Chapter 2

Sam brought the tools, and he and Mark Page went into the mill. They found that the storm had done some harm to the inside of the mill, and that two or three things were out of place. They soon put them right though, as they thought, and then they set to work to mend the sails. They had much grist to grind, and they were in a hurry; so the miller climbed along one of the arms with the tools he wanted, and Sam went along another. There was a nice breeze--not much--but it seemed as if it would get stronger and stronger. So they worked on as fast as they could, that they might soon get the sails mended and the mill going.

There they were, the miller and his man, out at the end of those long arms high up in the air. Few people would have wished to have changed places with them.

"Make haste, Sam," cried the miller from his perch. "It's a tough job I have got here. I shall want your help."

"All right, master, I shall soon be done," said Sam, and he worked on.

"Hallo, Sam, what are you about, man?" cried the miller on a sudden.

"Nothing, master," said Sam, hammering away.

"Nothing! nothing?" cried out the miller, at the top of his voice. "Why the mill is moving. Stop it, man; stop it."

"I can't stop it, master, nor any man either," shrieked out Sam, as the long arms of the mill began to move round and round.

"Hold on to the last, then," cried the miller; "it is your only chance."

"I can't, master; I can't," cried Sam, near dead with fright.

The miller clutched round the arm with all his might. Sam went round once. It was more than he could bear; as the arm to which he clung neared the ground, he let go. Of course he was dashed with great force to the ground. Had his head struck it, he would have been killed; but his legs came first. One leg was broken, and there he lay not able to get up and help his master, and almost dead with fear as the long arms swept round and round above his head.

Still the miller held on. He shut his eyes, for he dared not look at the ground, which he seemed to be leaving for ever; and he felt that the mill was going faster and faster each moment. He knew too that he was growing weaker and weaker, and that the time would soon come when he could hold on no longer, and that he must be dashed with force on the ground and killed. What could save him? Sam lay helpless on the ground.

"Oh, I shall be killed; I shall be killed," he thought. "Help! help!"

From whom was help to come? He could not pray; he never prayed when he lay down at night, when he got up in the morning. He could not pray to God now. Who else could help him! No human being was likely to see him, for his wife and son and daughter were still in bed, and few people passed that way. His breath grew short, his heart seemed as if it did not beat.

"Oh! oh! my last moment is come, and I must soon stand before that God I have seldom thought of, never prayed to in this life. Where must I go? where must I go? I will lead a better life if I am saved. I will! I will!"

Just then he heard a cheerful voice cry out, "Well done, Mark: hold on, hold on; we'll stop the mill soon for you."

The words were spoken by the man whom Mark Page said he hated more than any other man on earth,--his neighbour, Farmer Grey. Farmer Grey had been riding round his farm in the cool of the morning, when, looking up towards the mill, he saw Mark Page and his man Sam Green at work on the arms. Then, as he looked, the arms began to go round and round with Mark on them.

Farmer Grey, on this, dashed up the hill at a gallop, jumped from his horse and rushed up the steps into the mill to try and stop the arms. He had been a few times in a wind-mill, and knew something about the works. At great risk though of hurting himself, he seized what he thought was the right crank to make the mill stop. His wish was to stop the mill just as the arm to which the miller clung rose above the ground. His heart beat as he watched for the proper moment. It was life or death to the miller. If he stopped it too soon Mark might be dashed to the ground; if he waited till it rose too far he would be thrown up in the air and have a heavy fall. Farmer Grey watched; the right moment came, he stopped the mill, then fast as he could move he ran down the steps, and was in time to receive Mark Page in his arms as he fell without sense from the arm to which he had till that moment clung. Had the miller gone but one round more, he must have dropped, and would surely have been killed.

Farmer Grey undid his neckcloth, and got some water and bathed his face; but it was some time before the miller came to himself. When he did, the first words he said, when he opened his eyes, were, "Well; I did not think, Farmer Grey, that you would have done this for me."

"Why not, neighbour Page?" asked the farmer, with a smile. "I saw a fellow-man in danger, and of course I ran to help him. I am very glad that God has let me save your life. Give God the praise. Raise your voice to Him for that and all His other mercies."

"Yes, farmer, I will try," said Mark Page; "I have been a bad man all my life, and I don't like to think where I should have been by this time if you had not come to save me."

"It is the way to amend; the first step I may say, to find out and own that we are bad; so, neighbour, I am truly glad to hear you own that you are bad," said Farmer Grey. "But I must not let you talk now. Come, we must help your man there. He seems to be badly hurt."

"He wouldn't hold on to the last, as I told him," said Mark.

"Well, Sam; what harm has come to you?"

"Broken a leg, to my belief;" growled out Sam.

Farmer Grey found that Sam had indeed, as he said, broken a leg. Mark was now able to get up and walk, and he went to the house to call his son. Ben had been out till late, and had come home wet, and did not like to be called up.

"Sam Green has broken his leg. Come down quickly I say," cried out Mark.

"Let him sit still and mend it, while I put on my clothes," said Ben from the window.

Farmer Grey heard him. "That young man will, I fear, not come to a good end," he thought. "When I hear a man laugh at the pain or grief of others, I am sure that his heart is not right towards God or towards his fellow-man."

Ben at last came out and got a hurdle, and he and his father, with Farmer Grey, put Sam Green on it, and bore him to the house. Sam cried out that they were killing him; so when Farmer Grey heard this he put his hand under Sam's leg, and spoke to him just as kind and soft as if he had been a little child. Sam did not say anything, but he ceased to growl, or to cry out that he was hurt. Mary had heard her father call out, and she was at the door when they got there. Farmer Grey had not before this spoken to her. He now watched her as she went about the house, making ready the bed in the spare room for poor Sam, and heard her speak so gently and so kind to him.

"That is a good girl," he thought. "Can she be the miller's daughter? If so, she seems very unlike Mark and his son. I must see more of her."

As soon as Sam was placed on the bed, Ben was sent off to fetch the surgeon to set his leg.

"Tell him that I beg he will make haste, for the poor man is in great pain," said Farmer Grey, as Ben got on his horse.

"I will just break my fast with you, miller, that I may help poor Sam," said Farmer Grey. "We must get his trousers cut open, and his boots off; and it may be we shall have to cut them off also. It does not do to pull at a broken leg."

Sam did not at all like to have his trousers cut open or his boot cut off: "Hold, hold!" he cried out. "Why I gave twelve and sixpence for those boots only the week before last, and I will not have them spoilt."

"Which is best, friend Sam, to lose your leg or perhaps your life, or to lose a boot, for it is not a pair? What is a boot compared to a man's leg? A boot will wear out in a few months; his leg is to last him for his life. And let me ask you, what is a man's sin, his favourite sin, which he can retain at best but for his life, compared to his soul, which will last for ever? No man can get rid of his soul. He cannot put it out as he can a light. Do what he can, it will last for ever."

"O sir, don't go and talk in that way," cried out Sam; "I don't like it--I can't bear it."

"Well, well, friend, I will not talk more to you now on the matter," said Farmer Grey. "Some day you may like to hear more."

"May be, may be--oh! oh! oh!" Sam Green groaned with pain.

At last the surgeon came, and set Sam's leg. He shook hands with Farmer Grey. "I wish that we had more like you," he said to the farmer. "I knew when it was you sent for me, that some one was really hurt. The man will get well, I hope, and his leg will be of good use to him if he keeps quiet and does not fret." The surgeon said he would call again in the evening, and went away.

"Now, Sam, we will let your wife and family know, that they may come and see you," said Farmer Grey.

"Much obliged, sir; but I have no wife, and no family, except one daughter; and she is married, and lives with her husband, and has her children to look after, and does not care for me," said Sam.

"We won't think that of her," said the farmer. "I will let her know what has happened to you. May be, you would like to have one of her children with you."

Sam looked pleased for the first time, and said, "Well, sir, there is a little chap--my grandchild--I should like to have him now and then with me. They call him Paul, Tiny Paul. He is a merry little fellow, and he'd keep me from getting low."

"Well, we'll try and send Tiny Paul to you," said the farmer. "What is your daughter's name?"

"Susan Dixon, sir," answered Sam. "Dixon is her husband's name. He is a decent, hard-working man, and she's a good wife; but I never cared much for any of them, except Tiny Paul. You'll send Tiny Paul to me then, sir?"

"Yes, Sam, yes; I have promised that I will," said Farmer Grey, thinking to himself, "I may win over Sam Green yet. He has a soft part in his heart, and I have found it."

Farmer Grey had a good deal of talk with Mary before he went home. He liked all she said, and all he saw her do. "That is a good young woman, I am sure," he said to himself. She, too, was very grateful to him for having saved her father's life by his courage and presence of mind. Then, too, he was the uncle of James Grey, and she was glad that he seemed pleased with her.

STORY ONE, CHAPTER 4.

It would have seemed that James Grey and Mary Page had now every chance of being made happy. So they might, if James had not got into evil ways. He had not spoken of Mary to his uncle, and he did not know that Farmer Grey had seen her, and was much pleased with her. By this his folly was shown. Had he been frank with his uncle, and told him all the truth, how much better it would have been for him!

A few days after the accident at the mill, James came, as usual, to see Mary. He had a long talk with her, and said that he was so glad his uncle now knew her, and that he was sure the farmer would let him marry her. Still he did not say that he had told his uncle he wished to do so. When he at last got up to go away, Ben followed him.

"James," said Ben, "I have some work for tonight. You must come. You will never have seen such sport in your life. There are six other chaps will join us, all true as steel."

"No, no, Ben; I must go home," said James. "My uncle does not like me to be out late at night, and he has heard of one or two of the things I have done with you."

"That is good," said Ben, with a sneer. "Why, I would not let my father order me about as he likes; much less an uncle, I should think. Dear me, `my uncle won't let me do this,' `my uncle won't let me do that'; a nice state of things. Come, James, be a man, and come along with me."

James never could stand Ben's sneers; so the next time Ben said, "Come along," he answered, "Very well; but only for this time."

"Oh, of course, I know," said Ben. "I don't want you to get into any scrape, of course, lad. Come back into my room. Those clothes won't suit you: you must put on some of mine. We can slip out again, and my sister won't see you."

In a short time, Ben and James stole out with their guns and shot-belts and powder-flasks.

"It is not near home," whispered Ben.

"That's a good thing," answered James; but they spoke very little.

They had walked two miles when they fell in with three men, who seemed to know Ben well; and soon after that they met three more. All went on together. James found that they were going into the park of a gentleman who very strictly preserved his game and had several gamekeepers.

"Even if they meet us, they won't dare to attack us; and if they do, we can take very good care of ourselves," said Ben.

The party of poachers were in search of pheasants, of which there were a great many in the park. They knocked over one after the other, till each man was well loaded. James soon began to take a pleasure in the sport, and killed as many as the rest.

They had begun to talk of going home, all well pleased with their night's work, when, as they were within fifty yards of the place where they were to leave the park, they found themselves face to face with four keepers.

"Stand back, and let us pass!" cried Ben Page. "We don't want to say anything to you, and you shall not say anything to us."

"That won't do, young man," said the principal keeper; "you must give up all the game you have shot, and let us know your names."

"That we won't do. Push on, Ben Page," shouted one of the men.

The click as of guns being cocked was heard.

"If you fire, so do we; and we have three shots to your one," cried Ben. "On, lads, on."

"I know you by your voice, Master Page," said one of the keepers. "I see you too, now I am nearer to you."

"If you do, take that for your pains," exclaimed Ben, scarcely thinking, in his rage, of what he was about. The report of a gun was heard. One of the gamekeepers fell. The poachers dashed forward. Another keeper was knocked over. The rest ran off to hide in the wood, thinking that they would all be murdered; while the poachers, without stopping to see what harm had been done to the fallen men, hurried out of the wood, leaving them on the ground. Bad men are often cowards; and cowards are careless of what others suffer.

The poachers talked very big, but their hearts sunk within them. The most unhappy was James Grey. The others dreaded being found out and punished. With him it was not the fear of being found out and punished, so much as the thought that he had been with those who had caused the death of a fellow-creature; for he made sure, from the groan the keeper uttered when he fell, that he had been killed. His conscience, never quite at rest, even when he went with Ben Page into his worst haunts, was awakened.

"I am just as guilty as if I had killed the man with my own hand," he said to himself. "And may be the other man will die too; for the butt end of Turner's gun came down with a fearful blow on his head, and he dropped as if shot. What shall I do? What shall I do? I will go and deliver myself up, and confess all. I shall be hung very likely: but I would sooner be hung than feel that I had killed a fellow-man."

Such were James's thoughts as he and his companions hurried towards Hillbrook. Here and there on their way the rest of the men went off to their homes, till Ben and James were left alone. James then told Ben of his sorrow at what had happened, and how he thought he would give himself up.

"Nonsense; that will never do," said Ben. "No one knows who fired the shot, or who knocked the other keeper down; you don't, I am sure."

Ben knew that James did know well enough that he, Ben himself, had shot the keeper.

"I wish from my heart, Ben, that I did not," said James.

"If that is it, the only thing is to keep out of the way," said Ben. "Now listen, James, a faint-hearted fellow is sure to peach, and out of the way you must keep. I say _must_--understand me."

"I will keep out of the way, Ben, whether I must or not," said James, in a tone of great sorrow. "You have been the ruin of me, Ben; but it was my own fault, I ought to have known better."

"Nonsense, James: things are not so bad as you think," said Ben. "Just come in and change your clothes and go home to bed. You can get in as you have done before, and who is to know that you were out of the house all night? I say that you shouldn't be in too great a fright; still you must go away for a time, till the matter has blown over. I'll think of some plan for you before long."

James Grey, who had far more education than Ben Page, felt himself completely in his power.

James hurried home unseen, and got to bed. He could not sleep. He thought over all sorts of plans. Two or three days before he had been at the market town five miles off. He had there observed a soldier, a sergeant with a number of gay coloured ribbons in his hat, beating up for recruits, for service in India. James had stopped to listen to him as he was speaking to a group of young men who stood round with open mouths, hearing of the wonders of that distant country--the money to be got--the pleasures to be enjoyed. "Every cavalry soldier out there is a gentleman," said the sergeant. "He has at least three servants to attend on him; one to forage, one to groom his horse, and one to attend on him."

James at the moment had thought that if it was not for Mary and his uncle he should like to try his fortune in that far-off wonderful country. The idea came back to him, if the sergeant was still there he would enlist at once. No time was to be lost. He must be out of the country before he was suspected of having been one of the party who killed the gamekeeper. He rose and dressed quickly. He put up some shirts and socks and a few other articles, and all the money he had got, and left the house before any one was up. He would much have liked to have seen his kind uncle again, but he dared not wait till he was on foot. There was one other person, however, whom he must see before he went away, Mary Page. She was always an early riser he knew. He ran rather than walked to the mill-house. She opened the door as he reached it, and came out into the garden.

"Mary, I am going away," he said in a hurried voice; "something has happened, it can't be helped now though; only, Mary, I want to tell you that I love you now, and shall love you always. Don't think ill of me, don't think me guilty; not more guilty than I am, if you hear anything about me. I cannot tell you more. I must not tell you."

Mary turned pale with terror, as much from his looks as from what he said. He took her in his arms and kissed her, and added, "You will think of me, I know you will. I won't ask you not to love any one else; that would be hard on you, for I don't know how long I may be away; but, if I ever do come back, Mary, and I have changed, greatly changed from what I now am, I hope to ask you to be my wife. For your sake, Mary, I will try to grow better, to be firm, to learn to say No when tempted to do ill. That has been my ruin now, may cause my ruin for ever."

Before Mary could answer him,--for he was not a minute with her, and she was too much astonished at first to speak,--he had torn himself from her, and was hurrying along the road.

"Oh stay, oh stay, and tell me all," she cried out; but he either did not hear her, or would not venture to turn back. As he got out of sight of the mill he ran on as fast as his legs could carry him, though he stopped, and had to walk slowly when he saw any one coming. He had got halfway to the town, when as he was running on he heard the sound of horses' hoofs behind him galloping quickly over the road.

"Some one coming after me," he thought. For the first time in his life he felt what abject fear was. His knees trembled under him, and to save his life he could not have run farther. Still James Grey was no coward. In a good cause he could have fought as well as any man. Soon he heard a voice behind him cry out, "Jump up, James; I guessed what you were after. It was my idea you were going to enlist; so will I. Jump up, I say; no time to lose."

It was Ben Page who spoke. For some moments James scarcely understood him. Ben had a led horse. He threw himself into the saddle, and they were quickly in the town, where the horses were left at a stable; Ben having told a carter to come for them.

The two young men then went out to look for the recruiting-sergeant. He was soon found. He cast his eye up and down over James, asked him a few questions, told him to let him see his handwriting, and at once enlisted him.

"If you are steady, as you look, you will be a corporal before many more months are over, and a sergeant soon after," he said, with a nod of approval.

A body of recruits were starting that very morning for the depot, whence they were to embark. James was ordered to go with them.

The sergeant was uncertain as to what regiment Ben would suit. He was scarcely of sufficient height, and a very different looking sort of man. He promised, however, to give him an answer in the course of a few days.

James was very thankful when he found that Ben was not to go with him. He thought, "He has already led me into evil; if he comes now, how shall I be able to withstand him better than I have done?"

James's heart was heavy, yet he tried to keep his spirits up among his new comrades. He was anxious, too: every stranger he saw looking about he thought might be a sheriff's officer, come to take him prisoner. Most of the men were hoping that the day they were to go on board the ship might be put off: his great wish was that they might sail sooner than had been expected. He had written a letter to his kind uncle, asking his forgiveness for what he had done, and expressing his love and gratitude to him.

He had heard nothing from Ben. This was so far well. He could have gained nothing, if Ben had come.

At length the day arrived for the troops to embark. The ship sailed, and bore James Grey far away from the shores of Old England.

STORY ONE, CHAPTER 5.

When Farmer Grey got up in the morning, and found that his nephew had left the house without saying where he was going, he was somewhat surprised; but, as he thought that he would soon return, he did not give himself much concern about the matter.

The farmer went out among his labourers in the fields, and came back to breakfast; but James had not returned. The farmer made inquiries among all his people; no one had seen James. Dinner-time arrived, still he did not appear. It was late in the day that a friend, Farmer Mason, called on Farmer Grey. "Have you heard of the murders in Sir John Carlton's park, last night?" asked Farmer Mason. "Two of his keepers killed, and another wounded, I am told. Daring outrage! The murderers are known, I hear. It will go hard with them if they are taken; for the magistrates are determined to put a stop to poaching, and will show no mercy to poachers. They will do their best to prove them guilty."

Farmer Grey's mind was greatly troubled when he heard this. He could not help connecting it, somehow or other, with the disappearance of James.

"That wild lad, Ben Page, has had something to do with it; of that I am sure," he said to himself.