LOCKED OUT.
THE figure which staggered on before them had once been that of a tall,
well-built man, strong and upright, with a firm tread and a steady
hand. Bessie had known him in his better days; but such as he was
now—feeble and bent, with reddened eyes and shaking hands—Nelly had
never known him otherwise. Rodney loved Nelly with all that was left
to him of a heart. It was perhaps the last link which bound him in
nature to God and his fellow-men. She was his latest-born, and the only
child remaining to him; and though he had lost the sense of all other
affections, this one still glimmered and lived within him. Such as he
was now, he was sure of her love for him, for she could not compare
him with any better self in happier times. The state to which he had
reduced himself was the only one she knew; and the drunkard felt that
there was no reproach mingled with the little child's kisses upon his
parched lips.
Rodney floundered on through the narrow streets leading homewards,
unconscious that he was followed by the silent and noiseless girls,
whose ill-shod feet made no sound upon the slushy pavement. His
progress was slow and uncertain; but at length he turned down a short
passage, and paused, with labouring breath, at the foot of a flight
of stone steps leading to the upper flat of the building in which he
lived. It was to see him safe up this perilous staircase that Bessie
had come so far out of her own way. A false step here, or a giddy
lurch, might be death to him. They ventured nearer to him between the
dark and narrow walls as he climbed up before them; and as soon as he
reached the landing, upon which several doors opened, their hearts
were at rest, now all danger was over. He groped his way on from door
to door until he gained his own, and then with an unexpected quickness
and steadiness of hand he lifted the latch and passed in, slamming the
door behind him, and turning the key noisily in the lock. Nelly sprang
forward with a sudden cry.
"Oh! Bessie," she cried, wringing her small hands in distress,
"whatever are I to do? When father's like that, I durstn't let him see
me nor hear me, for mother says maybe he'd kill me. And mother durstn't
stir to open the door or he'd nearly kill her. And it's so cold out
here, and all the neighbours gone to bed, and it 'ud kill me to stay
out of doors all night, wouldn't it, Bessie? Whatever are I to do?"
It was too dark for Bessie to see the terror upon the child's wan face,
but she could hear it in her voice, and she could feel the little
creature trembling and shivering beside her.
"Never mind," she said, soothingly, "I'm not afraid of him. He's a kind
man, and he'll open the door for me, I know; or else you shall come
home with me, Nelly, and I'll carry you all the way. Hegh! Mr. Rodney,
sir, please to open the door again."
She knocked sharply and decisively at the door, and called out in a
shrill voice, which made itself heard through all the din he was making
inside. He was silent for a moment, listening, and Bessie went on in
the same clear tones,—
"You've locked Nelly out, Mr. Rodney, as has been waiting and watching
ever so long for you; and it's bitter cold to-night, and she's tired to
death. Please unfasten the door and I'll bring her in."
There was no sound for a minute or so except the hollow and suppressed
cough of the mother, who was struggling to hush the noise she made,
lest it should arouse the drunken fury of her husband. Then Rodney
shouted with an oath that he would not open the door again that night
for any one.
"It's me, father!" sobbed the child. "Little Nelly, and its snowing out
here. You didn't use to be so bad to me. Please to let me in."
She was beating now with both hands at the door, and crying aloud with
cold and terror, while her mother's low cough sounded faintly within;
but she dare not rise from her bed and open the door for her little
girl.
"It'll teach you to come waiting and watching for me," cried Rodney,
savagely; "get off from there, and be quiet, or I'll break every bone
in your body. Now, I've said it!"
Nelly's hands dropped down, and she crouched upon the door-sill in
silent agony; but Bessie knocked again bravely.
"Never you mind, Mrs. Rodney," she said, "I'll take Nelly home with me,
and carry her every inch of the road. And, Mr. Rodney, sir, you'll be
as sorry as sorry can be as soon as you come to yourself. Good-night,
now; and don't you fret. Nelly's here, up in my arms, safe and sound;
and I'll take care of her."
Bessie had lifted the child into her arms, but still lingered in the
hope that the door would open. But it did not; and turning away with
a sorrowful and heavy heart, and with Nelly sobbing herself to sleep
on her bosom, she made her way toilsomely along, under her burden, and
through the thickening snow, to her own poor lodging.
[Illustration]