Her Benny: A Story of Street Life

"Oh, quick, Joe!" he shouted, "or I'll be out o' sight in another minit."

"Sarve you right!" said Joe, laughing; "you had no business to get in there."

"I can't stay to argify," retorted Benny; "don't yer see there's scarce anything of me left?"

"Ay, I see plain enough," said Joe, going to the other side, and pulling him out, though not without an effort. "I wonder what mischief you'll be into next?"

"Dunno," said Benny, regarding his legs with a look of dismay. Then, after a long pause, "I say, Joe, how's I to get this mud off?"

"Scrape off what yer can," said Joe, "and let the rest dry, and it'll rub off as clean as a new pin."

Benny was rather ashamed of his appearance, however, when he got into the wood again, and found himself in the midst of two or three hundred Sunday-school children and their teachers, all nicely dressed, who had come out for a picnic. But when he saw them each with a small bun loaf and a cup of milk, he could not help drawing near, notwithstanding the rather disgraceful state of his legs. Nelly was also anxious to have a nearer view of all those happy-looking children.

Fortunately for Benny, the superintendent of the school was the gentleman that had invited him into the chapel months before. Benny felt sure he knew them again, but whether he did or not he invited all three to sit down with the rest, and gave them each a bun and a cup of milk.

Joe was as delighted as the children with the kindness shown, and was soon quite at his ease.

After lunch the children ran races for prizes, and Benny was invited to compete with the rest. This suited him exactly, and very soon after, with about a dozen others, he was bounding up a broad avenue between the trees, in a well-matched and most exciting race.

For the first half of the distance Benny dropped into the rear, then he began gradually to gain upon the others. Now was his time, so putting on a spurt, for which he had saved his breath, he went bounding ahead of all the others, and amid loud hurrahs came first into the goal.

Benny never felt so proud in his life before as when that first prize – a brand new sixpence – was put into his hand. His success, however, disqualified him from competing again, so he had to content himself with watching the others run.

But the most delightful circumstance of all to Nelly was when all the children stood up in a large circle, and sang in their pure young voices the following hymn: —

"Land ahead! Its fruits are wavingO'er the fields of fadeless green;And the living waters lavingShores where heavenly forms are seen."There let go the anchor. RidingOn this calm and silvery bay,Seaward fast the tide is gliding,Shores in sunlight stretch away."Now we're safe from all temptation,All the storms of life are past;Praise the Rock of our salvation,We are safely home at last."

Nelly never forgot that little hymn to her dying day; and when that evening they glided down the placid river towards home, she repeated to herself over and over again —

"Seaward fast the tide is gliding,Shores in sunlight stretch away."

And when in her little corner she lay down to sleep, it was only to dream of the sunlit shores on the banks of the far Jordan river.

Heaven seemed nearer and dearer to her ever after that day, and she sometimes almost longed for the sunny slopes of that far-off country where there should be no more weariness nor pain.

CHAPTER XI.

Benny prays

Prayer is the burden of a sigh,The falling of a tear,The upward glancing of the eyeWhen none but God is near.Prayer is the simplest form of speechThat infant lips can try;Prayer the sublimest strains that reachThe Majesty on high.– Montgomery.

The long summer days passed all too quickly, and autumn came again. The days began to shorten, and the evenings to be cold. Nelly felt the change in an unmistakable manner, for her cough returned worse than ever, and her appetite and strength began to fail rapidly. But the hopeful little child battled bravely with her growing weakness, and each morning went forth to earn her daily bread.

One afternoon in October Benny was down on the pier, when he saw Perks coming towards him, and not wishing to have anything to say to him, he was about to turn away, when Perks called out,

"Does yer want to hear a bit o' news?"

"No!" said Benny.

"Yer wants to 'ear what I knows, I'm sartin."

"Well! what is it?" said Benny, carelessly.

"Your Nelly's killed!"

"It's a lie!" said Benny, paling to the lips.

"'Taint a lie, neither; she's been run over with a 'bus, an' 'ad her yed cut off."

"You lying thief!" said Benny. "If yer not out o' my sight in a minit I'll pound yer to a jelly."

And Benny made a rush towards him. But Perks was not to be caught, and was soon out of sight.

Benny did not believe a word Perks had said; and yet, somehow, his words troubled him, and very long seemed the time till four o'clock, when he would meet her in the shadow of St. George's Church.

If Perks' only object was to plague and annoy Benny, he could not have been more successful, for try as he would, he could not get Perks' words out of his head. Punctually at four o'clock he was standing by the church, but Nelly was not there, and a dull pain crept into his heart, such as he had never felt before. Five minutes pass – ten minutes – fifteen minutes pass, and still Nelly had not come, and Benny began to fear that something had really happened to her.

Just then he saw Bill Tucker – a boy of his acquaintance – coming towards him.

"Have yer seen Nelly, Bill?" he shouted, when the lad got within hearing distance.

"Ay; ain't yer heerd?"

"Heerd what?" said Benny, growing paler than ever.

"Why, she's got hurt," said the other.

"Are 'e sure, now?" said Benny, great tears starting in his eyes.

"Ay, quite sure. I seed the perlice myself takin' her to the 'firmary."

"Oh, no! 't aint true, are it, Bill? Say yer a-foolin' me," said Benny, trembling from head to foot.

"I wish it weren't true," said, the lad, "but I seed 'em pick her up mysel', an' I's 'feared she's dead; she looked like it."

"Did a 'bus run over her?"

"No. A big dog runned agin her, an' she fell with her yed on a sharp stone."

"Yer quite sure, Bill?"

"Ay, quite," said the lad; "but go to the 'firmary an' see for yoursel'."

"Which way?" said Benny.

"Haaf-way up Brownlow Hill, an' roun' to the left; a mighty big 'ouse."

And off Benny started, like the wind. By dint of many inquiries he found himself in the right street, but looking in vain for the Infirmary.

Just then a policeman came up.

"Could yer tell me where the 'firmary are, please?" said Benny, doffing his cap.

"Why, there, right afore your eyes."

"What, that?" said Benny, pointing to the huge building.

"Ay, to be sure," said the policeman.

"Oh, lor'!" was the reply, "I thought that wur the 'ouse the Queen lived in."

The policeman was about to laugh, but noticing Benny's troubled face, he said,

"Do you want to get in?"

"Ay," said Benny, "that I do."

"Then go up this street. There's the lodge door on your left; you can't miss it."

"Thanks, sir," and off Benny started. In response to his timid knock the door was opened by a kind-looking man.

"This are the 'firmary, ain't it?" said Benny.

"Yes, my little man," was the answer. "What do you want?"

"I wants to know if Nelly are in 'ere?"

"I don't know. Who is she?"

"My sister," said Benny, the tears starting in his eyes.

"When was she brought here?"

"To-day. Bill Tucker said as 'ow she was hurt in the street an' brought here."

"Yes, a little girl was brought in two or three hours ago."

"Wur she very white, an' had long hair?"

"Yes, my little man."

"Oh, that wur Nelly. Let me see her, please."

"You cannot to-day, it's against rules; you can see her to-morrow morning, after ten o'clock."

"Oh, do let me jist peep at her."

"I cannot, my little fellow; and besides, it would do her no good."

"But it ud do me good," said Benny, gulping down a great lump in his throat. "She is all I has in the world."

"I'm very sorry, my boy, but you can't see her to-night."

"Not for jist a minit?"

"No, not to-night."

"She ain't dead, then?"

"No, but she is unconscious."

"Will she get better?"

"I hope so. Now run away and come again to-morrow, and rest satisfied that your little sister will be well taken care of."

"Oh, please," said Benny, making a last appeal, the great tears running down his cheeks the while.

"I cannot let you see her, however willing I might be," said the man. "Now run away, there's a good lad."

"Oh, dear," groaned Benny, as he stepped out into the darkening street. "What shall I do? what shall I do?"

He had tasted no food since noon, but he never thought of hunger. He had been on the tramp all the day, but he felt no weariness. There was one great pain in his heart, and that banished every other feeling. Nelly was in that great house suffering, perhaps dying; and he could not speak to her – not even look at her. What right had these people to keep his Nelly from him? Was not she his own little Nell, all that he had in the wide, wide world? How dared they, then, to turn him away?

Hour after hour he wandered up and down in front of the huge building, watching the twinkling lights in its many windows. How could he go away while Nelly was suffering there? Could he sleep in his snug corner while his own little Nell was suffering amongst strangers? It could not be.

So when the great town grew silent around him, he sat down on a doorstep nearly opposite the entrance, and waited for the morning.

The night was chilly, but he felt not the cold; his heart felt as if it would burn through his body. How long the night seemed, and he almost wondered if morning would ever come.

Suddenly a thought struck him. Had he not better pray? He remembered how Nelly prayed every night ere she lay down to sleep, and once he had prayed and felt all the better for it. He would pray again.

So he got up and knelt on the cold flags, and looking up into the silent heavens, where the pale stars kept watch over the sleeping earth, he said, "Oh, Mr. God, I's in great trouble, for Nelly's got hurt, and they's took her into the 'firmary, an' won't let me see her till to-morrer, but You knows all about it, I specks, for Joe says as how You knows everything. But I dunna want her to die, for Joe says You takes people who dies that is good to a mighty nice place; nicer'n Eastham by a long chalk, an' how You has lots an' lots o' childer; an' if that be the case, I's sure You needn't take little Nell; for oh, Sir, she's all I's got in the world. Please let her stay an' get better. Oh, do now! for I'll break my heart if she dies. An' 'member, I's only a little chap, an' I's no one but Nelly; an' 'tis so lonesome out here, an' she in there. Please make her better. If I was in Your place, an' You was a little chap like me, I'd let Your Nelly stay. I would for sure. An' oh, if You'll let my Nelly stay an' get better, I'll be awful good. Amen."

Benny waited for a few moments longer in silence, then got up and crept to the doorstep, and in five minutes after he was fast asleep.

He was aroused in the morning about nine o'clock by the door being opened suddenly, against which he was leaning, and he fell into the passage. He got up as quickly as possible, but not in time to escape a fierce kick dealt him by a hard-featured woman.

Poor child! it was a painful awaking for him. But he was thankful it was broad day. He was cold, and almost faint for want of food, yet he was not conscious of hunger.

When at length he was admitted into the Infirmary he walked as one in a dream. At any other time he would have noticed the long corridors and broad flights of stairs. But he saw nothing of this to-day. He kept his eyes fixed on the nurse who walked before him, and who was leading him to his little Nell.

He was told that he must be very quiet, and on no account excite her, or it might prove fatal to her, as she was in a very critical state. She had recovered consciousness on the previous night, but she was so weak, and her nervous system had received such a shock, that she could not bear any excitement.

Benny only partly understood what it all meant, but he had determined that he would be very quiet, and make no more noise than he could possibly help. So he followed the pleasant-faced nurse as silently as possible into the Children's Ward. He noticed the two long rows of beds between which they were passing, but he had no eyes for the occupants.

At length the nurse stopped by the side of a little cot, and with a sudden bound he stood by her side. He could hardly repress a cry that rose to his lips, and a great lump rose in his throat that almost choked him; but with a tremendous effort he gulped it down, and brushed away the tears that almost blinded him.

There in the cot was his little Nell, pale as the pillow on which she lay, yet with a look of deep content upon her face, and just the shadow of a smile lingering round the corners of her mouth.

Benny was about to throw his arms around her, but the nurse held up her finger. Nelly's eyes were closed, so that she did not know of their presence, and Benny was made to understand that he must wait until she should open her eyes of her own accord.

So he stood as motionless as the little figure on the bed, gazing with hungry eyes at his little sister, who was silently slipping away from his grasp. He had not to wait long. Slowly the great round eyes opened, the vanishing smile came back and brightened all her face, the lips parted sufficiently for her to whisper "My Benny." And with a low cry Benny bent down his head, and the little wasted arms were twined about his neck, and then the round eyes closed again, and the nurse saw two tears steal out underneath the long lashes, and roll silently down her cheek.

For a few moments they remained thus in silence, then Benny, unable longer to restrain his feelings, sobbed out —

"Oh, Nelly! I can't bear it; my heart's breaking."

"Don't give way so," she said softly. "It's so comfortable here, an' the good Lord'll take care o' you, Benny."

"But you will soon be better, Nelly, won't you?"

"Yes, Benny, I'll soon be better, but not as you mean it. I's going to Jesus, and shall never have no more cough, nor feel no more pain."

"Oh, no! you's going to get better. I axed the Lord last night to make you better an' let you stay."

"No, Benny, I shan't stay long. I's known it for months, an' I's willin' to go, 'cause I know as how the Lord will take care of you."

"But I canna let you go," said Benny, sobbing louder than ever.

Then the nurse came forward, and laid her hand upon his shoulder. "You must not excite your sister," she said kindly, "for that is not the way to make her better."

"Oh, but she's all I has," he sobbed.

"Yes, poor boy, I know," she replied. "But if your sister leaves you she'll be better off, and will not have to tramp the streets in the cold and wet; so you must think that what is your loss will be her gain."

Nelly raised her eyes to the nurse with a grateful look for talking to Benny in that way. And before he left he had grown calm, and seemingly resigned. It was a painful parting; but Nelly did her best to cheer him up, reminding him that in two days he would be able to come and see her again.

Granny was in great trouble at the absence of the children, and it was no small relief to her when, about noon, Benny put in an appearance at Tempest Court. One look at his face, however, was sufficient to convince her that something had happened, and when Benny told her what had befallen his little Nell, the old woman sat down and cried; for she knew very well that never more would the little face brighten the dingy court. And granny had got to love the sweet, patient little child as her own; and though for months she had been convinced that the little flower was marked to fall, yet it had come in a way she had not expected, and, like Benny, she felt it very hard to give her up.

After dinner Benny went out again to face the world. It was with a very sad heart that he did it; for he felt that from henceforth he would have to fight the battle of life alone.

CHAPTER XII.

Fading Away

The morning flowers displayed their sweets,And gay their silken leaves unfold,As careless of the noontide heats,As fearless of the evening cold.Nipt by the winds unkindly blast,Parched by the sun's directer ray,The momentary glories waste,The short-lived beauties die away.– S. Wesley.

Joe Wrag heard the news in silence. Benny, who had gone to him to tell him what had happened to Nell, was not half pleased that he said nothing in reply. But Joe was too troubled to talk. Like granny, he had known for months what was coming, but it had come suddenly, and in a way that he had not expected, and the old man, as he afterwards expressed it, was "struck all of a heap."

Benny waited for some time, but finding Joe was not inclined to talk, he made his way home, leaving the old man gazing into the fire, with a vacant look in his eyes and a look of pain upon his face.

No one ever knew what the old man suffered that night. It was like tearing open the wound that had been made twenty years before, when his only son, as the crowning act of his unkindness, ran away from home, and had never since been heard of.

"If I could only believe that there was the smallest hope o' my ever getting to heaven," he muttered, "it 'ud be easier to bear."

And he hid his face in his hands, while great tears dropped between his fingers to the floor.

"Bless her little heart!" he murmured; "she did not believe as how any wur excluded; she allers stuck to that word 'whosoever,' an' sometimes I wur inclined to think as how she wur right. I wonder, now, if she wur? for sartinly it looks the reasonabler.

"Bless me!" he said after a long pause, "I'm getting mortal shaky in my faith; I used to be firm as a rock. I wonder if it are my heart getting righter, or my head getting wrong. But I mun have a few more talks wi' the little hangel afore she goes."

As soon as Joe was liberated from his watch, he made his way direct to the Infirmary, and bitterly was he disappointed when told that he could not be admitted, and that if he wanted to see the child he must come again on the following day.

His heart was yearning for a sight of her face, and another day and night seemed such a long time to wait; but he turned away without a word, and went slowly home.

Evening found him again at his post of duty, and the next morning found him anxious and sad. The night had seemed so very long, and he was burning with impatience to get away.

The men came to work at length, and off he started with all possible speed. The porter at the door knew him again, and he was admitted without a word.

Nelly was expecting him; she knew it was visitors' day, and she was certain he would come, so she waited with closed eyes, listening for the footfall of her old friend.

She knew without looking up when he stooped beside her, and reached out her wasted hand, and drew down his weather-beaten wrinkled face and kissed him.

For a long time neither of them spoke. Joe felt if he attempted to utter a word it would choke him, for she was far more wasted than he expected to see her, and somehow he felt that that was the last time they would ever meet on earth.

Nelly was the first to break the silence.

"I's so glad you's come, Joe," she said simply.

"Are 'e, my honey?" said Joe, with a choking in his throat.

"Ay," she replied; "I wanted to see yer once more. You's been very good to me, Joe, and to Benny, an' I wanted to thank you afore I died."

"I dunna want thanks, honey," he said, sitting down in the one chair by her bedside, and hiding his face in his hands.

"I know yer does not want 'em, Joe; but it does me good, an' I shall tell the Lord when I gets to heaven how good you've been."

Joe could not reply, and Nelly closed her eyes, and whispered again to herself, as she had often done,

"Seaward fast the tide is gliding,Shores in sunlight stretch away."

Then after awhile she spoke again, without opening her eyes.

"You'll not be long afore you comes too, will yer, Joe?"

"Perhaps the Lord will let me look at you through the gate," sobbed Joe; "but I'm afeard He won't let sich as me in."

"Oh, yes, Joe," she said, opening her eyes with such a pained look. "Does you think the Lord does not love yer as much as I do? An' won't He be as glad to see yer as I shall?"

"It does look reasonable like, my purty," said Joe; "but, oh, I'm so afeard."

"'Who-so-ever,'" whispered Nelly, and again closed her eyes, while the troubled expression passed away, and the smile that Joe loved to see came back and lit up her pure spirituelle face with a wonderful beauty. And as Joe watched the smile lingering about her mouth as if loth to depart, he felt somehow as if that child had been sent of God to teach him the truth, and to lighten the burden of his dreary life by giving him a hope of heaven.

"'Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,'" he muttered to himself.

"Yes," said the nurse, coming softly to his side, "out of the mouths of babes He perfects praise."

Joe looked up in surprise. "Do you think the bairn is right?" he stammered out.

"I'm sure of it," she replied.

"But what about the elect?" said Joe, in a tone of voice that proclaimed how deeply he was agitated.

"I think the elect are 'whosoever will,'" she replied.

"So Nelly thinks," he said, and shook his head sadly, as if such news were too good to be true.

The nurse, besides being a kind motherly woman who dearly loved children, was also a person of strong common sense, and hence she saw Joe's difficulty in a moment.

"You have no children of your own, I suppose," she said.

"I had a son once," said Joe. "I hope he's still living."

"You do not love him, of course?"

In a moment Joe was on his feet.

"Love him!" said Joe, trembling from head to foot. "I'd lie down an' die for him this blessed moment if it would do him good."

"Ah! he has been a very good son, I expect," said the nurse.

Joe sat down again, and hid his face in his hands. After awhile he looked up and said with evident emotion,

"No, he was what people would call a bad son – a very bad 'un."

"Then if he were to come home again, you certainly would close the door against him?"

"Close the door agin him! Close the door agin my own child, my own flesh and blood! Why, I've been longing for years for him to come home. I wish he'd try me, he should have the best of everything I've got in the house. Oh, marcy! how my poor old heart 'ud ache with joy if he were to come to-night."

Joe had got quite excited while delivering himself of this long speech. So the nurse said quietly,

"So you think, Joe, that you are better than God."

"Better 'n God?"

"Yes; more merciful, and loving, and kind."

"Who said so?" said Joe, staring at her as if he could scarcely believe his own ears.

"Well, you implied it," said the nurse, quietly.

"Me implied it?" said he in a tone of bewilderment. "How so?"

"Well, you say you have a bad son who has been away many years, and yet you say you love him still, so much so that you would willingly die for him; and that, bad as he has been, if he were to come home to-night, instead of driving him from the door, you would give him the heartiest welcome, and think nothing in the house too good for him. And yet you think God will turn away you. So you must admit, Joe," she said with a smile, "that you think you have more love and mercy in your heart than God has in His?"

Joe was silent. And Nelly whispered to the nurse, "Thank you so much."

After awhile Joe got up, and leaning over the crib, he kissed the pale brow of the little sufferer. "Good bye, my purty," he whispered. "We'll meet again, I do believe."

"Ay, Joe, I'm sure we shall."

"I'm main sorry to lose 'e," he said in a faltering voice, and brushing his rough hand across his eyes; "but I ken give yer to God."

"I'll be waiting, Joe, 'gin you come. Now kiss me, for I'll be gone, I reckon, afore you come again."