“See, that, mate?” he said, and held it up under the glass chandelier.
It was a little curl of brown hair, tied across the middle with a piece of faded blue ribbon.
“See it?” he cried in a husky gurgle. “It’s all I’ve got left in the world.”
He held it up to the light and looked at it, and laughed until the glass pendants of the chandelier swung and jingled with the vibration of his voice.
“The gorse under the ling, eh? There you are then! She gave it me. Yes, though, on the night I sailed. My gough! The ruch and proud I was that night anyway! I was a homeless beggar, but I might have owned the stars, for, by God, I was walking on them going away.”
He reeled again, and laughed as if in mockery of himself, and then said, “That’s ten year ago, mate, and I’ve kep’ it ever since. I have though, here in my breast, and it’s druv out wuss things. When I’ve been far away foreign, and losing heart a bit, and down with the fever, maybe, in that ould hell, and never looking to see herself again, no, never, I’ve been touching it gentle and saying to myself, soft and low, like a sort of an angel’s whisper, ‘Nelly is with you, Davy. She isn’t so very far away, boy; she’s here for all.’ And when I’ve been going into some dirt of a place that a dacent man shouldn’t, it’s been cutting at my ribs, same as a knife, and crying like mad, ‘Hould hard, Davy; you can’t take Nelly in theer?’ When I’ve been hot it’s been keeping me cool, and when I’ve been cold it’s been keeping me warm, better till any comforter. D’ye see it, sir? We’re ould comrades, it and me, the best that’s going, and never no quarreling and no words neither. Ten years together, sir; blow high, blow low. But we’re going to part at last.”
Then he picked up the candle in his left hand, still holding the lock of hair in his right.
“Good-by, ould friend!” he cried, in a shrill voice, rolling his head to look at the curl, and holding it over the candle. “We’re parting company to-night. I’m going where I can’t take you along with me—I’m going to the divil. So long! S’long! I’ll never strook you, nor smooth you, nor kiss you no more! S’long!”
He put the curl to his lips, holding it tremblingly between his great fingers and thumb. Then he clutched it in his palm, reeled a step backward, swung the candle about and dashed it on to the floor.
“I can’t, I can’t,” he cried, “God A’mighty, I can’t. It’s Nelly—Nelly—my Nelly—my little Nell!”