MORNING FEARS.
WHEN Rodney awoke in the morning, he had a vague remembrance of the
night before, which made him raise his aching head, and look with a
sharp prick of anxiety to see if his little child was in bed beside her
mother. His wife, who had been lying awake all night, had now fallen
into a profound slumber, and her hollow face, with the skin drawn
tightly across it, and with a hectic flush upon her cheeks, was turned
towards him; but Nelly was not there. What was it he had done the night
before? In his dull and clouded mind there was a dawning recollection
of having heard little hands beat against the door, and a piteous voice
call to him to open it. It was quite impossible that the child could be
concealed in the room, for it was very bare of furniture, and there was
no corner in its narrow space where she could hide.
Through the broken panes of the uncurtained window he could see the
snow lying thickly upon the roofs; and he was himself benumbed by the
biting breath of the frost, which found its way, in rime and fog,
through the crazy casement. Could it by any possibility have happened
that he had driven out his little daughter, Nelly, who did not shrink
from kissing and fondling him yet, drunkard as he was, into the deadly
cold of such a winter's night? He crept quietly across the room, and
unlocked the door, letting in a keener draft of the bitter wind as he
opened it.
His wife moved restlessly in her sleep, and began to cough a little.
He drew the door behind him, and stood looking down over the railings
which protected the gallery upon which the houses opened, into the
street below. The snow that had fallen during the darkness was already
trodden and sullied by many footsteps; but wherever the northern wind
had blown, it had drifted it into every cranny and crevice, in pure
white streaks. A few boys were snow-balling one another along the
street; but all the house doors, which usually stood open, were closed,
and the neighbours were keeping within. If any of them had been open,
he could have asked carelessly if they knew where his Nelly could be;
but he did not like to knock formally at any one of them. In which of
the houses at hand could he inquire for her, without exposing himself
to the anger and contempt of the inhabitants?
He could not make up his mind to inquire anywhere. He was afraid of
almost any answer he could get. More than once he had beaten his little
girl; but they had made it up again, he and Nelly, with many tears and
kisses, and he knew she had borne no malice in her heart against him.
But he had never driven her out of her home before—a little creature,
not eight years old, in the wild, wintry night; at midnight too,
when every other shelter would be closed. Where could she be at this
moment? What if she had been frozen to death in some corner, where she
had tried to shield herself from the snow-storm? He wandered along
the street, casting fearful glances down each flight of cellar-steps,
where a child might creep for refuge, until he reached the wider
thoroughfares, and the numerous gin-palaces in them.
But just now Rodney's heart was too full of his missing child to feel
the temptation strongly. He fumbled mechanically in his pockets for
any odd pence that might be there; but he was thinking too much of
Nelly to have more than a faint, instinctive desire for the stimulus.
He was cold, miserable, and downcast; but he had not as yet sunk so
low that anything except the assurance that his little daughter was
alive and well, could revive him. With bowed head he went on in a blind
search for her, along the snowy streets, looking under archways, and
up covered passages, wherever she might have found a shelter for the
little face and form, which were dearer than all the world to him,
cruel as he had been to them.
He turned home again at length, worn out and despondent, wishing
himself dead and forgotten by all those whom he had made miserable, and
more than half tempted to make an end of it altogether in the great,
strong river, whose tide would sweep him out to sea. Swept away from
the face of the earth—that would be the best thing for them and for
him! If he only had courage to do it; but his courage was all gone,
had oozed away from him, and left him only the husk of a man, fearful
of his own shadow, except when he was drunk. He scarcely knew whether
he trembled from cold or dread as he loitered homewards; and he could
hardly climb the worn steps which he must ascend to reach his house,
for the throbbing of his heart and the tremor in his limbs. He was
afraid of facing his dying wife, and telling her that he could not find
their last little child, the only one that she would have had to leave
behind her.
But as he came within sight of the door, he saw that it stood open an
inch or two, and his eye caught the gleam of a handful of fire kindled
in the grate. Before his hand could touch it, the door was quickly but
quietly opened, and Nelly herself stood within, her hand raised to warn
him not to make any noise.
"Hush!" she whispered. "Mother's asleep still, and you're yourself
again. Bessie said you'd be yourself again, and I needn't be afraid.
Come in and let me warm you, daddy."
She drew him gently to the broken chair on the hearth, and began to
rub his numbed fingers between her own little hands; while Rodney sunk
helplessly into the seat, and leaned his head upon her small shoulder.
"Never mind, father," said Nelly, "you didn't mean to do it. Bessie
says you'd never have done it of your own self. It's only the drink
that does it; and I wasn't hurt, daddy; not hurt a bit. Bessie carried
me all the way to her home, like you carried her once, she says. Did
you ever carry Bessie, when you were a strong man, in your own arms, a
long, long way?"
"Ay! I did," said Rodney, with a heavy sigh, "and now I can scarcely
lift you upon my knee. Do you love poor, old father, Nelly?"
[Illustration: SHE DREW HIM GENTLY TO THE BROKEN CHAIR.]
"To be sure I do," said the child, earnestly, "why, when mother's dead,
there 'll be nobody left but me to take care of you, you know. You
mustn't ever turn me out of doors then, or you might hurt yourself, and
there 'd be nobody to see when you're drunk."
"I'll never get drunk again," cried Rodney, "and I'll never be cruel to
you again, Nelly. Give me a kiss, and let it be a bargain."
Nelly covered his fevered face with kisses, in all a child's
hopefulness and gladness; and told her mother the good news the moment
she awoke. But neither the wife, nor Rodney himself, dared to believe
he would have strength to keep the promise he had made.
[Illustration]