Little Nelly was in this piece of ground with her doll, seated on the grass, and at that moment making such a picture as a painter would stop to study and receive into his mind; her round dark-blue eyes following the swallows which chased each other high in the air, her mouth pouted into an expression of exquisite infantine wonder, her bright hair about her shoulders, and looking, as the breeze stirred the sunshine upon it, like a falling shower of fine gold.
Mr. Conway stared at the child for a moment, and then turned away and sauntered towards the door, but came back to open one of the drawers in the chest and extract a leather-covered bottle, which he shook at his ear, and put to his mouth.
O God! what contrasts there are in life, lying so close together that the devil, though his worship be no bigger than a man, might measure the space between with outstretched hands! Look at Purity and Innocence in the garden, with its eyes raised to heaven; and the skulking fellow in the dingy room swallowing brandy as a man steals money; and in the room below—a darksome, scantily-furnished kitchen—a sweet-faced woman doing servant’s work, and urging the slattern by her side into quicker movements, that the gentleman upstairs shall have no occasion to use bad language.
She comes upstairs presently, this Dolly, her face flushed, and breathing quickly from the hurry of her movements, and bears with her own hands a dish that will furnish but a poor repast, though she has done her best to make what little there is palatable. The slattern, with wisps of red hair about her forehead, and loose shoes, which beat a double knock at each step upon the uncarpeted staircase, follows, armed with a jug and a loaf of bread. Behind comes little Nelly, whom the mother has summoned before leaving the kitchen, and who has climbed the staircase with more labour than Mont Blanc is scaled by the Alpine tourist.
No word is spoken. Nelly is lifted into a chair by her mother, and Mr. Conway seats himself before the dish and fills a glass from the jug of ale, taking care—a true connoisseur in such matters—to let the liquor fall from a height, to secure a froth, into which he dips his mouth and nose.
The slattern leaves the room; and Dolly cuts up some meat and bread for the little one, with a whisper in her ear to say grace.
“Did you get the money, Robert?” she asks presently, eating little herself, and noticing how Robert bribes his appetite with sups of ale.
“No. Davis was out.”
“What shall we do? I have only five and threepence left, and this meat is not paid for.”
Pence make a sordid enumeration; but we talk of pence, reader, when we have only pence to spend.