rushed
onwards he heard the three men quietly enter, and
the door fastened once more.
But a moment's reflection showed him that had he
carried out his purpose Bell would still have found his
way in ; for he had all the keys with him, and, rather
than have been baffled and thwarted in his purpose at
the very outset, he would have smashed one of the .
lower windows, and obtained admittance in that way.
" Has't browt money ? " Ben heard his father ask,
as the three men entered the little room.
" Seeing is believing," said Robert Grant, taking out
his pocket-book.
" Four fivers," said Bell ; " now to work, oi'U see yo'
dunnot leave wi'out settlin' up wi' me."
*•' We'll do nothing shabby, depend upon it," said the
other Grant (Will, his brother called him); " we might
have to ask a favour again some time."
" Come on, then," said Bell, " let's waste no more
toime, yo' mun be clear out o' here in two hours.
What is to be first, th' new machines ? "
" Yes, we may as well have a look at those," said
70 ■ H BKN OWEN.
Mr. Robert Grant, taking in his hand the lantern Bell
had lighted for him ; my l)rother will not want one,"
he added, "he has his note-book to attend to."
The three men went up the stairs, the two with the
lanterns walking first, Will Grant with his pencil and
note-book in his hand the last.
Ben's mind was fully made up now.
"Lord help me," he prayed again.
Then, only waiting until he heard his father close
the door of the room he and the two men had entered,
he went quietly up the stairs. He opened the door
and stood face to face with the three men. The two
Grants looked at each other but said not a word ; but
the watchman put down his lantern, and seized the
trembling boy in his strong grasp.
The broad-shouldered man, with his heavy brow,
and dark, angry eyes, was not a pleasant sight to look
upon just then.
" Art tha' alone ? " cried Bell.
" Ay, alone," said Ben, faintly.
" Dost tha' know why they're here ? " asked the
father, pointing towards the two men.
" I know all," said Ben. " Father," he gasped,
" they have bribed you, tempted you, but it is not too
late, you have not touched their money, only let 'em
go their way an' I'll not breathe to any one."
" Tha' wilt breathe no word as it is," exclaimed Bell,
almost mad with passion, " swear tha' wilt na' say one
word o* what tha' hast seen an' heard, or oi'U put it
out o' thee power to speak ; th' dead tell no tales."
BEN OWEN. 77
"Nay, nay, gently," interposed Mr. Robert Grant,
" tell the boy he shall have a tfoo<l present out of the
money you receive if he promises to hold his tongue.
We are doing no harm here, my boy," he added.
Ben heard not a word he said, he felt his strength
failing him fast, his face was as white as death, and
his eyes sought his father's face.
His brain was dizzy ; he seemed to hear his father's
threat repeated a<jain and a^ain, and he found himself
wondering funv he would kill him ! With one blow ?
Or would he throw him into the deep pond — " the
lodge," as it was called — at the other side of the
Works ?
There would be a hue and cry made for him, and if
his body were found there the people would only con-
clude that he had fallen in by accident ; others had met
with death in the treacherous lodge, and why not Ben ?
" Lord help me," he said again.
John Bell relaxed his hold of the bov, and stood
watching him, no sign of pity or forbearance on his
stern, hard face ; all the man's evil passions were
roused within him.
"Swear!" he exclaimed.
Ben bowed his head a moment, and his pale lips
moved as if in prayer.
Then he looked up, and Bell saw the unutterable
horror expressed in the boy's white face, but he saw
no yielding fear.
" Wilt tha' swear ? " he said again. -- :- - -
78 • l^EN OWEN.
" I conna swear," said Ben ; " it s only reet as th'
master should know as there's traitors here ; if I live
I'll tell him, unless yo' will bid 'em go."
Not pausing to listen to the remonstrances of the
two Grants, mad with anger, blinded with passion,
Johi'. Bell raised his hand and struck at the boy.
Ben saw his hand raised, and moved aside to ward
off" the blow if possible, but his strength was almost
gone ; he reeled and fell backwards on the floor,
hitting his head as he did so against an iron wheel.
" Come," whispered Will Grant, hoarsely. " Come
Robert, the lad may be dead."
Self-preservation was a very powerful instinct in
Robert Grant's mind, and without pausing even to
look at Ben, he took up his lantern and walked
towards the door.
John Bell followed the two men down the stairs,
and out into the cold night air ; mechanically he
unlocked the door, and unfastened the gate.
Both the men spoke to him, but he never noticed or
answered their remarks, or raised any objections to
their sudden departure.
He bolted the gate, and locked the door again,
climbed the stairs, and entered the room, where lay
on the floor, white and still, the boy who had chosen
rather to suffer death than fco commit sin.
.f^
CHAPTER X.
NEW year's eve.
T first John Bell believed that Ben was dead ;
he thouf^ht that the shock and frii^ht had
killed him. But as he bent down over the
quiet form, he heard him breathing, very faintly, very
feebly, it is true, but still life had not left him.
Bell took oft* his coat, and made a pillow of it for
the boy's head.
As he did so, he saw how in falling he had given
his head a severe blow.
There was a deep cut above the left eye, a broad
gash made by a sharp point projecting from the wheel
against which Ben had knocked himself.
Bell shuddered as he tied his handkerchief over the
wound.
Then he got some water, and bathed the boy's face
and hands. t
Still there was no sign of any return to conscious-
ness, and all Bell's fears came back again.
80 BEN OWEN.
" Oi mun get him to tli' cottage an' to bed," he said
at last.
There was a man who lived near the Works who
could undertake the watchman's duties, if he would.
To his house Bell hastened, and succeeded in arous-
ing him at once.
" Wilt tha' go to th' Works for me," he said. " Ben
is ill, an' oi mun go whom."
" Ben ill ! Ah, oi'll go," replied the man ; " leave
th' keys here."
Back to the Works Bell went with rapid steps. He
wrapped his coat round the still unconscious boy.
Even then, unnerved and excited as he was, the
man's habitual caution did not forsake him.
He stooped down, and by the light of his lantern
looked carefully on the floor where the boy had fallen.
No, there were no tell-tale marks there, and Bell
breathed more freely again.
He carried the boy in his arms to the cottage where
Martin, who had promised to be his substitute, lived.
He put the keys on the step and knocked at the
door.
"Th' keys are on th' step," he shouted, and was gone
before Martin, who was slow in speech and slow at
work, could reply.
The cottage was soon reached, the key taken from
Ben's pocket, and the door unlocked.
Jess made a piteous moan as Bell placed the boy on
the old-fashioned chintz-covered sofa that stood in the
front room.
BEN OWEN. 81
Then Bell went for the doctor ; he told him Ben
had had a fall and hurt his head.
" Poor lad," said Dr. Eliot, " he is not in a state of
health to stand any severe shock. I'll come at once,
Bell ; I was just going to bed ; I only left Mrs. Thorp's
half-an-hour ago."
Bell watched by the poor lad's side until daybreak
and then went to Mr. Deane.
" They're two chaps as 'ave come into some property,
an' they've some reason or other fur wantin' to know
all th' ins an' outs o' calico-printin' ; they were nettled
at Mr. Henry's ref usin' to let 'em go o'er th' Works,
an' they made a bet wi' some o' their friends i'
Manchester as they would go i' spite o' him ; oi've
heard Ben read how Judas sold his Master fur thirty
pieces o' silver ; oi sold moine fur four bank-notes !
Yo' con tell on me, Mr. Deane ; but as yo' are a mon
an' a Christian, wait while Ben is better, oi should go
mad if oi were took from him just now.
" I shall not betray your confidence," said Mr.
Deane ; " rest assured you shall remain with Ben."
" And your mother, will she come an' see him ? He
thinks a sight on her."
"Yes, she will come ; I had better tell her how Ben
got the blow."
" Ay, tell her, tell her, hoo's not one to chatter,"
replied Bell, forgetting in his anxiety for Ben his
distrust of a woman's power to keep a secret.
It was a nasty blow the doctor said, when he came
82 . BEN OWEN
the second time to see the boy, but there was not much
fear but that he would recover from its etlects ; only,
and the doctor looked very grave now, the boy seemed
to be so very weak, only the night before he had been
pained to hear what a bad cough he had.
" If it's nobbut weakness hinders him getting better,
there's a sight o' things money can buy to mak' foaks
strong," exclaimed Bell ; " see here, doctor, Ben con
ha' onything as ud do him good, oi've money saved an'
oi'll spend it all to get him well."
The first week in December passed, then the second,
and still Ben lay in a state of unconsciousness. Now
and then he seemed to rally, and Bell's hopes rose
high, only to die away again as the boy relapsed into
unconsciousness.
There was no delirium ; he never called for his dead
mother, or imagined she was with him, or spoke of the
past ; he simply lay on his little bed, " slippin' away
fro' life," old Mrs. Wynnatt said.
The third week came, and then Ben slowly returned
to consciousness again. He opened his eyes one
afternoon, and saw his father standing at the foot of
the bed intently watching him.
" Father," he said, " how is Sus> ?"
" Susy !" repeated Bell ; " who is Susy ?"
" Mrs. Thorp's little girl, I fetched th' doctor, yo'
know," gasped Ben.
" Oh ! Susy Thorp, she ails nothin', it were a fit, she
were cuttin' a tooth, th' doctor soon had hoi round
BEN OWEN. 83
again. Ben," continued Bell, going nearer to the boy,
" Ben, dost tha' moind now all as 'appened, them two
scamps as bribed me, an' how tha' earned, an' oi threat-
ened oi'd kill thee an' oi hit out at thee an' tha' fell
an' knocked thysen ?"
" I knocked mysen, did I ?" said the boy, wonder-
ingly. " Ay, I know all th' rest."
" Con yo' ever forgive me, Ben ?"
" Forgive yo' ?"
And the boy looked up into the man's worn, haggard
face ; he took his hand and pressed it to his lips. " It's
all reet between thee an' me, father, say no more
about that."
For several days after Ben seemed really better, but
the doctor only shook his head when Bell declared the
lad wonld soon be well again. The patient himself
appeared to think that he was slowly but surely
recovering.
" When I'm better," he said, on Christmas Day to
Mrs. Deane, who was sitting beside him, "father is
goin' to church with me."
The doctor was in the room, and heard the remark.
As he shook hands with Mrs. Deane, he said, " Try if
you can gently tell the poor boy that there is little or
no hope of his recovery. Should he grow suddenly
worse he may be alarmed."
" Ben," said the old lady, quietly, when they were
alone together, " would you grieve very much if you
knew you would never be better here on earth again ? "
84 • BEN OWEN.
The boy looked earnestly at her. " There's father,"
he said ; " all I want to do for him, and th' work I
want to do for th' dear Lord ? "
" The Lord will take care of your father, Ben, and
of the work too, He wall send forth other labourers if
it please Him to call you home to Himself."
" I'm young to die," said the boy ; " an' oh ! if I'd
had health an' strength I'd ha' loved to work for
Christ ; but if it's His will for me to go, then I'll noan
murmur."
He seemed better all that week, but the next week
he grew worse again, weaker and weaker day by day.
John Bell told Mr. Ashford of the boy's critical
state, and that the second doctor called in only con-
firmed Dr. Eliot's opinion that the boy might pass
away any moment.
" He has no stamina, no constitution to fall back
upon," said the medical men."
" And you want to be released from your duties in
order to be at home with him," said Mr. Ashford
kindly ; " stay with him by all means, I will find a
substitute for your work."
All that medical skill could suggest was done for
Ben, but no human means could save the boy's young
life.
The last day of the old j^ear came, and still Ben
lingered. \
"I thought I should see th' old year out, ' he said.
" Father, I mun be th' first to wish yo' a happy !New
BEN OWEN. 85
Year; I'll wish it yo' now, lest 1 should be asleep
when it comes."
" There'll be no happy years for me, Ben, if tha*
goes," sobbed Bell.
" There'll be peace;' said the boy. " Th' peace th'
world conna give nor take away. Father, mind, yo'
promised me yo' would seek it."
" Oi will, lad, oi will," replied Bell.
" What shall I read to you, Ben ? " asked Mrs. Deane
that evening.
" Read in the Revelation," said Ben, " about him
that overcome th."
" Th' reward's too great for me. Lord," they heard
him whisper as his friend closed the book ; a crown,
an' a seat on th' throne, an' a new name ! I've done
nothiix' for Thee, Lord ! "
Then lie opened his eyes, and looked round the
room.
Mr. Deane and his mother, John Bell, and old Mrs.
Wynatt, were all there. " How good you've ail been,"
said Ben ; " do I hear th' bells ringin' ? "
No, the bells were not ringing, they told him.
" Is this dyin' ? " he asked. " /'m noan feart"
There was another pause ; then he said, " Mother,
are yo' callin' me ? I'm comin' now, mother ! "
Then all was still and silent for a time.
Then the church bells rang out, welcoming the new
year. —
But the boy in the little cottage heard them not.
86
BEN OWEN.
He had gone to the city where time is not counted
by weeks and months and years.
"For a thousand years in Thy sight are but as
yesterday when it is past, and as a watch in the
night."
CHAPTER XI.
AT LIBERTY.
JOHN BELL kept faithfully the promises he had
made to Ben. He attended the services of the
church, and read the Bible daily; he prayed
earnestly, and yet failed for a time to find the peace
of which Ben had spoken.
He was sitting alone in the cottage one afternoon,
thinking of the boy who had found this peace, and
who had been " faithful even unto death."
He thought of the lad's patience, his gentleness and
forbearance, and he thought of his own coldness and
harshness.
The man's wrong-doing had been great, but his
repentance was true and sincere. "Oi'd gi' all th'
money oi ha' in th' bank, an' all oi ha' invested, oi'd
gi' it gladly, freely, only to ha' Ben here again," he
exclaimed. : - j - j
Then he thought of the home the boy had gone to,
88 • BEN OWEN.
the bright and happy home the Saviour had prepared
for him.
" He said he were * noan fcart ' to go, that were
because he loved th' Saviour," said Bell. " Why did
he love Him so ? "
He took up Ben's little Bible, and turned to the
story of the Cross. He read it over and over again.
" Oi see it now," he said at last. " Christ died for
us because He loved us, an' all he axes us to do is to
love Him an' try to do His will."
The next day he found his way to Mr. Deane.
" Oi comed to tell yo' oi believe in Him," he said.
" Believe in whom ? " asked Mr. Deane.
" Him as died on th' cross for th' sins of th' whole
world, for my sins ; oi believe He's forgiven me, though
oi can never forgive my sen"
The next day he went to the parsonage and asked
for "th' parson."
" What can I do for you, my friend ? " asked Mr.
Mervyn, kindly.
" Thank yo'. Sir," replied Bell, " yo' 'ave done what
yo' could for me. There's a bit o' money here," he
added, placing a small canvas bag on the table, " an
yo' can gi' it to th' poor, or to th' missioners, or what
yo' think best. Him as is gone would ha' been a
missioner if he'd lived ; he wor one while he did live ;
he missioned to me same as no one else in th' world
ever did. Oi could ha' made his life a deal brighter.
Sir, if ci had na' loved my money so ; but I conna
HEN OWEN. SO
undo th' past. Yo' shall ha' some more money fro me
another day, Sir;" and before Mr. Mervyn could
express his happiness at the change in the man's
feelings, or his thanks for the unexpected gift of ten
pounds, he had gone.
The spring came with all its promises of new life
and beauty.
One bright, warm afternoon, John Bell closed his
cottage door, and went, as he often did, into the quiet
churchyard.
In his hand he held a wicker cage containing the
lark.
He had remembered Ben's wish, and had bought a
larger cage for the bird.
He walked slowly through the churchyard until he
came to the boy's grave.
What a quiet, peaceful spot it was !
The bright sunlight passed in and out through the
boughs of the trees, and a bird on a hawthorn tree
sang clearly and sweetly, but yet softly, as though it
feared to disturb the sleeper's rest.
" Ben, little Ben," said the tall, strong man, as he
knelt beside the grave where pink and white daisies
and sweet-scented violets grew, " Ben, oi've found th'
peace th' telled me on, an' it were all thy doing, Ben."
And the strong man's tears fell fast.
Then, rising, he opened the door of the wicker cage.
" Him as is gone," he said to the lark, " loved for all
things livin' to be free an' happy, he could na' abide to
90 • FiEN OWEN.
keep birds and sich loike caged up, he grieved to see
thee frettin* in thy cage, but oi could na' turn thee out
in th' cold winter. But it's spring toime now, an' tha'
con build thysen a nest," he added, as he took the lark
tenderly out of the cage.
The bird fluttered gently over the surface of the
ground, then paused as if to rest.
" It's lame or hurt it's wing," exclaimed Bell.
But it was not lamed or hurt, it was only overjoyed
to find itself free once more.
It rose again, higher, higher it soared this time.
Then it came back again, but only for a moment.
It flew suddenly from the ground ; higher, higher it
rose, and soared up to, and beyond, the trees, to where
the white clouds drifted over the sunny sky ; and, as
it rose higher, and yet higher, it filled the air with
song.
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78 A 80 King Street SMt, Toronto.
LIFE AND SPBBOHBS OP
Hioisr. j"OH:isr bK/IO-hit.
BY G. BARNETT SMITH,
Author of the Life of Hon. W. E. Gladstone.
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Through the Prison to the Throne. Illustrations of Life from
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