Adrift.
A fathomless sea is rolling
O'er the wreck of the bravest bark;
And my pain-muffled heart is tolling
Its dumb peal down in the dark.
The waves of a mighty sorrow
Have 'whelmed the pearl of my life;
And there cometh to me no morrow,
To solace this desolate strife.
Gone are the last faint flashes,
Set is the sun of my years;
And over a few poor ashes
I sit in my darkness and tears.
--Gerald Massey.
Had any of our readers been passing the front of St. George's Hall
during the afternoon of the day on which Benny was acquitted, they might
have seen our hero sitting on one of the many steps, with his face
buried in his hands and his elbows resting on his knees. Hour after hour
he sat unmolested, for Perks was no longer at liberty to tease him, and
the police did not notice him.
Benny was utterly unconscious of the flight of time, for he was trying
to decide upon some course of action by which he could honestly earn his
daily bread. He felt that he was beginning life again, and beginning it
under tremendous disadvantages. He knew that there was a great deal of
truth in what Perks had said to him. All who knew him would mistrust
him, and even should he succeed in getting employment under those
who did not know him, they might soon get to know, and then he would
be dismissed. He was getting too big to be a match boy. He did not
understand blacking shoes, and yet to remain idle meant starvation.
"I'm wuss nor a chap buried," he said to himself, thrusting his hands
into his trousers pockets and staring around him. "I've heerd of chaps
beginnin' at the bottom, but lor a massy! I'm beginnin' furder down than
that by a long chalk. I'm six feet under ground, an' I'll 'ave to bore a
hole up inter the daylight, or die, I 'specks."
As the afternoon wore away he became conscious of a feeling of hunger.
Fortunately, he had sufficient money to keep him from starving for a
day or two. He counted over the coins very carefully, and laid aside
eighteenpence as being due to granny, and which he resolved should be
paid.
"I'll begin honest," he said to himself, "an' I'll keep on at it too, or
go to heaven to little Nell."
So after purchasing two sheets of paper and two envelopes, he made
his way to a small eating-house and ordered some bread and cheese. He
was not long in devouring his very simple meal, and then with a lead
pencil commenced his first attempt at letter-writing. The first letter
contained only a few words of warning to Jerry Starcher. The second
letter was longer, and was addressed to granny. This letter cost Benny
a tremendous effort, for, fearing that granny would not be able to read
writing, he had, to use his own words, "to print it," and he found it to
be a rather slow process. The letter was to the following effect:--
"Deer Grany,--I ken never come 'ome no more. You's heerd what's took
plaas, but I nevver stole the money. I is 'onest, for shure I dunno wat
I'll do or whair I'll go; but I meen to be 'onest or die. I wish I wur
ded. I is very, very, very 'bliged for ole you's don for me an' littel
Nel: tel Joe I is 'bliged to 'im to. P'r'aps I'll never see 'e no more,
p'r'aps I'll go to littel Nel soon. I 'ope I may, I's very lon-ly. I put
with this the money I ow's. Good nite.--Benny."
More than one scalding tear fell upon the letter while he wrote, for the
tears would come despite his efforts to keep them back. Life seemed to
him such an utter desolation, and hope had almost died out of his heart.
When he had carefully folded and sealed the letters, he went out again
on the steps in the shadow of the great Hall, and waited for the
darkness. All around him the people hurried to and fro. But had he been
in the heart of Africa he could not have felt more utterly forsaken and
alone.
When at length the darkness crept over the busy town, he hurried away to
Tempest Court, passing Jerry Starcher's, and pushing the letter under
his door on the way. His heart beat very fast when he reached granny's
door. He was strongly tempted to knock for admittance, for something
told him that granny would not turn him away, but he struggled against
the feeling. Welcome as would have been his little bed under the stairs,
and glad as he would have been for a hiding-place from the world's
scorn, yet he felt he would rather not see granny and Joe again while
this stain darkened his name.
Within the cottage silence and darkness reigned, for granny had retired
early to rest--not without a prayer, though, that the boy she was
learning to love might see the error of his ways, truly repent of his
sin, and lead a new life. For Joe had told her what had befallen Benny,
and furthermore had extracted from her the promise that if he should
ever seek again the shelter of her home, for his little sister's sake
and for the sake of the Saviour, she would not turn him away, but would
help him to begin a better life.
Benny listened for awhile at the key-hole, then cautiously pushing the
letter under the door, he hurried away into the darkness. He had no idea
where he would spend the night, nor did he concern himself about the
direction he was taking; he only felt that he must go somewhere. So on
he went in a northerly direction, passing street after street, till,
footsore and weary, he stumbled into a dark corner where he thought
nobody would notice him, and soon fell fast asleep.
Why could not the policeman who passed a few minutes later, and spied
the little crouching figure, have permitted the child to sleep on? He
was doing no harm, and the policeman might have known that had the boy a
home to go to he would not have been found sleeping in the street.
I suppose he thought nothing about the matter, for he seized Benny by
the collar and lifted him off the ground, and after shaking him as a
terrier might shake a rat, he ordered him to move on, giving emphasis to
his words by a cruel kick, which made Benny grind his teeth with pain,
and hurry limping down the street.
He had not gone far before a clock near him began to strike slowly the
hour of midnight. At the first stroke of the bell Benny started, and
looked carefully around him. Clang went the second stroke.
"It must be the same," he muttered to himself.
The third stroke made him certain.
He was near Addler's Hall without knowing it. The tone of the church
clock was as familiar to him as the voice of his father. Scores of times
during the years of his childhood he had listened to that clang, waking
up the midnight silence when all the others were asleep.
"I wonder if father's comed home yet?" he said to himself; "I'll go and
see, anyhow."
Bowker's Row was as silent as the grave, and, as usual, wrapped in
darkness. But the darkness was no difficulty to Benny, as he made his
way cautiously up the dingy street and into the dingier court that was
once his home. It seemed very strange to him that he should be there
alone in the silent night, and that Nelly should be alone in her little
grave miles away from where he stood.
What a lot had been crowded into his lonely life since last he stood in
Addler's Hall, holding his little sister by the hand! And he wondered
if ever Nelly left her beautiful home in the sky to pay a visit to the
dreary haunts of her childhood.
Before him the door of his old home stood open--the night was not so
dark but he could see that--and he could see also that the place wore
even a more forsaken appearance than in former days.
Pausing for a moment on the threshold, he plunged into the darkness,
then stood still in the middle of the room and listened; but no sound of
breathing or noise of any kind broke the oppressive stillness.
He soon discovered also that the house was destitute of furniture; a few
shavings under the stairs alone remained.
"The bobbies'll not find me 'ere, I reckon," he said to himself, "though
Nelly may."
And he stretched himself on the shavings in the corner where he and his
little sister used to sleep in the days that had gone for ever.
It seemed so strange to be there again, and to be there in sorrow and
disgrace; and once or twice he stretched out his hand in the darkness as
if expecting to find his little sister by his side. Then, as the memory
of his loss and the loneliness of his life crept over him, he gave vent
to his feelings in a flood of tears. By-and-bye he grew calm, and soon
after fell asleep; and in happy dreams, in which he wandered with Nelly
through Eastham Woods, he forgot all his trouble and care.
When he awoke the next morning the court was alive and stirring, and
Bowker's Row was crowded with ill-fed, ragged, and dirty children: some
were doing their best to climb the lamp-posts, some were practising
cart-wheel revolutions, some were squatted idly on the pavement, and
others were playing with the refuse in the street.
On Benny making his appearance, he was greeted with a shout and a howl
that made the street echo again, and summoned the elders to the doorways
to see what had happened.
It was very evident that the older children had recognized him, while
many a familiar face appeared at door and window. This Benny thought was
very unfortunate, for he was in no mood to be questioned or to brook
delay. So he darted down the street as if on a race for life, knocking
over several of the older lads who tried to check his progress.
For some distance he was followed by a whole tribe of noisy urchins, who
shouted at the top of their voices. But Benny was too fleet-footed for
them, and soon Bowker's Row and its noisy denizens were left far behind.
Benny's first thought now was to secure a substantial breakfast, which
was by no means a difficult matter. That done, he made his way toward
the docks, in the hope that he might get employment of some kind. But to
a little friendless lad, without character or recommendation, employment
was not so easily obtained. Most of those whom he addressed did not
condescend to notice his question in any way. A few asked him what he
could do, and when he replied "Anything," the invariable answer was,
"That means nothing," and he was sent about his business. In fact, there
seemed to be no work in the whole line of docks that a child of his age
was capable of doing. And night found him worn out with fatigue, and
with a sadly lightened pocket.
However, he kept up his heart as well as he could, and sought rest and
sleep in a damp cellar upon some dirty straw, which for the payment
of twopence he shared with a dozen other lads, who appeared to be as
friendless as himself. That night he slept the sleep of the innocent and
weary, and awoke next morning, strengthened and refreshed, to find that
all his companions had left and that his pockets were empty!
This was a terrible blow to Benny; but when he discovered that his
"lucky shilling" was still safe in the lining of his waistcoat, he dried
his tears, and went bravely out, hungry as he was, to battle with an
unfriendly world.
Before sunset, however, he had nearly lost heart, for he had been unable
to earn a single penny, and he was almost faint with hunger. So in
sheer desperation he sought his old place on the landing-stage, in the
hope that he might have the chance of carrying some one's portmanteau,
and in that way earn his supper; but everyone to whom he offered his
services repulsed him, and for the first time he wondered whether it
would be wrong to throw himself into the river, and whether that would
not be the easiest way out of his trouble. Somehow he could not help
thinking that it would be less wicked for him to do that than to steal.
He could not starve; drowning he was sure would be a much less painful
death; and, as far as he could see, it had really come to this, that he
must either steal or die. But he would not steal, he had made up his
mind to that. Had he not promised Nelly that he would be honest? And had
not Joe and granny and his Sunday-school teacher told him what a wicked
thing it was to be a thief? No; he had settled that matter, and when he
had settled a thing in his own mind he was not to be moved. The question
then was, what was the easiest kind of death? The river looked beautiful
this summer evening, and he thought it must be very nice to rest beneath
its cool sparkling waters after the hot glare of the streets. Should he
plunge in now, or should he wait a little longer? He had been without
food for twenty-four hours. He had no place to sleep, no means of
getting supper.
Then suddenly he remembered his "lucky shilling."
"Queer!" he mused. "The Lord sent His angel wi' this bob, an' I've never
wanted it till now, an' now I does want it, I've got it. I'm floored
again. Nelly said the Lord 'ud provide, and He do." And he took out the
bright shilling and looked at it fondly.
Just then he heard a countryman inquiring the way to Lime Street
Station, of a man who stood near him.
"Here's a chance," he thought; and, stepping forward, he said, "I'll
show you the way, sir, if yer likes."
"Dost thee know th' way thysel', lad?" inquired the man.
"I should think I do," said Benny, drawing himself up to his full height.
"Lead the way, then," said the farmer; and Benny trotted on before him,
feeling sure that he was safe now for a good supper without spending his
shilling.
"Thankee," said the farmer, on their arrival at the station; "thee'rt a
sharp lad, an' no mistake."
And he smiled benevolently, and hurried away to the booking-office,
leaving our hero staring after him in utter bewilderment.
Benny felt that he would have liked to have had his revenge on that man
then and there.
"Golly," he said, "don't I feel savage, just!"
Just then a gentleman pushed against him, carrying a bulky leathern bag.
"Carry yer bag, sir?" said Benny in an instant; and, without a word, the
bag was hoisted on his shoulder, and once more Benny was on the trot.
By the time he had reached the top of Brownlow Hill he was almost
exhausted, and without a word the man (gentleman, I suppose he thought
himself) took the bag from his shoulder and handed him a penny in
payment for his services.
When will men, and professedly Christian men, learn the great though
simple lesson--to do unto others as they would that others should do
unto them?
A benevolent baker, moved to pity by the sight of Benny's suffering
face, gave him a twopenny loaf for his penny, with a smile and a kindly
word into the bargain, and Benny went out into the darkening street with
a lighter heart than he had felt for the day.
The evening was oppressively warm, and having no inclination to go back
again into the dingy town, where policemen were plentiful, Benny made
his way in an easterly direction, hoping that he might find a dark
corner somewhere where he might sleep undisturbed.
After a while he found himself in the neighbourhood of the cemetery
where Nelly was buried. He was not superstitious, so without a moment's
hesitation he climbed over the wall, and, getting dark as it was, he
easily found his sister's grave; and, stretching himself on the damp
grass, with his head upon the little mound under which his Nelly slept
in peace, he tried to think--to form some plan for the future.
Above him twinkled the silent stars. Around him slept the silent dead.
Everything was silent; not a leaf stirred, not even a blade of grass;
and yielding to the silent influence of the hour, he fell asleep,
though not before he had resolved that he would return to his old haunts
no more, but would commence his new life as far away from Liverpool as
he could possibly get.
Next morning he was up with the lark, and kissing the sod above his
sister's face, he hurried away. At noon Liverpool was several miles
behind him, and before him--what?
Under the shadow of a tree by the roadside he rested for an hour during
the heat of the day, and in a clear stream that babbled by he slaked
his thirst and washed the dust from his hands and face, then hurried on
again.
The country looked very beautiful bathed in the summer's sunshine, but
he was in no mood to enjoy it. The birds sang their glad songs in the
trees, but to him they seemed only to mock his sorrow. In the fields
he saw the sleek cattle grazing as he passed, or lying in the sunshine
contentedly chewing their cud, while he was footsore, hungry, and sad,
and he wondered what the end of it all would be.
As the afternoon wore away he found himself hedged in with plantations
on every side, and not a single human habitation in sight.
For awhile he dragged himself along with fast failing courage and
strength; then he gave up in despair.
"It's no go," he said; "I ken go no furder."
His feet were hot and blistered with his long tramp over the hard and
dusty road. His head ached from the fierce heat that had been beating
down on him all the day, his strength was all but gone, for he had
tasted no food since the previous evening.
"I dunno how the Lord's goin' to do it," he said, the tears starting in
his eyes. "Nelly said as how the Lord 'ud provide, an' so did the angel
that gived me the bob; but I dunna see how. I wonder if He's goin' to
take me to heaven? P'r'aps that's the way He's goin' to do it, an' then
I'll never be 'ungry no more."
Climbing on a gate, he looked around him, but no house was anywhere
visible.
"It's all up, I reckon," he said sadly, getting down on the inside and
making his way through the tangled undergrowth into the heart of the
plantation. "I'll find a snug place 'ere somewheres, where I ken wait
till the Lord comes. I wonder if He'll be long?"
He had not gone far before he found a place that suited him. A luxuriant
patch of ferns growing out of a carpet of moss, bordered on every side
with tall brushwood, while overhead giant fir-trees sighed and moaned in
the evening breeze, made a perfect arbour of quiet and repose. Pressing
down the yielding ferns, he had soon a bed soft as he could desire,
while a mossy bank made a pillow grateful as a kiss of love to his
aching head and burning cheek.
"I'll be comfortable 'ere till the Lord comes," he said, stretching out
his weary limbs. "I wonder if He'll bring Nelly wi' Him?"
Then he closed his eyes and waited. Above him the fir-branches swayed
gently in the soft evening breeze, and from far away came the subdued
plash of falling water. It was very strange and solemn, but soothing and
restful withal.
The pangs of hunger abated, too, after he had rested awhile, and his
head ceased to ache, while the wind in the trees sounded like an evening
lullaby, and brought back to him a vague and misty recollection of his
mother rocking him to sleep on her lap, in the years long, long ago.
Then the music seemed to come from farther and farther away, till it
ceased altogether, and once more Benny slept. And there in the solemn
wood we will leave him for awhile to the mercy and care that are
infinite.