Her Benny: A Story of Street Life

For several days their little hearts had been aching with curiosity to visit once more their old home. They had no wish to be seen, and as for living again in Addler's Hall, that was altogether out of the question. Still, they were filled with a curiosity that they could not resist to peep at the old spot once more, and ascertain, if possible, how far their father and stepmother were pleased or otherwise with their disappearance.

They had talked the matter over for several nights as they lay in each other's arms in the warm corner under Betty Barker's stairs. They admitted that there were difficulties, perhaps danger, in paying such a visit; but at length curiosity became too strong for them, and they resolved to risk it.

With Nelly, too, there was something more than curiosity. Notwithstanding his drunken habits and his cruelty to Benny, she loved her father, for there had been times when he had made much of her, and called her "his little Nell." Perhaps she did not love her father very deeply. In comparison to "her Benny," he occupied indeed a very third-rate place in her affections. Still he was her father, and now and then he had been kind to her, and hence he was more to her than a stranger, and her little heart longed for one more sight of his face. They did not wait long at the end of Bowker's Row. Ascertaining that the coast was tolerably clear, they darted up the street, and without any one recognizing them, turned into Addler's Hall. From the window of their late home a feeble light struggled, which satisfied them that the house was not empty.

"Take care," said Benny to his sister, "an' don't make no noise if yer can 'elp it."

"Right you are," whispered his sister, and with silent footfalls they glided up to the door and listened.

From within came the sound of voices, but they were the voices of children – strange voices, too, they were.

And Benny looked at his sister and whispered —

"By golly! this are a go. The owd folks 'ave flit, that's sartin."

"Can yer get a peep through the winder, Benny?" said Nelly, with a white, startled face.

"Dunno, but I'll try;" and try he did, but without success.

"Brimstone!" he whispered, scratching his head; "what's us to do? Oh, I 'ave it," he said at length. "Come 'ere, Nell. I's 'mazin' strong, an' I can lift you 'igh 'nough to get a peep."

And, taking his sister in his arms, he managed, not without considerable difficulty, to enable her to look through the window and get a glimpse of the inmates of the room.

"Do 'e know 'em, Nell?" said Benny, after he had lifted her down very carefully.

"No, I dunno who they is; I've never seen 'em afore."

"Well, then, we'll ax 'em." And without further ado he pushed open the door.

There were four hungry and neglected-looking children in the room, the oldest of them about the same age as Benny. They looked up with questioning eyes at the intruders, but said nothing.

"Does you live 'ere?" said Benny, putting on a bold face.

"Ay," was the response from all together.

"How long?" said Benny.

"Week afore last," answered the oldest lad.

"Where's the folks as lived 'ere afore you comed?"

"Dunno."

"Ain't you ever heerd?"

"Ay, we've heerd."

"Where is they, then?" queried Benny.

"Childer is drownded."

"Golly! are that so?" and there was an amused twinkle in Benny's eye as he put the question.

"Ay," was the response; "we's heerd so."

"Where's their faather?" was Benny's next question.

"Dunno," said the biggest lad.

"Ain't you heerd?"

"Ay, we 'ave."

"Where is he, then?"

"Well, faather says he's gone to Davy Jones, but I dunno where that are."

"Nor I too," said Benny, scratching his head. Then he looked at the oldest lad again.

"Did the man's missus go wi' him, does yer know?" he inquired.

"Never heerd nothing 'bout 'er," said the lad.

"An' yer knows nothin' more 'bout 'em?"

"No, nothin'."

"Mich 'bliged," said Benny, with an air of importance. And taking Nelly by the hand, he walked out of the house.

He hardly knew whether he was most pleased or disappointed with his visit, so he said nothing to his sister until they had left Bowker's Row behind them, and got once more into the region of gaslight. Then, turning to his sister, he said,

"What does yer think o' it now, Nell?"

"P'r'aps father's mended, and 'as gone to live in a better 'ouse," was the quiet reply.

"Mos' likely," said Benny, and again they trudged on in silence.

At length they paused in front of a chapel that abutted close on to the street. A few people were dropping in quietly one after another, and Benny wondered what they did inside. He had never been inside a church or a chapel; they were most of them so grand, and the people that went were dressed so well, that he had concluded long since that they were not for such poor little chaps as he. But this chapel was anything but grand-looking, and the people who were going in did not look very smart, and Benny began to wonder if he might not dare take a peep inside.

While he was speculating as to what he had better do, a gentleman who had been standing in the vestibule came out, and said in a kindly voice,

"Well, my little ones, would you like to come inside?"

"May us?" said Benny, eagerly.

"Oh, yes," was the reply; "we shall be very glad to see you, and there is plenty of room; come this way."

And without a word they followed him.

"Here," he said, pushing open a green baize door, "I will put you in my pew; you will be nice and comfortable there, and none of my family will be here to-night."

For a few moments the children hardly knew whether they were awake or dreaming; but at length they mustered up sufficient courage to look around them.

The place they thought was very large, but everything felt so snug and warm that they almost wished they could stay there all night. Still the people dropped in very quietly and orderly, until there were between two and three hundred present. Then a gentleman opened the organ and began to play a voluntary; softly at first, then louder, swelling out in rich full tones, then dying away again, like the sighing of a summer's breeze; anon bursting forth like the rushing of a storm, now rippling like a mountain rill, now wailing as a child in pain; now rushing on as with shouts of gladness and thanksgiving, and again dying away like the wind in far-off trees.

Nelly listened with open mouth and wondering eyes, oblivious to everything but the strains of music that were floating all around her. And Benny sat as if transfixed.

"By golly!" he whispered to Nelly, when the piece was ended, "if I ever heerd sich music as that afore. It's made me cold all over; seems to me as if some one were pouring cold water adown my back."

But Nelly answered nothing; her attention was attracted to a gentleman that stood alone on a platform with a book in his hand. Nelly thought his voice was strangely musical as he read the words, —

"Jesus, lover of my soul,Let me to Thy bosom fly,While the nearer waters roll,While the tempest still is high.Hide me, O my Saviour, hide,Till the storm of life be past;Safe into the haven guide:Oh, receive my soul at last."

Then all the people stood up to sing, and the children thought they had never heard anything half so sweet before. Great tears welled up in Nelly's brimming eyes and rolled down her cheeks; though if any one had asked her why she wept, she would not have been able to tell.

Then followed a prayer full of devout thanksgiving and of earnest pleading. Then came another hymn —

"Would Jesus have a sinner die?Why hangs He then on yonder tree?What means that strange expiring cry?Sinners, He prays for you and me:Forgive them, Father, oh! forgive;They know not that by Me they live."

And once more the congregation stood up to sing. Nelly was even more affected than during the singing of the previous hymn, and while they sang the last verse —

"Oh, let me kiss His bleeding feet,And bathe and wash them with my tears,The story of His love repeatIn every drooping sinner's ears,That all may hear the quick'ning sound,Since I, even I, have mercy found," —

she fairly broke down, and, hiding her face in her hands, she sobbed aloud.

She soon recovered herself, however, when the preacher began to speak. Clear and distinct his words rang out: —

"Let the wicked forsake his ways, and the unrighteous man his thoughts, and let him return unto the Lord, and He will have mercy upon him; and to our God, for He will abundantly pardon."

And Nelly eagerly drank in his words as he went on to tell how we were all wanderers from our Father's house; and how the Father's heart yearned towards us, and how He had invited all to return home, giving the same invitation to every one of His children, and promising an abundant pardon to all that would come. And then he told, by way of illustration, the beautiful parable of the Prodigal Son, and concluded with an earnest exhortation to all the unsaved to come to the Saviour that very night, and to come just as they were.

Nelly felt that she would very much like to "come to the Saviour," but, alas! she did not know how. And when she saw several persons leave their pews and kneel around the communion, she wondered if they were "prodigals going home to the Father."

But what of Benny? Alas! if Joe Wrag had seen him that evening, he would have been more than ever convinced that he was none of the elect, and that he had not one particle of spiritual discernment. The words of the preacher seemed to have a very soothing influence upon our hero, for scarcely had he uttered twenty words of the sermon ere Benny was fast asleep. Nor did he wake again till near the end of the service, when he was startled by a strange voice speaking.

It was one of the men that Nelly had noticed kneeling at the communion. The man stood up, and with a face radiant with his new-found joy, he said, in broken accents,

"Oh, friends, thank the Lord for me, for I have found the Saviour!"

Evidently he intended to have said more, but, overcome by his emotion, he sat down and hid his face in his hands.

"I'm glad the chap found 'im," said Benny to his sister, as they hurried homeward, "for he seemed desp'rate cut up 'bout it."

But Nelly did not answer, she was too full of what she had seen, and heard, and felt, to speak.

The next evening, long before service-time, they were waiting around the chapel door, and when at length the door was opened, they were welcomed by the same gentleman that had spoken to them the previous evening, and put into the same pew. And once more was Benny delighted with the music, and once more was he soothed to sleep by the sermon.

But not so Nelly. As the preacher explained that wonderful text, "For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him might not perish, but have everlasting life," she seemed to see more clearly what the preacher meant on the previous night. And while he dwelt on the word "whosoever," she felt that she was included in this invitation of mercy. In fact, it seemed to her as if a great deal the preacher had said had been for her special benefit, and that for her the Saviour had provided a home more beautiful than any of the pictures she had seen in Joe Wrag's fire.

As they were leaving, near the close of the service, a young gentleman placed his hand on Benny's shoulder, and said,

"Well, my little man, I hope you have found the Saviour."

"Lor' a massy!" said Benny, with a look of surprise upon his face, "are that little chap lost agin? He can't be well looked arter, that's sartin."

"You don't understand," said the young man; "but perhaps I should have asked if the Saviour has found you?"

"Not that I knows on," said Benny stoutly. "Nobody finds me, I finds myself."

"Dear me!" said the young man, "you mistake my meaning altogether."

"Does I?"

"Yes, my little fellow. But I will talk with you again some other time, when there is more time."

"Will yer?"

"Yes; but now good night."

"Good night," said Benny and Nelly in chorus, and once more they left the warm house of prayer for the cold and wintry street.

"You would understand better, Benny," said his sister, as they journeyed homeward, "if yer would listen to granny, an' not go to sleep whiles the man is talkin'."

"Dunno that I should, Nell. I's not 'cute 'bout those things like you is; but let's 'urry on, for I's gettin' as cold as Jonar in the den o' lions."

Benny was very fond of Old Testament stories, and granny had humoured his liking in this respect, but the way he mixed up the prophets, patriarchs, and other noted Bible characters, was rather bewildering.

"Never mind," he would say, when granny took him to task on this matter, "so long's I gets hold o' the right hend o' the story, mixin' up the names a bit makes no matter, as fur as I can see."

So granny let him have his way, concluding that he would mend in that matter as he got older.

"But," the old woman would say, "he'll never be like little Nelly. Bless her! I's afeard, sometimes, she's too good an' knowin' to live."

CHAPTER VIII.

In which Joe Wrag has a Vision

They are going, only going,Jesus called them long agoAll the wintry time they're passingSoftly as the falling snow.When the violets in the spring-timeCatch the azure of the sky,They are carried out to slumberSweetly where the violets lie.

As winter slowly wore away, little Nelly's health began to fail. She seemed weary and languid, and poor little Benny was at his wits' end to know what to get her to eat. After spending more than he could really afford in something that he thought would tempt her appetite, he was grieved beyond measure when she would turn away her head and say,

"I's very sorry for yer, Benny, but I canna eat it; I would if I could."

And he would be compelled reluctantly to eat it himself, though he would not mind going without food altogether if only "little Nell" could eat. But he comforted himself with the thought that she would get better when the spring-time came, and the streets were dry and warm. He might get her into the parks, too, and she would be sure, he thought, to get an appetite then. And so he kept up his spirits, and hoped for the best.

"She's ripenin' for the kingdom," was Joe Wrag's reflection, as he watched her pale face becoming thinner, and her great round eyes becoming larger and more luminous day by day. "She belongs to the elect, there ken be no doubt, an' the Lord don't intend for her little bare feet to walk the cold, dirty streets o' Liverpool much longer. I reckon she'll soon be walking the golden streets o' the shinin' city, where there's no more cold, nor hunger, nor pain. I shall be main sorry to lose her, bless her little heart, for I'm feared there's no chance of me ever seein' her agin' when she's gone. I wonder if the Lord would permit me to look at her through the bars o' the gate just for a minit if I wur to ax Him very hard? 'T will be nice, anyhow, to think o' her bein' comforted while I'm tormented. But it comes 'ard 'pon such as us as don't belong to the elect, whichever way we looks at it."

Sometimes Joe would leave his home earlier in the afternoon than usual, and getting a nice bunch of grapes, he would make his way towards Nelly's stand as the short winter's day was fading in the west. He would rarely have much difficulty in finding his little pet, and taking her up in his great strong arms, he would carry her off through bye-streets to his hut. And wrapping her in his great warm overcoat, and placing her on a low seat that he had contrived for her, he would leave her to enjoy her grapes, while he went out to light the fire and see that the lamps were properly set for the night.

With a dreamy look in her eyes, Nelly would watch her old friend kindling his fire and putting things "ship-shape," as he termed it, and would think how well she had been cared for of late.

By-and-bye, when the fire crackled and glowed in the grate, Joe would come into the hut and take her upon his knee, and she would lean her head against his shoulder with a heart more full of thankfulness than words of hers could utter. And at such times, at her request, Joe would tell her of the mercy that was infinite, and of the love that was stronger than death. She had only been twice to the chapel, for when she and Benny went the following week they discovered that there was no service, and so disappointed were they that they had not gone again; for the chapel was a long distance from Tempest Court, and she was tired when the day's work was done, and to go such a long distance and find the doors closed was anything but inviting. So they had not ventured again. But Nelly had heard enough from granny and while at the chapel to make her thirst for more. And so Joe became her teacher, and evening by evening, whenever opportunity presented, he unfolded to her the "old, old story of Jesus and His love."

It made his heart ache, though, to talk of the "good tidings of great joy," and think they were not for him. If the truth must be told, this was the reason why he kept away from church and chapel. He had adopted in early life the Calvinistic creed, and had come to the conclusion, when about thirty years of age, that he belonged to the "eternally reprobate." Hence, to go to church to listen to promises that were not for him, to hear offers of salvation that he could not accept, to be told of a heaven that he could never enter, and of a hell that he could not shun, was more than his sensitive nature could bear.

And yet, as he repeated to Nelly the wonderful promises of the Gospel, they seemed sometimes to widen out, until they embraced the whole world, including even him, and for a moment his heart would throb with joy and hope. Then again the bossy front of his creed would loom up before him like an iron wall, hiding the light, shutting out the sunshine, and leaving him still in "outer darkness."

One day Nelly rather startled him by saying, in her sweet childish way,

"I does like that word who-so-ever!"

"Do you?" said Joe.

"Oh, yes, very much; don't you?"

"Well, I 'ardly knows what to make on it."

"How is that, Joe?" said Nelly, looking up with a wondering expression on her face.

"Well, 'cause it seems to mean what it don't mean," said Joe, jerking out the words with an effort.

"Oh, no, Joe; how can that be?"

"Well, that's jist where I'm floored, Nelly. But it seem to be the fact, anyhow."

"Oh, Joe! And would the Saviour you've been a-tellin' me of say what He didna mean?" And a startled expression came over the child's face, as if the ground was slipping from beneath her.

"No, no, Nelly, He could not say that; but the pinch is about what the word do mean."

"Oh, the man in the chapel said it meaned everybody, an' I reckon he knows, 'cause he looked as if he wur sartin."

"Did he, Nelly? Then perhaps he wur right."

"Oh, yes, it's everybody, Joe. I feels as if it wur so inside."

"Purty little hangel!" said Joe, in an undertone. "But there are somethin' in the Book about 'out of the mouths of babes an' sucklings.' I'll read it again when I gets home."

That night, as Joe Wrag sat in his hut alone, while the silence of the slumbering town was unbroken, save for the echoing footfall of the policeman on his beat, he seemed to see the iron wall of his creed melt and vanish, till not a shred remained, and beyond where it stood stretched endless plains of light and glory. And arching the sky from horizon to horizon, a rainbow glowed of every colour and hue, and in the rainbow a promise was written in letters of fire, and as he gazed the letters burst forth into brighter flame, and the promise was this, "Whosoever cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast them out." And over the distant hills a great multitude appeared in sight – so many, indeed, that he could not number them. But he noticed this, that none of them were sick, or feeble, or old. No touch of pain was on any face, no line of care on any brow, and nearer and yet nearer they came, till he could hear the regular tramp, tramp of their feet, and catch the words they were chanting as if with one voice. How thankful he was that the great town was hushed and still, so that he could not mistake the words. "And the Spirit and the Bride say, Come. And let him that heareth say, Come. And let him that is athirst come. And whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely." And still nearer their echoing footfalls came, when suddenly the glowing arch of fire in his grate fell together, and a policeman passing his hut with measured tread, shouted, —

"Good night, Joe. We shall have a storm, I reckon; the wind has got up terrible during the last hour."

"Ay, ay," responded Joe, rubbing his eyes and wondering for a moment what had come over him.

"You seem hardly awake, Joe," laughed the policeman.

"Believe I 'ave nodded a bit," said Joe. "But, bless me, how the wind do howl!"

"Yes, it'll be rough outside the 'bar,' I reckon. I hope we shall have no wrecks. Good night."

"Good night," said Joe, as he staggered out of his hut to mend the fire, which done, he sat down to reflect.

"Wur it a vision," he soliloquized, "or wur it a dream, or wur it 'magination? Wur it given to teach or to mislead me? But, lor', how bright that promise did shine! I ken see it now. It are in the Bible, too, that's the queerest part on it. An' how beautiful they did sing, an' how they did shout out that part, 'Whosoever will.' Lor' bless us! I can't get it out o' my noddle; nor I dunno that I want to, it's so amazin' comfortin', and much more nearer my idear of what God ought to be, 'cause as how there is no limit to it."

And Joe scratched his head vigorously, which was a sure sign that some new idea had struck him.

"Well, bang me!" he ejaculated, "if I ain't floored again. Ain't God infinite, an' if that be the case He must be infinite 'all round.' An' that bein' so, then His power's infinite, and His marcy's infinite, an' His love's infinite, an' He's all infinite. No limit to nothin'. An' if that be so, it don't square nohow with His love an' marcy stoppin' just at the point where the elect leaves off an' the reprobate begins."

And Joe took a long iron rod and stirred up the fire until it roared again, muttering to himself the while. "Well, if I ain't completely banged. I'll ax little Nell. I b'lieve she knows more about it now than I do, by a long chalk."

By this time slates and chimneypots began to drop around him in a decidedly dangerous fashion, and he had again to seek the shelter of his hut. But even there he did not feel quite safe, for the little wooden house rocked and creaked in the might of the storm, and threatened to topple over altogether.

There was no longer any chance of meditation, so he had to content himself listening to the roar of the storm. Sometimes he heard its voice moaning away in the distant streets, and he wondered where it had gone to. Then he heard it coming up behind his hut again, at first quietly, as if meditating what to do; then it would gather strength and speed, and he would listen as it came nearer and nearer, till it would rush shrieking past his hut, making it creak and shiver, and once more there would be a momentary lull.

And so Joe waited and listened through the wild solemn night, and longed as he had rarely done for the light of the morning to appear.

CHAPTER IX.

Tempted

Where the watching, waiting angelsLead them from the shadow dim,To the brightness of His presenceWho has called them unto Him, —Little hearts for ever stainless,Little hands as pure as they,Little feet by angels guided,Never a forbidden way.

Towards the close of February Nelly caught a very severe cold, which kept her indoors for several days. One night her cough had been so bad that she had scarcely slept at all, and when she got up in the morning, with flushed cheeks and hollow eyes, unrested and unrefreshed, granny insisted that she was not fit to go out, and that she must stay indoors and keep herself warm.

Benny was very sorry to lose her earnings, for, alas! it had been a hard struggle for the children to find the necessary coppers day by day to purchase food and pay for their lodgings; and had it not been for Joe Wrag's kindness, they would often have fared much worse. Nelly knew this very well, and hence it was a great trial to her to stay indoors doing nothing, while her Benny was out fighting the world alone.