Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: WAITING FOR FATHER.]
_Nelly's Dark Days._
_BY THE AUTHOR OF_
_"JESSICA'S FIRST PRAYER," "LITTLE MEG'S CHILDREN,"_
_"ALONE IN LONDON," &c._
[_Hesba Stretton_]
[Illustration]
_One hundred and fifth thousand._
_GLASGOW:_
_SCOTTISH TEMPERANCE LEAGUE._
_LONDON: HOULSTON & SONS;_
_AND NATIONAL TEMPERANCE LEAGUE._
_EDINBURGH: JOHN MENZIES & CO._
_1891._
CONTENTS.
————
CHAPTER I.
A STREET CORNER
CHAPTER II.
LOCKED OUT
CHAPTER III.
MORNING FEARS
CHAPTER IV.
ONLY A DOLL
CHAPTER V.
VIOLETS
CHAPTER VI.
THE PRICE OF A DRAM
CHAPTER VII.
HALF MEASURES
CHAPTER VIII.
A SORROWFUL FACT
CHAPTER IX.
FOUND DROWNED
CHAPTER X.
DEEPER STILL
CHAPTER XI.
THE ONLY REFUGE
CHAPTER XII.
TRUE TO A PROMISE
CHAPTER XIII.
DEAD AND ALIVE AGAIN
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
NELLY'S DARK DAYS.
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CHAPTER I.
A STREET CORNER.
IT was nearly twelve o'clock at night on the first Sunday of the New
Year. The churches and chapels had all been closed for some hours;
and none of the better class of shops had been opened during the day.
Business had been set on one side, even by those workmen and labourers
who lived from hand to mouth, and scarcely knew beforehand where the
day's meals were to come from. There had been, as usual, a prevailing
feeling that the day was not a day for work or traffic of any kind;
and what had been done had been, more or less, away from the public
scrutiny. But though midnight was close at hand, the streets in the
lower parts of Liverpool were neither quiet nor dark. Up higher,
farther away from the long line of docks and the troubled stream of
the mighty river, there was silence in the deserted streets where the
wealthier classes had their comfortable homes; but where the poor
dwelt, and wherever there was a corner of a street which afforded a
good situation for traffic, or wherever it was supposed there was an
"immense drinking neighbourhood capable of improvement," * there stood
a gin-palace still open, with its bright gas-lights sparkling down each
dark row of dingy houses with a show of cheery welcome not easy to
resist.
* "Capital Spirit Vaults to Let, in an Immense Drinking Neighbourhood,
capable of great improvement by an industrious man and his wife."
(_Newspaper Advt._)
At one spot where four roads met, each corner house was thus
brilliantly lit up; and the doors, which swung to and fro readily and
noiselessly, were constantly moving, and giving a passing glimpse, but
no more, of what was going on within. The streets were so light here
that a pin lying on the flagged pavement was plainly seen. So were the
rags of a child who stood in the full glare of the most popular of the
gin-palaces, leaning against a lamp-post, with her face turned towards
the often-opening door. It was a small, meagre face, yet pretty, with
a mingled and wistful expression of anxiety and happiness. The anxiety
was visible whenever the door stood ajar; when it was closed, the
happiness came uppermost. The secret of her brief, new-born happiness
was very simple, but very deep to the child. She clasped tenderly, but
carefully, in her thin bare arms a gaily dressed doll, whose finery
contrasted strongly with her own rags. When the door remained closed
for a few minutes, she passed the time in timid, half-fearful caresses
of her shining doll; as soon as it opened she peered, with heedful and
searching eyes, to the farthest corner of the interior.
"Nelly!" said a clear, shrill voice, which startled the child from an
anxious gaze. "You here at this time! How's poor mother to-night?"
"Very bad," said the child sadly.
"And father's in there, I reckon?"
"Yes," said Nelly, "and oh! I want him to come home so, because mother
says she'd go to sleep maybe if father was home."
The girl who had spoken to her—a bright, brisk-looking girl—pushed open
the door a little way, and glancing in turned back with a decisive
shake of her head.
"No use, Nelly," she said; "he won't come as long as he can stay. Well,
I'll nurse you a bit to keep you warm; it's very bitter to-night. I
don't much wonder at father drinking to-night, I don't."
All day long the wind had been blowing keenly from the north-east,
bringing a fine, piercing sleet with it, and at nightfall the bitter
cold had increased. The girl sat down on a door-step, and drew the
shivering child into her lap, covering her as well as she could with
her own scanty clothing.
"Father didn't use to get drunk once, did he, Bessie?" asked the child,
plaintively.
"Oh dear, no!" answered Bessie, in a cheery voice.
"Tell me all about that time," said Nelly, nestling closer to Bessie.
It was an old story, often told, but neither the girl nor the child
ever grew weary of it.
"It's ever so many years ago, before you was born," said Bessie; "and
he lived in a beautiful house, with a parlour in front, and a kitchen
behind, and two rooms upstairs, all full of beautiful furniture.
Everybody that I knew called him Mister Rodney then; but I was nothing
but a poor ragged little girl, raggeder than you, Nelly, selling
matches in the streets. And this was how I come to know him. I was
hanging about the basket-women, down by the stages, running errands for
'em, and one day, almost as cold as this, my foot slipped, and down I
fell into the water. Oh! It was so cold; and I seemed to be sinking
down, down, down."
"And father jumped in after you and fetched you out," interrupted
Nelly, eagerly.
"Ay! He did, though he knew nothing of me, and I was nothing to him,
only a little, dirty match-girl. And then he carried me all the way to
his own house in his arms."
"He never, never carried me in his arms," cried the child, "they aren't
strong enough now."
"No; but he was as strong as strong then," continued Bessie, "and he
clipped me so fast I wasn't a bit afraid. That's how I'm never afraid
of him now, Nelly. He's a good man, and kind, and clever, when he's
himself; and I love him, and you love him; don't we?"
"Yes," said Nelly, drawing a long breath, "mother says she's going to
heaven soon, where the other children are, and there 'll be nobody left
but me to take care of father. I don't much mind, though I'd rather go
with mother. Will he go on getting drunk always and always?"
"If he could only see the gentleman I saw!" exclaimed Bessie. "It's six
years ago, and I was a big, grown girl, ready to push in anywhere, and
I see a lot of boys and girls crowding into a great hall, and I pushed
in with them, nobody stopping me. And then they sang a lot of songs,
oh! beautiful songs, and some gentlemen spoke to 'em about drink, and
how they'd grow up good, decent men and women if they'd keep from it.
And I was one of the very last to come away, the place was so nice, and
a gentleman come up to me, and he said,—
"'My girl, what is your name?'
"And I said, 'Bessie Dingle, sir.'
"And he said, 'Can you read?'
"And I said, 'No, sir.'
"And he said, 'That's a pity. Do you ever drink what will make you
drunk?'
"And I was ashamed to say yes, so I answered him nothing.
"And he said, looking me full in the face with eyes as kind as kind
could be, 'I wish you'd promise me never to taste it till you see me
again.'
"And I said, 'Yes, I will promise, sir.'"
"And when did you see him again?" asked Nelly.
"Never!" she answered. "He wrote down on a bit of paper where he lived,
and said any of the p'leece would show me where it was; and that very
night I fell sick with fever and they took me to the workhouse, and the
slip of paper got lost. Anyhow, I never could find it or the place, and
I've never seen him again. He's sure to think I broke my promise, and
did not care for him; he's almost sure to think that, but I never did."
She raised her head and looked down the long street, where the gloom
seemed to press darkly against the glare of the gas-lights; it was
very cheerless beyond the light, and the girl's face grew darker for a
minute or two.
"It's no wonder they drink as long as the place is open," she said;
"I'd like to be inside there, where it's light and warm. I wonder why
the shops are all shut, and those places open. That gentleman, he said
to me,—
"'My girl, you've got sharp eyes of your own; you just look round and
see what makes the most mischief among the people about you, and tell
me when I see you again.'
"I know what I'd say if he stood here this minute."
"Did you ever tell father about him?" asked Nelly.
"Scores and scores of times," she answered, emphatically; "and
sometimes he cries and wishes he knew him, and could make him a promise
like me; and sometimes he curses and calls me an idiot. If he could
only see him, Nelly!"
They sat silent for a minute or two, Bessie nursing the child as
tenderly as she nursed her doll. At last, the girl touched the doll
with the tip of her finger, and said cheerfully,—
"Why, wherever did you get this grand plaything from?"
"It's a lady doll, and it's my very own," answered Nelly, opening her
rags to display it fully; "there was a Christmas-tree at our school,
and this was the very best thing there, and teacher gave it me because
she said I was the best child. Isn't it a beauty, Bessie?"
"It's wonderful!" said Bessie, in a voice of admiration.
"I take such care of it," continued Nelly, eagerly, "only I'm afraid of
nursing it when there are children about, for fear they should snatch
it from me, you know."
As the child spoke, the clocks in the town struck twelve, and a trail
of lingerers crept reluctantly out of each brilliant gin-palace. Bessie
kept Nelly back from springing forward to meet her father, and then
seeing him take his way homewards, she followed at a little distance,
clasping the child's hand warmly in her own.
[Illustration]