"That's me," said the lady complacently.
"I never saw any waxwork, ma'am," said Nell. "Is it funnier than Punch?"
"Funnier!" said Mrs. Jarley, in a shrill voice. "It is not funny at all.
It's calm and--what's that word again--critical? No--classical, that's
it--it's calm and classical."
In the course of the journey Mrs. Jarley was so taken with the child
that she proposed to engage her, and as Nell would not be separated from
her grandfather, he was included in the agreement.
"What I want your granddaughter for," said Mrs. Jarley, "is to point 'em
out to the company, for she has a way with her that people wouldn't
think unpleasant. It's not a common offer, bear in mind; it's Jarley's
Waxwork. The duty's very light and genteel, the exhibition takes place
in assembly rooms or town halls. There is none of your open-air wagrancy
at Jarley's, remember. And the price of admission is only sixpence."
"We are very much obliged to you, ma'am," said Nell, speaking for her
grandfather, "and thankfully accept your offer."
"And you'll never be sorry for it," returned Mrs. Jarley. "So, as that's
all settled, let us have a bit of supper."
The next morning, the caravan having arrived at the town, and the
waxworks having been unpacked in the town hall, Mrs. Jarley sat down in
an armchair in the centre of the room, and began to instruct Nell in her
duty.
"That," said Mrs. Jarley in her exhibition tone, "is an unfortunate maid
of honour in the time of Queen Elizabeth, who died from pricking her
finger in consequence of working on a Sunday. Observe the blood which is
trickling from her finger, also the gold-eyed needle of the period, with
which she is at work."
Nell found in the lady of the caravan a kind and considerate person, who
had not only a peculiar relish for being comfortable herself, but for
making everybody about her comfortable also.
But the child noticed that her grandfather grew more and more listless
and vacant, and soon a greater sorrow was to come. The passion for
gambling revived in the old man one evening, when he and Nell, out
walking in the country, took passing shelter from a storm in a small
public-house. He saw men playing cards, and, allowed to join them, lost.
The next night he went off alone, and Nell, finding him gone, followed.
Her grandfather was with the card-players near an encampment of gypsies,
and, to her horror, he promised to bring more money.
Flight was now the only thing possible, before her grandfather should
steal. How else could he get the money?
_IV.--Beyond the Pale_
Flight by water! For two days they travelled on a barge, Nell sitting
with her grandfather in the boat. Rugged and noisy fellows were the
bargemen, and quite brutal among themselves, though civil enough to
their passengers. The barge floated into the wharf to which it belonged,
and now came flight by land through a strange, unfriendly town. The
travellers were penniless, and at nightfall took refuge in a deep
doorway.
A man, miserably clad and begrimed with smoke, found them here, and,
learning they were homeless, promised them shelter by the fire of a
great furnace.
A dark and blackened region was this they were in. On every side tall
chimneys poured out their plague of smoke, and at night the smoke was
changed to fire, and chimneys spurted flame. Struggling vegetation
sickened and sank under the hot breath of kiln and furnace. The
people--men, women, and children--wan in their looks and ragged in their
attire, tended the engines, or scowled, half naked, from the doorless
houses.
That night Nell and her grandfather lay down with nothing between them
and the sky. A penny loaf was all they had had that day, and very weak
and spent the child felt.
With morning she was weaker still, and a loathing of food prevented her
sharing the loaf bought with their last penny. Still she dragged her
weary feet on, and only at the very end of the town fell senseless to
the ground.
Once in their earlier wanderings they had made friends with a village
schoolmaster, and now, when all hope seemed gone, it was this
schoolmaster who brought the travellers into a peaceful haven. For it
was he who passed along when little Nell fell fainting to the ground,
and it was he who carried her into a small inn hard by. A day's rest
brought some recovery to the child, and in the evening she was able to
sit up.
"I have made my fortune since I saw you last," said the schoolmaster. "I
have been appointed clerk and schoolmaster to a village a long way from
here at five-and-thirty pounds a year."
Then the schoolmaster insisted they must come with him, and make the
journey by waggons, and that when they reached the village some
occupation should be found by which they could subsist.
They agreed to go, and when the village was reached the efforts of the
good schoolmaster procured a post for Nell. Someone was wanted to keep
the keys of the church and show it to strangers, and the old clergyman
yielded to the schoolmaster's petition.
"But an old church is a dull and gloomy place for one so young as you,
my child," said the old clergyman, laying his hand upon her head and
smiling sadly, "I would rather see her dancing on the green at nights
than have her sitting in the shadow of our mouldering arches."
It was very peaceful in the old church, and the village children soon
grew to love little Nell. At last Nell and her grandfather were beyond
the need of flight.
But the child's strength was failing, and in the winter came her death.
Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead. The traces of her early
cares, her sufferings, and fatigues were gone. She had died with her
arms round her grandfather's neck and "God bless you!" on her lips.
The old man never realised that she was dead. "She is asleep," he said.
"She will come to-morrow."
And thenceforth every day, and all day long he waited at her grave. And
people would hear him whisper, "Lord, let her come to-morrow."
The last time was on a genial day in spring. He did not return at the
usual hour, and they went to seek him, and found him lying dead upon the
stone.
They laid by the side of her whom he had loved so well; and in the
church where they had often lingered hand in hand the child and the old
man slept together.
* * * * *