CHAPTER XV.
A Terrible Alternative.
Sow truth, if thou the true wouldst reap,—
Who sows the false shall reap the vain;
Erect and sound thy conscience keep,
From hollow words and deeds refrain.
Sow love, and taste its fruitage pure;
Sow peace, and reap its harvest bright;
Sow sunbeams on the rock and moor,
And reap a harvest home of light.
he days of peace and sunshine sped all too swiftly. Winter soon gave place to budding spring, and spring lengthened into summer. Twelve months had passed since that happy day in Eastham Woods, for June had come again; and the parks and squares were once more green, and the streets were hot and dusty.
It had been a strange year to Benny. Pain and pleasure had strangely commingled. Never had he felt such sorrow, never had he known such joy. The old year had closed in sorrow and despair; the new year had opened in joy and hope.
Benny had grown much during those twelve months, for neither the chastening of grief nor the stimulus of kindness had been lost upon him. Both had done him good, and so the year had been to him one of growth—growth in every sense. He had grown physically. He was barely twelve yet, but he was well developed for his age; especially so considering how little had been the care bestowed on his childhood. His face was open and pleasant, and there was a frank honest expression in his eyes that won him favour wherever he went.
He had grown, too, mentally. Mr. Morgan had regularly set him copies, and Mr. Lawrence, discovering his eagerness to learn, had lent him books that would help him in the pursuit of knowledge. He became a most diligent student. At first he sought after knowledge as a means to an end. He believed that it would help him in the race of life. But the farther he advanced the pleasanter became his studies, and knowledge became precious for its own sake. What at first he set before himself as a stern and even unpleasant duty, became at last a joy and delight.
He was eager also to improve his manners. He was anxious to speak correctly, and not be a disgrace to the gentleman who employed him and the butt of the clerks. And it was wonderful what progress he made in this respect. It is true that he frequently forgot himself, and the old expressions that habit had made familiar rolled easily from his tongue. But he had made up his mind to conquer, and he was certainly succeeding.
And last, but not least, he had grown morally. For three months he had regularly attended the Sunday-school, and among the five hundred boys and girls that assembled regularly week after week there was not a more diligent inquirer than Benny. The spiritual discernment that Joe Wrag thought he lacked was being given, and the "old, old story," was beginning to have a wonderful fascination for him.
Mr. Lawrence was wonderfully pleased with his protégé, and had decided that if during the next six months he made such progress as he had done in the past, he should be promoted to a higher position.
Benny regarded his fortune as made. Never had life seemed so bright to him as, one Saturday afternoon, when busy at work putting Mr. Lawrence's office in order. There was no one in the office but himself. Mr. Lawrence had just left, giving him instructions that he must wait till Mr. Morgan returned, who would lock up the offices, and then he (Benny) must bring up the keys to his residence.
Benny had swept out the inner office, put the few books that were lying about in their proper places on the shelves, and was busy dusting the furniture, humming to himself the song that haunted him continually—
"There is beauty all around,
When there's love at home,"
when Mr. Lawrence came in hurriedly, and went straight to his desk and began to search carefully among the few papers that were lying on it; then he looked behind it, around it, and underneath it, but it was evident, from the perplexed look on his face, that he could not find what he was in search of.
"Benny," he called, "come here."
And Benny came in from the outer office, to which he had retired on Mr. Lawrence's appearance.
"Has Mr. Morgan returned yet?" demanded Mr. Lawrence, in a stem voice.
"No, sir," said Benny, wondering what had happened.
"Has any one been here since I left?"
"No, sir."
"You are quite sure?"
"Yes, sir, quite sure."
"Then will you tell me what has become of the five-pound note that I left lying on the desk when I went out?" And he looked straight in Benny's face.
Benny turned pale, for he knew what the question implied, but he did not quail before Mr. Lawrence's stem gaze, and, looking his employer straight in the eyes, he answered —
"I do not know, sir; I have not seen it."
"Now, Benny," said Mr. Lawrence, "mind what you are saying."
In a moment his face flushed crimson as he answered—
"Did you ever know me lie, sir?"
"No, Benny," answered Mr. Lawrence; "I never did, nor steal either, though I can quite conceive how, in a moment of weakness, you might be tempted to do both."
"But I've done neither," said Benny, with trembling lip.
For a moment Mr. Lawrence was silent, then he said—
"Look here, Benny. I left a five-pound note on the desk when I went out. I am quite certain of that—as certain as I am that I stand here at this moment. And, according to your own statement, no one but yourself has been in the office since I left, and when I come back the note is gone. What am I to think?"
"It's mighty queer, sir," said Benny, turning pale again; "but I hope you'll not think that I've took it."
"I'm afraid that I must think so."
Then there was another pause, while Benny trembled from head to foot. At length Mr. Lawrence spoke again.
"I do not wish to be hard with you, Benny," he said; "and if you will only confess that you have taken the note, I will forgive you."
"And if I was to tell a lie and say I took it, you would ask me for it at once, and I ain't got it." And Benny burst into tears.
"No, I will be more lenient still, for I know what a grief it will be to my little girl when she hears about it. If you will only confess that you have taken it, I won't even ask you to return it. But if you will not confess, I'm afraid the law will have to take its course."
Poor Benny! It was a terrible moment to him, and he tried to realize how much depended upon his answer. By telling a lie he might still keep his situation and the friendship of his little benefactress, and yet reach the heights to which his ambition pointed. But if he stuck to the truth, what would there be? A prison, perhaps, and then the old life in the streets—hunger and weariness and cold. True, if he told a lie Mr. Lawrence would then have no doubt of his guilt. But, alas! he would still believe him guilty if he told the truth, and not only Mr. Lawrence, but every one else that knew him would regard him as a thief.
It was a terrible alternative. Tell a lie, and still go on the shining way that for months had been opening up before him; tell the truth, and go back to the old life, that would now seem worse than death—go back to want and disgrace.
At one time he would not have been long in deciding the question. But conscience had been awakened since then, and, while he hesitated, the little pale face of his dead sister rose up between him and his employer, and a voice within seemed to whisper, "Tell the truth, Benny, and the Lord will provide."
It was a brief interval since Mr. Lawrence had spoken, but in those few moments Benny had fought the fiercest battle of his life, and had won the victory.
He lifted his swimming eyes to Mr. Lawrence and said—
"I cannot tell a lie, sir." That was all.
Mr. Lawrence regarded him for a few moments in silence, then left the office with a deeply puzzled expression on his face. He did not know what to think. Either Benny was honest or he was a most hardened thief, and somehow he felt that the boy could not be the latter. He had always found him so truthful and thoughtful and obliging. There seemed nothing bad about the boy. And yet where could that note be if he had not taken it?
And again he walked back into the office, and commenced a search more careful and diligent than before, but all without avail; the note was nowhere to be found.
Sorely puzzled what to do, he left the office once more, and had scarcely got into the street when he stumbled across Police-inspector Sharp.
"Good afternoon," said the inspector, touching his hat.
"Good afternoon," said Mr. Lawrence, passing on. He had not gone many steps, however, before he turned back.
"I don't know but that it is a fortunate thing. Sharp, that I have met you," he said. "The fact is, I'm in a bit of a difficulty, and I don't know a more likely man than you to help me out."
"I'm at your service, sir," said Mr. Sharp, "and if I can render you any assistance, I shall be most happy to do so."
"Well, the fact is," said Mr. Lawrence, and he went on to tell all the circumstances connected with the missing note, and finished up by saying, "But somehow I cannot for the life of me believe the boy has stolen it."
"Indeed, now,** said Mr. Sharp, putting on a professional air, "I cannot for the life of me believe that the urchin has not stolen it. So you see my difficulty is in the opposite direction, Mr. Lawrence."
"But you don't know this lad, Mr. Sharp."
"Well, perhaps I don't know this particular young dog, but I know the whole tribe of them," said Mr. Sharp, trying to look wise, "and I tell you they are all rogues and vagabonds, from the oldest to the youngest of 'em. Bless you, it is bred in their very bones, and they couldn't be honest if they were to try ever so."
He went on to tell all the circumstances.
"But this boy has been with me six months, and a nicer lad I never knew."
"Ay, yes, Mr. Lawrence, their cunning is amazing; and they can play the hypocrite equal to old Satan himself. I tell you what, sir, if you had had the experience of 'em that I've had, you'd mistrust the whole tribe of 'em."
"Well, I dare say. Sharp, you know more about them than I do, and I confess that it was with some amount of misgiving that I engaged the boy; but he has never taken anything before."
"Did you ever give him the chance?"
"Well, perhaps not," said Mr. LawrencOj looking thoughtful.
"Just so," said Inspector Sharp. "The young dog has patiently waited his opportunity. Oh, bless you, sir, they know their game."
"But what had I better do?" said Mr. Lawrence, looking puzzled.
"If you'll leave the matter to me," said Mr. Sharp, I'll work the oracle for you, and very likely restore you the missing money."
"I'm very unwilling to prosecute," said Mr. Lawrence in a troubled tone of voice.
"Just so, just so. I quite understand your feeling. But you'll not have need to do much in that direction, I can assure you," said Mr. Sharp, in a patronizing manner.
"Well," said Mr. Lawrence, looking like a man that had made up his mind to submit to a painful operation, "I'll leave the matter in your hands."
Half an hour later, as Benny stood in the street waiting until Mr. Morgan had locked the doors, a police constable came forward and touched him on the arm.
"You'll come with me!" he said. "I've found fresh lodgings for you to-night."
"Did Mr. Lawrence send you?" said Benny, the tears standing in his eyes.
"The orders came from him in the first place," said the policeman; "he intends to stop your cribbing for a week or two."
"Oh, but I didn't steal the money," sobbed Benny, "I didn't really."
"They all say that," laughed the constable; "but from what I can hear, you're a particular cunning dog. However, you're caught this time."
Benny felt that it was of no use saying any more, so he walked along by the officer's side with the calmness of despair settling down upon his heart.
He had no wish to resist. He knew it would be useless for him to attempt to do so. He had lost everything now, and the only thing he hoped for was that death might come speedily, and that he might soon be laid to rest by the side of his little sister, and be at peace for ever.
He thought everybody was looking at him, as the officer led him through the streets, and he could not help feeling thankful now that Nelly was dead. Such disgrace would break her heart if she were alive. And for the first time he felt glad that she was sleeping in her grave.
How changed everything had become in one short day! A few hours ago he was mourning the loss of his sister; now he was glad that she was numbered with the dead.
But one short hour before the world had never seemed so bright, and he had thought how he should enjoy the beautiful summer evening in Wavertree Park; now the world had never seemed so cheerless and dark, and his evening was to be spent in a prison cell.
Poor boy! it is no wonder that he wished he might die, for every hope had been blasted in an hour.
On arriving at the police station he was thrust into his cell without a word. He was thankful to find that it was empty, for he wanted to be alone with his thoughts. Selecting the darkest comer, he crouched down upon the floor and rested his head upon his knees. He could not weep, his grief was too great for tears. He could only think and think, until his thoughts seemed to scorch his very brain. And as he crouched thus, while the hours of that summer's afternoon and evening dragged slowly along, his whole life passed vividly before him, he seemed to live it all over again, and he asked himself if he could go back to the old life of hunger and cold in the streets.
When Nelly was with him, and they knew no other life, they were not unhappy. But he had had a glimpse of Paradise since then. He had tasted the joys of hope and had cherished dreams of a happy future, and he felt that it would be easier to die than to return in disgrace to what he had thought he had left behind him for ever.
It was very hard that just as the world seemed brightest, and hope seemed growing into certainty—just as the path of life was getting clear, and the end seemed certain, that 
He walked along by the officer's side with the calmness of despair settling down upon his heart.
Could it be true, he asked himself again and again, that he, who had been trying so hard to be good and truthful and honest, was really in prison on a charge of theft? It had come upon him so suddenly that he thought sometimes it must be all some horrid dream, and that he would surely awake some time and find the bright future still before him.
And so the hours wore away, and the light faded in the little patch of sky that was visible through his high grated window, and the cell grew darker and more dismal all the while.
At length there was a tramp of feet in the court-yard outside. The key grated in the lock, the door flew open, and two lads were tumbled into the cell. These were followed in half an hour by three others, and Benny became aware by the noises in the court-yard that other cells were being filled as well as the one he occupied. And, as the darkness deepened, night grew hideous with shouts, and laughter, and songs, and curses loud and deep.
It seemed to him as if he had got to the very mouth of hell. Nothing that he had ever heard in Addler's Hall or Bowker's Row could at all compare with what he heard that night: now there was the sound of blows; now cries for help; now shrieks of murder, accompanied by volleys of oaths and shouts of laughter.
The companions of his own cell were on the whole tolerably orderly, and were evidently disposed to make the best of their situation. They started several songs, but in every case broke down at the end of the second line, so at length they gave up trying, and settled themselves down to sleep.
It was far on towards morning before all grew still, but silence did drop down upon the prisoners at last; and Benny, weary with counting the beats of his heart, dropped at length into a troubled sleep. It was late in the morning when he awoke again, and for a moment he was unable to recall what had happened or where he was. Then the memory of the past evening rushed in upon him like a flood, and he buried his face in his hands in the misery of despair.
He wondered what granny would think of his absence, and what his teacher would think in the Sunday-school. Alas! he should see them no more, for how could he go to them with such a stain upon his name?
While he was musing thus he was startled by a familiar voice addressing him, and looking up he saw Perks looking at him, with a broad grin upon his countenance.
"Well, this are a onexpected pleasure!" he said. "I's jolly glad to see yer, Ben. Yer see, I's of a very forgivin' natur'."
But Benny made no reply. He only wondered if his misery would ever end.
"In the dumps, eh?" continued Perks. "Well, I an' my mates 'll help you out in quick sticks: now lets have a song all together. You ken take the big end, that's the bass, yer know."
"I want to be quiet," said Benny; "do let me alone."
"In course I'll let 'e alone. I looks like it, don't I? I's a very forgivin' natur'. Mister Benjamin Bates, you knows that, though I don't forget. But the fact is, I's so pleased to 'ave yer company agin that I'm bound to show my delight in some way."
"If you don't take yourself off. Perks, you'll wish you had," said Benny.
"Now, don't be touchy, Mr. Bates. But let's dance a cornpipe, while one o' my mates whistles 'Pop goes the Weasel.'"
Poor Benny! he could not escape his tormentor, so he bore throughout that weary Sabbath, as best he could, a series of petty persecutions. He tried to be patient, he even tried to pray, but the only prayer he could utter was, "O Lord, kill me at once, and put me out of misery."