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.
CHAPTER VI.
In which Benny makes a Discovery
All unseen the Master walketh
By the toiling servant's side;
Comfortable words He speaketh,
While His hands uphold and guide.
Christmas Day this year came upon a Wednesday, and, during the
