Her Benny/Chapter 7
CHAPTER VII.
Two Visits
Tell me the story slowly,
That I may take it in;
That wonderful redemption,
God's remedy for sin.
Tell me the story simply,
As to a little child ;
For I am weak and weary,
And helpless and defiled.
Hankey.
One clear frosty evening early in the new year, two little figures might have been seen threading their way along Old Hall Street, in the opposite direction to the Exchange. It had not long gone five, and numbers of clerks and warehousemen were crowding into the street and hurrying in the direction of their several homes. But the little figures dodged their way with great skill through the crowded street, still holding each other by the hand and keeping up most of the time a sharp trot.
After pursuing a straight course for a considerable distance, they turned off suddenly to the right into a less frequented street. Then they took a turn to the left, and then again to the right. It was very evident they knew the streets well, for they wound in and out, now right, now left, without the least hesitation.
At length they reached a street where all was darkness, save where here and there the flickering jays of a candle struggled through the dirt-begrimed window. This was Bowker's Row, and Benny and his sister paused for awhile before venturing into the darkness.
For several days the 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 comer 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 with "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 farther ado he pushed open the door.
There were four hungry and neglected-looking children in the room, the oldest of them being about Benny's age. 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 missis 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 who 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 it 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 shoots 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.
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 down my back."
But Nelly answered nothing; her attention was attracted to a gentleman who 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, Q 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 repeat
In 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 I if Joe Wrag had seen him that evenings 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 desperate 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 near the chapel door, and when at length it was opened, they were welcomed by the same gentleman who 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."