"Oh, Death! what does thou mean?"
To sleep! perchance to dream;--ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause.
--Hamlet
We must now go back to the morning when Benny and his sister left their
home, and pay one more visit to "Addler's Hall." Dick Bates got up in
the morning with a splitting headache, and, if the truth must be told,
with an aching heart. His sleep had been disturbed by horrid dreams,
the recollection of which haunted him still, and made him feel anything
but comfortable. He had dreamt that he had been working near the docks,
and in going close to the edge of one of them he saw his two children
rise to the surface of the water clasped in each other's arms; and while
he looked at them, they opened their glassy eyes and cast upon him one
lingering, reproachful glance, then sank to the bottom again. Twice
during the night had this dream been repeated, and when he awoke in the
morning it was with a vague fear of impending evil. Dick Bates, like
many other hardened and cruel men, was at heart a great coward, besides
being very superstitious. He listened several times for any movement
downstairs, but all was still; and this only increased his alarm, for he
knew his children were in the habit of stirring early, and he saw by the
light that the morning was far advanced.
We may judge, therefore, of his alarm when, on coming downstairs, he
found the room empty, and he thought, with a terror in his heart that
made the perspiration ooze from his forehead, that perhaps his children
had been driven by his cruelty to put an end to their existence.
He tried to banish the thought as weak and childish, but he could not;
his nerves were completely unstrung to-day, and he did not seem at
all himself. When his wife came down he sent her into the neighbours'
houses, and into Bowker's Row, to inquire if any one had seen them. But
everywhere the same answer was given: no one had either seen them or
heard them. His wife characterized his fears as "bosh," and declared "he
wur wuss nor any owd woman. The brats'll turn up agin to-night, never
fear," she said; and Dick sincerely hoped in his heart that they would
do so. He was too late to get any work that morning, so he spent most
of the forenoon in the house, brooding over his fears. And while he sat
there on the low stool with his face buried in his hands, memories of
other and happier years crowded in upon his brain. His boyhood life in
the country seemed to him now, as he looked back at it through a long
vista of years, like a happy dream. And he was glad that his old father
and mother were dead, and did not know how low he had fallen.
Then he thought of the morning when he had led his first young bride to
church, and of the few short years of happiness that had followed. He
remembered, too, the promise he had made her on her dying bed--that he
would take care of the children, and meet her in heaven. Alas! how he
had belied those solemn words! He had not cared for his children, he
admitted to himself with shame; but, on the contrary, he had cruelly
neglected them, had behaved towards them as the veriest brute. And now
perhaps they were dead--driven to death by his cruelty.
Then other thoughts took possession of him. "If they're dead," he said,
"they are better off: what is there to live for? Better for 'em to die
now than to grow up to be like me an' Sall."
Then he began to wonder what dying meant. "If I wur sartin," he said,
"that there wur nowt arter death, I'd die too." And he got up and walked
about the room; after awhile he sat down again, and buried his face in
his hands once more. "Mary used to say," he mused, "that bad people went
to a bad place an' was tormented for ever; but that if we was good, an'
trusted in the Saviour, we should go to 'eaven an' be 'appy for ever.
And poor owd father and mother used to say t' same. I remembers it very
well! Ah me, I've nearly forgot all sense o' it, though."
And thus he mused hour after hour, heedless that his wife swore and
raved that "the brats had eat all the butter, and walked off all the
taters."
When, however, he was made to comprehend this fact, he became less
concerned about his children, and a little before noon he started off in
search of work. But all the afternoon he was gloomy and depressed, and
instead of going to a public house, as was his wont when the day's work
was done, he set off home, much to the surprise of his mates, who grew
warm in a discussion as the evening advanced as to what "'ad a-comed
over Dick Bates."
From seven to nine he sat in his own desolate home alone, for his wife
was in no humour to keep him company, and every patter of feet in the
court made him start and look eagerly towards the door, in the hope that
he would see it open, and his children enter; but the door did not open,
and his children never came.
"I wouldna a-minded so much," he said, "if I hadna a-wolloped poor
little Nell;" and he vowed with a terrible oath that "he would treat 'em
better in t' future, if he ever had the chance."
But when the clock in the steeple not far away struck nine, he started
up, muttering to himself, "I canna stand this: I wonder what's comed to
me? If 't bairns would come home, I reckon I'd be all right." But the
bairns did not come, and he started out to get a glass, to help him to
drown remorse.
His mates tried to rally him, but they had to confess that it was "no
go;" and when at eleven o'clock he left them at the corner of the
street, and once more directed his steps towards Addler's Hall, they
touched their foreheads significantly to each other, and whispered it as
their opinion "that Dick Bates was a-goin' wrong in his noddle, and was
above a bit luny."
When he reached his home, he opened the door with a beating heart. All
was silent, save the heavy breathing of his wife in the room above.
He went to the dark corner where his children slept, and felt with
his hands; but the bed, such as it was, was empty, and with a groan he
turned away and hid his face in his hands. And again his past life came
back to him more vividly than it had done for years.
"I mun go an' look for 'em," he said. "I shall see 'em floating in one
o' the docks, as I did last night in my dream." And with a feeling
of despair in his heart he wandered forth again into the now almost
deserted streets.
As we have before stated, it was a clear frosty night; not a single
cloud obscured the myriad stars that glittered in the deep vault
of heaven. And as Dick Bates wandered under the light of the stars
along the long line of docks, no one would have believed that this
anxious-faced man was the brutal drunkard that only on the previous
night punished his unoffending children without mercy.
Was it God that was working in his heart, bringing back to him the
memories of other years, and awaking within him better thoughts? Who
shall say it was not?
Still on he went, starting continually as he fancied he saw something
white on the dark still water. "How nice it would be," he muttered, "to
sleep for ever! to be free fra the worry an' trouble." But how could he
know that death was endless sleep? Might it not be, as his Mary said it
was, the beginning of a life that should never end? He was now near the
boat under which his children lay. It was his footstep that startled
them just as they were dropping off to sleep. It was his voice that
muttered the words, "O Death! what dost thou mean?"
How near father and children had come to each other! but neither knew of
the other's presence: then they drifted apart again, to meet no more on
earth. There were only a few small vessels in the next dock, and all the
lights were out.
"There they be, sure enough," said Dick, as something white, floating on
the surface of the water, caught his eye, and he went close up to the
edge of the dock, forgetful of the fact that the huge damp coping stones
had, by the action of the frost, become as slippery as glass. He had
scarcely planted his foot on one of the huge stones when it slipped from
beneath him; a piercing shriek rang out on the startled air, followed by
a plunge, a gurgling cry, and the cold water closed over him.
A moment later a pale agonized face gleamed up from the dark water, a
hurried prayer floated up on the cold frosty air, "Saviour of my Mary,
save me!" then the water closed over him again. Two other times, at
longer intervals, Dick Bates' agonized and horror-stricken face appeared
for a moment on the surface; then the ruffled waters grew smooth, hiding
in their dark bosom the dead body of Richard Bates, whose soul had been
so suddenly called to its account.
The next day the dead body was dragged to the surface, and conveyed
to the dead-house, where it was claimed by his wife. An inquest and a
funeral followed, of which Benny and little Nell never knew. And it
was well, perhaps, they did not. The knowledge would have been pain to
the little waifs, and they had already as much trouble as their little
hearts knew how to bear.