An Accident.
The sea of fortune doth not ever flow,
She draws her favours to the lowest ebb
Her tides have equal time to come and go,
Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web
No joy so great, but runneth to an end,
No hap so hard but may in time amend.
—Southwell.
ot far from Scout Farm were several gentlemen's residences, occupied chiefly by Manchester merchants, who travelled to and from the city morning and evening by rail. One of the largest of these residences, and also the farthest away from Scoutleigh Road Station, was occupied by a Mr. Munroe, who was reputed to be a man of great wealth, and also of great liberality. In consequence of the distance of Mr. Munroe's house from the station, his coachman used to drive him to Scoutleigh Road in the morning and fetch him in the evening, sometimes taking Mrs. Munroe, or one of the children, at the same time.
Mrs. Munroe was the only sister of Mr. Lawrence, of Liverpool, Benny's former master, and, at the time to which we refer, Eva Lawrence was spending a few weeks at Brooklands with her uncle and aunt. Little did our hero think, as he sometimes looked across the valley at Mr. Munroe's house, almost hidden by trees, that his "angel" was staying there. It was doubtless well for him that he did not know. He would have been impatient to look once more upon the face of the maiden that, next to his sister Nelly, had been the brightest vision of his life. He still kept the shilling that she had given him, and often when alone he would take it out of his purse and look at it, and wonder what had become of the little girl that befriended him in his hour of need, and would almost long for one more sight of her angel face.
It was at such times as these that Benny grew restless, and pined for the bustle of Liverpool streets, and for the sight of old faces, that day by day were fading from his memory. Yet he never seriously entertained the idea of going back. There were only Joe and granny, and Mr. Lawrence and Eva, that he cared to see, but that they would care to see him was very doubtful, and he could not go back to be looked at with suspicion. And not only so: he believed that he was where God intended him to be. He had a home, and a good one, among friends who believed in his honesty, and treated him with kindness. And even yet, had he been disposed to pay a visit to his old haunts, he had no time. He was fully employed every day of the week, and every season of the year brought its appointed work. The days were so short in winter that they had always their hands full, and sometimes more than they could do. And spring was always a busy time: the lambs had to be attended to; fences had to be repaired; and so many "crops" had to be got in, that hay harvest came upon them frequently before they were ready. Then huge fields of turnips and mangolds and potatoes had to be hoed, and ere that was done the fields were white unto the harvest. Then came sheep-shearing and ploughing land for next year's wheat crop, and potato digging, and half a dozen other things, that allowed them no time for idleness, and it was well for Benny that it was so. He had no time to mope or to waste in useless regrets.
One evening he had to pass Brooklands on his way to a neighbouring farm. The day had been beautifully fine—a real June day, people said; a few people complained that it had been too hot about noon, but as the day declined a fresh breeze had sprung up, that made the evening deliciously cool. Benny enjoyed few things more than a saunter across the fields during a summer's evening. And this evening he was just in the mood to enjoy the song of birds, and the scent of apple blossom and new-mown hay. It wanted several hours yet of sundown, so he sauntered on very leisurely, and paused when near Mr. Munroe's house, arrested by the sound of laughter. Not far from where he stood three or four young ladies were engaged in a game of archery, and as he could not be seen by them, he waited awhile to watch them. He did not know that one of those fair maidens was Eva Lawrence; how should he know? She was a little girl when he saw her last, now she was just blooming into womanhood. The beauty, of which her early life gave promise, was now more than realized. But had Eva Lawrence been plain of feature, she would still have been beautiful in the eyes of those who knew her well. Hers was a beautiful life, and people did not wonder that it was mirrored in a lovely face. It was a picture that would have pleased an artist's eye on which Benny gazed, and their rippling laughter formed a pleasant accompaniment to the rustling of the leaves and the music of the brook that murmured down the glen. But as Benny gazed at the picture he only saw one face, that of Eva Lawrence. He thought he had never seen the face before, and yet it affected him strangely. It seemed to bring back to him some half-forgotten dream. What was it that it reminded him of? He could not tell; whatever it might be, it eluded his grasp. Like the snatch of a forgotten song it came and went, leaving nothing definite upon the mind.
An hour later he returned by another way across the glen or ravine (adown which the brook babbled) by a narrow bridge with low parapets, and turned a sudden corner down the lane towards Scout Farm. For a moment he paused and remarked to himself, "This is a dangerous corner; I wonder Mr. Munroe does not alter it; and that bridge too, it is altogether too narrow. If I drove this way as often as he does, I would pull down that antiquated structure, and build a good wide bridge with a high wall on either side;" and, having given expression to an opinion that he had expressed a hundred times before, he turned on his heel and quietly pursued his way. He had not gone many yards, however, before he heard a great hue and cry, and, looking down the lane, he saw that Mr. Munroe's horse had taken fright, and was rushing towards him at headlong speed. The coachman, who had been riding behind, had coolly dropped himself down on the road, and stood staring after the flying carriage in blank astonishment, and shouting at the top of his voice. Benny saw that Mr. Munroe was trying in vain to check the mad gallop of the horse, and he saw also that the young lady whose face had attracted him so strangely before was sitting by his side, pale and motionless. Here and there people rushed out from the fields into the road and held up their hands or hoes, but always retreated after a few frantic gesticulations in time for the affrighted steed to pass. Instantly Benny thought of the sharp corner and the narrow bridge over the deep ravine. If the road had been straight, the wisest course would have been to have given the horse rein, and let it tire itself out. But as it was, the horse must be stopped before it reached the bridge, or almost certain death would be the fate of Mr. Munroe and his niece. He had little time to think, but he knew that to attempt to stop the horse would be attended with considerable risk to himself. If he failed to grasp the bridle the horse and carriage would go over him, in all probability killing him on the spot; but he had no time to debate the question, the startled horse was full upon him. In an instant he dashed at the bridle and caught it, the end of the shaft striking him on the arm at the same moment, almost causing him to let go his hold, but he held tight. For a dozen yards the horse dragged him along the road; then he succeeded in getting it on its knees with its nose against a hedge, and Mr. Munroe and Eva alighted in perfect safety. By this time, however, a number of people had gathered round, the coachman amongst the rest, who at once took charge of the horse, and Benny slunk away as quietly as possible, and made his way along the road as fast as he was able. Mr. Monroe, however, seeing his intentions, followed him at once.
"Come, come, my young friend," he said; "I cannot let you go without thanking you for your noble act."