Her Benny: A Story of Street Life. Hocking Silas Kitto
before venturing into the darkness.
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