come back until the night was far spent. Worn out as she was in mind
and body, she sat up alone, counting the minutes until he
returned--penniless, broken-spirited, and wretched.
"Get me more money," he said wildly, as they parted for the night. "I
must have money, Nell. It shall be paid thee back with interest one
day, but all the money that comes into thy hands must be mine--not for
myself, but to use for thee. Remember, Nell, to use for thee!"
What could poor Nell do but give him every penny that came into her
hands? If she told the truth (so thought the child) he would be treated
as a madman; if she did not supply him with money he would try to steal
it. Worn out by these thoughts, the colour forsook her cheek, her eye
grew dim, and her heart was very heavy. All her old sorrows had come
back upon her; by day they were ever present to her mind; by night they
haunted her in dreams.
*Chapter IX.*
*FLYING FROM TEMPTATION.*
Between Nell and her grandfather there was now a feeling of restraint
and separation. Every evening, and often in the daytime too, the old
man was absent alone; and although she well knew where he went, he never
spoke of it, and kept carefully out of her way.
One evening the child went for a walk alone. She sat down beneath a
tree, thinking sorrowfully upon this change, when the distant
church-clock bell struck nine. Rising at the sound she set out to
return towards the town.
She was crossing a meadow, when she came upon an encampment of gipsies,
who had made a fire in one corner at no great distance from the path,
and were sitting or lying round it. As she was too poor to have any
fear of them she did not alter her course, but kept straight on.
But as she passed the spot Nell glanced towards the fire, and saw to her
surprise that her grandfather made one of the party. Her first thought
was to call him; her next to wonder who his new friends could be, and
for what purpose they were there together.
After a few moments she moved nearer to the group, not across the open
fields, however, but creeping along towards the men by the foot of the
hedge. In this way she came at length within a few feet of the fire,
and standing behind a low bush could see and hear without much danger of
being seen herself.
[Illustration: After a few moments she moved nearer to the group]
Near the fire were three men, of whom her grandfather was one; the
others were the card-players at the public-house on the night of the
storm--Isaac and his rough friend, whom Nell now heard spoken to as
Jowl.
"I go on then," the latter was saying to Nell's grandfather, "where I
left off when you said you were going home. If you're sure that it's
time for you to win money, and find that you haven't enough to try it,
borrow, I say, and when you're able pay it back again."
"Certainly," Isaac List struck in. "If this good lady as keeps the
wax-works has money, and _does_ keep it in a tin box when she goes to
bed, and _doesn't_ lock her door for fear of fire, it seems an easy
thing."
"You see, Isaac," said his friend, growing more eager, and drawing
himself closer to the old man--"you see, Isaac, strangers are going in
and out every hour of the day; nothing would be more likely than for one
of these strangers to get under the good lady's bed, or lock himself in
the cupboard. I'd give him his revenge to the last farthing he brought,
whatever the sum was."
"Ah," cried Isaac; "the pleasures of winning! The delight of picking up
the money--the bright, shining yellow-boys--and sweeping 'em into one's
pocket! The--but you're not going, old gentleman?"
"I'll do it," said the old man, who had risen and taken two or three
steps away, and now quickly came back. "I'll have it, every penny."
"God be merciful to us!" cried the child within herself, "and help us in
this trying hour. What shall I do to save him?"
She crept slowly away, keeping in the shadow of the hedges until she
could come out upon the road at a point where she would not be seen.
Then she fled homeward as quickly as she could, and threw herself upon
her bed, almost wild with grief.
The first idea that flashed upon her was flight. She would drag the old
man from that place, and rather die of want upon the roadside than let
him stay near such danger. Then she was torn with a fear that he might
be at that moment robbing Mrs. Jarley; with a dread of cries in the
silence of the night; with fearful thoughts of what he might do if he
were detected in the act. She stole to the room where the money was,
opened the door, and looked in. He was not there, and Mrs. Jarley was
sleeping soundly.
She went back to her own room, and tried to prepare herself for bed.
But how could she hope to rest? Half undressed, she flew to the old
man's bedside, took him by the wrist, and roused him from his sleep.
"What's this?" he cried, starting up in bed, and fixing his eyes upon
her white face.
"I have had a dreadful dream," said the child. "I have had it once
before. It is a dream of gray-haired men like you robbing sleepers of
their gold. Up, up!"
The old man shook in every joint, and folded his hands like one who
prays.
"Not to me," said the child, "do not pray to me--to our Father in heaven
to save us from such deeds. This dream is too real. I cannot sleep, I
cannot stay here, I cannot leave you alone under the roof where such
dreams come. Up! We must fly."
He looked at her as if she were a spirit--she might have been one for
all the look of earth she had--and shook more and more.
"There is no time to lose; I will not lose one minute," said the child.
"Up, and away with me!"
"To-night?" cried the old man.
"Yes, to-night," replied the child. "To-morrow night will be too late.
The dream will have come again. Nothing but flight can save us. Up!"
The old man rose from his bed, his brow bedewed with the cold sweat of
fear, and, bending before the child as if she had been an angel sent to
lead him where she would, made ready to follow her.
She took him by the hand and led him on. As they passed the door of Mrs.
Jarley's room she shivered, and looked up into his face. What a white
face was that, and with what a look did he meet hers!
She took him to her own room, and, still holding him by the hand,
gathered together the little stock of clothes she had, and hung her
basket on her arm. The old man took his wallet from her hands, and
strapped it on his shoulders--his staff, too, she had brought away--and
then she led him forth.
Through the narrow streets their feet passed quickly. Up the steep
hill, too, they toiled with rapid steps, and not once did they look
behind. But as they drew nearer the walls of the old castle the child
looked back upon the sleeping town, and as she did so she clasped the
hand she held less firmly, and then, bursting into tears, fell upon the
old man's neck. Her moment of weakness past, the child urged him onward
and looked back no more.
"I have saved him," she thought. "In all dangers and distresses I will
remember that."
They walked on all that night, and when the morning broke they laid
themselves down to sleep upon a bank close to a canal. Nell was roused
by a sound of voices mingling with her dreams, and when she awoke she
found that a rough-looking man was standing over them, while two others
were looking on from a long, heavy boat which had come close to the bank
while they were sleeping.
"Halloa!" said the man roughly, "what's the matter here?"
"We were only asleep, sir," said Nell. "We have been walking all night."
"A pair of queer travellers to be walking all night," said the man.
"One of you is too old for that sort of work, and the other too young.
Where are you going?"
Nell pointed at hazard towards the west, upon which the man asked if she
meant a certain town which he named. Nell, to avoid more questions,
said, "Yes, that was the place."
"Where have you come from?" was the next question; and Nell named the
village in which their friend the schoolmaster dwelt, as being less
likely to be known to the men.
"I thought somebody had been ill-using you, might be," said the man.
"That's all. Good-day."
"Good-day," Nell said, and looked after him as he mounted one of the
horses which were used to draw the boat. It had not gone very far when
it stopped again, and she saw the men waving to her.
"Did you call me?" said Nell, running up to them.
"You may go with us if you like," replied one of those in the boat.
"We're going to the same place."
Thinking that if they went with the men all traces of them would be
lost, Nell thanked him, and in another moment she and her grandfather
were on board, gliding smoothly down the canal. After a long journey
the boat floated up to the wharf of a great town, where tall chimneys
sent forth a dense, black vapour, and the clang of hammers mingled with
the roar of busy streets and noisy crowds.
It was raining heavily. The child and her grandfather passed through a
dirty lane into a crowded street, where they stood for a few moments.
The throng of people hurried by, while the two poor strangers, stunned
by the bustle and noise, looked sadly on.
Evening came on; they were still wandering up and down. The lights in
the streets and shops made them feel yet more lonely. Shivering with the
cold and damp, and sick at heart, the child found it very hard to creep
along at all.
*Chapter X.*
*A BED OF ASHES.*
"We must sleep in the open air to-night, dear," said Nell, in a weak
voice, "and to-morrow we will beg our way to some quiet part of the
country and try to earn our bread in very humble work."
"Ah! poor, houseless, motherless child," cried the old man, clasping his
hands, and gazing as if for the first time upon her white face, her torn
dress, and swollen feet; "has all my care brought her to this at last?
Was I a happy man once, and have I lost happiness and all I had for
this?"
"If we were in the country now," said the child, as cheerfully as she
could, "we should find some good old tree, stretching out his green arms
as if he loved us, and nodding as if he would have us fall asleep;
thinking of him while he watched.
"Please God," she went on, "we shall be there soon--to-morrow, or the
next day at the farthest; and in the meantime let us think, dear, that
it was a good thing we came here; for we are lost in the crowd and hurry
of this place, and if any cruel people should pursue us, they could
surely never trace us farther. There's comfort in that. And here's a
deep old doorway--very dark, but quite dry, and warm too, for the wind
does not blow in here. What's that?"
Uttering a half shriek, she fell back before a black figure which came
out of the door-way where they were about to take refuge, and stood
still, looking at them.
"Speak again," it said; "do I know that voice?"
"No," replied the child; "we are strangers, and having no money for a
night's lodging, we were going to rest here."
There was a lamp at no great distance--the only one in the place, which
was a kind of square yard, but sufficient to show how poor and mean it
was. To this the man beckoned them, and soon they stood looking at each
other in the light of its rays.
The stranger was poorly clad and very dirty. His voice was harsh, but
though his face was half hidden with long, dark hair, it was neither
unkind nor bad.
"How came you to think of resting here?" he said. "Or how," he added,
looking closely at the child, "do you come to want a place of rest at
this time of night?"
"Our misfortunes," the old man said, "are the cause."
"Do you know," said the man, looking still more closely at Nell, "how
wet she is, and that the damp streets are not a place for her?"
"I know it well, God help me," he replied.
"What can I do?"
The man looked at Nell again, and gently touched her dress, from which
the rain was running off in little streams.
"I can give you warmth," he said, after a pause, "nothing else. Such
lodging as I have is in that house"--pointing to the doorway from which
he had come--"but she is safer and better there than here. The fire is
in a rough place, but you can pass the night beside it safely, if you'll
trust yourselves to me. You see that red light yonder?"
They raised their eyes, and saw in the dark sky the dull light of some
distant fire.
"It's not far," said the man. "Shall I take you there? You were going
to sleep upon cold bricks; I can give you a bed of warm ashes, nothing
better."
Without waiting for any reply he took Nell in his arms, and bade the old
man follow.
"This is the place," he said, after a long walk, pausing at a door to
put Nell down and take her hand. "Don't be afraid; there's nobody here
will harm you."
With some fear and alarm they entered a large and lofty building,
echoing to the roof with the beating of hammers and roar of furnaces,
mingled with the hissing of red-hot metal plunged in water. In this
gloomy place, moving like demons among the flame and smoke, a number of
men worked like giants. Others, lying upon heaps of coals or ashes,
slept or rested from their toil. Others again, opening the white-hot
furnace doors, cast fuel on the flames, which came rushing forth to meet
it, and licked it up like oil. Others drew forth, upon the ground, great
sheets of glowing, red-hot steel.
Through this strange place their new friend led them to where one
furnace burnt by night and day. The man who had been watching this
fire, and whose task was ended for the present, gladly withdrew, and
left them with their friend. He at once spread Nell's little cloak upon
a heap of ashes, and showing her where she could hang her outer clothes
to dry, signed to her and the old man to lie down and sleep. Then he
took his station on a ragged mat before the furnace door, and resting
his chin upon his hands, watched the flame as it shone through the iron
chinks, and the white ashes as they fell into their bright, hot grave
below.
The warmth of her bed, hard and humble as it was, soon caused the noise
of the place to fall with a gentler sound upon the child's tired ears,
and was not long in lulling her to sleep. The old man was stretched
beside her, and with her hand upon his neck she lay and dreamed.
It was yet night when she awoke, nor did she know for how long or how
short a time she had slept. But she found herself protected, both from
any cold air that might find its way into the building and from the
heat, by some of the workmen's clothes; and glancing at their friend,
saw that he still sat looking towards the fire, and keeping so very
quiet that he did not even seem to breathe.
Nell lay in the state between sleeping and waking, looking so long at
him that at length she almost feared he had died as he sat there; and
softly rising and drawing close to him, she whispered in his ear.
He moved at once, and looked into her face.
"I feared you were ill," she said. "The other men are all moving, and
you are so very quiet."
"They leave me to myself," he replied. "They know my way. They laugh at
me, but don't harm me in it. See yonder, there--that's my friend."
"The fire?" said the child.
"It has been alive for as long as I have," the man made answer. "We
talk and think together all night long."
The child glanced quickly at him in her surprise, but he had turned his
eyes away and was musing as before.
"It's like a book to me," he said--"the only book I ever learned to
read; and many an old story it tells me. It's music; for I should know
its voice among a thousand, and there are other voices in its roar. It
has its pictures too. You don't know how many strange faces and
different scenes I trace in the red-hot coals. But you should be
sleeping now. Lie down again, poor child, lie down again!"
With that, he led her to her rude couch, and covering her with the
clothes once more, returned to his seat. The child watched him for a
little time, but soon gave way to the drowsiness that came upon her, and
in the dark, strange place and on the heap of ashes slept as peacefully
as if the room had been a palace and her resting-place a bed of down.
When she woke again, broad day was shining through the openings in the
walls. The noise was still going on, and the fires were burning fiercely
as before; for few changes of night and day brought rest or quiet there.
Her friend shared his breakfast--coffee, and some coarse bread--with the
child and her grandfather, and asked where they were going. She told
him that they sought some distant country place, and asked what road
they would do best to take.
"I know little of the country," he said, shaking his head; "but there
are such places yonder."
"And far from here?" said Nell.
"Ay, surely. How could they be near us, and be green and fresh? The
road lies, too, through miles and miles all lighted up by fires like
ours--a strange, black road, and one that would frighten you by night."
"We are here, and must go on," said the child boldly.
"Rough people--paths never made for little feet like yours--a dismal
way--is there no turning back, my child?"
"There is none," cried Nell, pressing forward. "If you can direct us,
do. If not, pray do not seek to stop us. Indeed, you do not know the
danger that we shun, and how right and true we are in flying from it, or
you would not try to stop us; I am sure you would not."
"God forbid, if it is so!" said the man, glancing from the child to her
grandfather, who hung his head and bent his eyes upon the ground. "I'll
show you from the door, the best I can. I wish I could do more."
He showed them, then, by which road they must leave the town, and what
course they should take when they had gained it. Then the child, with
heartfelt thanks, tore herself away, and stayed to hear no more.
In all their wanderings they had never longed so much as now for the
pure air of the open country; no, not even on that morning when,
deserting their old home, they gave themselves up to the mercies of a
strange world.
"Two days and nights!" thought the child. "He said two days and nights
we should have to spend among such scenes as these. Oh, if we live to
reach the country once again, if we get clear of these dreadful places,
though it is only to lie down and die, with what a grateful heart I
shall thank God for so much mercy!"
"We shall be very slow to-day, dear," she said as they went wearily
through the streets; "my feet are so sore, and I have pains in all my
limbs from the wet of yesterday. I saw that our friend looked at us and
thought of that when he said how long we should be upon the road."
That night she lay down with nothing between her and the sky, and, with
no fear for herself, for she was past it now, put up a prayer for the
poor old man.
A penny loaf was all they had eaten that day. It was very little, but
even hunger was forgotten in the peaceful feeling that crept over Nell.
She lay down very gently, and with a quiet smile upon her face, fell
into a light slumber.
The next morning came, and with it came to Nell a dull feeling that she
was very ill. She had no wish to eat. Her grandfather ate greedily,
which she was glad to see.
Their way lay through the same scenes as on the previous day. There was
the same thick air, the same blighted ground, the same misery and
poverty.
Evening was drawing on, but had not closed in, when they came to another
busy town. After humbly asking for help at some few doors, and having
been refused, they agreed to make their way out of the place as speedily
as they could.
They were dragging themselves along through the last street, and the
child now felt that the time was close at hand when she could bear no
more. There appeared before them at this moment, going in the same
direction as themselves, a traveller on foot, who, with a bag on his
back, leaned upon a stout stick as he walked and read from a book which
he held in his other hand.
It was not an easy matter to come up with him and ask his aid, for he
walked fast, and was some little distance before them. But soon he
stopped to look more closely at his book. Then the child shot on before
her grandfather, and, going close to the stranger, began in a few faint
words to beg his help. He turned his head. The child clapped her hands
together, gave a wild shriek, and fell senseless at his feet.
*Chapter XI.*
*A FRIEND IN NEED.*
It was the poor schoolmaster--no other than the poor schoolmaster.
Scarcely less surprised by the sight of the child than she herself had
been at the sight of him, he stood for a moment without even trying to
raise her from the ground.
Then he threw down his stick and book, and dropping on one knee beside
her, tried to restore her, while her grandfather, standing idly by,
wrung his hands and begged her to speak to him, were it only a single
word.
"She is quite worn out," said the schoolmaster, glancing upward into his
face. "You have tried her too far, friend."
"She is dying of want," rejoined the old man, "I never thought how weak
and ill she was till now."
Without another word the schoolmaster took the child in his arms, and
bidding the old man gather up her little basket and follow him, bore her
away at his utmost speed.
There was a small inn within sight, towards which he hurried with his
burden, and rushing into the kitchen, placed it on a chair before the
fire.
The landlady soon came running in, followed by her servant girl,
carrying vinegar, hartshorn, and smelling-salts; and under their
treatment the child came to herself after a while, and was able to thank
them in a faint voice.
Without suffering her to speak another word, the women carried her off
to bed; and having covered her up warm, bathed her cold feet, and
wrapped them in flannel, they sent for the doctor.
He came with all speed, and taking his seat by the bedside of poor Nell,
drew out his watch and felt her pulse. Next he looked at her tongue,
then he felt her pulse again. At last he said very gravely, "Put her
feet in hot water, and wrap them up in flannel. I should likewise," he
went on, "give her something light for supper--say the wing of a roasted
fowl."
"Why, goodness gracious me, sir, it's cooking at the kitchen fire this
instant!" cried the landlady. And so, indeed, it was; for the
schoolmaster had ordered it to be put down, and it was getting on so
well that the doctor might have smelt it if he had tried--perhaps he
did.
While her supper was preparing, the child fell into a deep sleep, from
which they were forced to rouse her when it was ready. As she was
greatly troubled at the thought of being parted from her grandfather,
the old man took his supper with her.
Finding her still very restless about him, they made him up a bed in an
inner room. The key of this chamber was on that side of the door which
was in Nell's room; the poor child turned it on him when the landlady
had gone, and crept to bed again with a thankful heart.
In the morning the child was better, but she was very weak, and would
need at least a day's rest and careful nursing before she could go on
her journey. The schoolmaster at once said that he had a day to
spare--two days for that matter--and could well afford to wait. As the
patient was to sit up in the evening, he said he would visit her in her
room at a certain hour, and going out with his book, he did not return
until that hour arrived.
Nell could not help weeping when they were left alone; whereat, and at
the sight of her pale face and wasted figure, the simple schoolmaster
shed a few tears himself.
"It makes me unhappy, even in the midst of all this kindness," said the
child, "to think that we should be a burden upon you. How can I ever
thank you? If I had not met you so far from home I must have died, and
he would have been left alone."
"We'll not talk about dying," said the schoolmaster; "and as to burdens,
I have made my fortune since you slept at my cottage."
"Indeed!" cried the child joyfully.
"Oh yes," returned her friend. "I have been chosen as clerk and
schoolmaster to a village a long way from here, and a long way from the
old one, as you may suppose, at five-and-thirty pounds a year.
Five-and-thirty pounds!"
"I am very glad," said the child--"so very, very glad."
"I am on my way there now," the schoolmaster went on. "They gave me the
stage-coach hire--outside stage-coach hire all the way. Bless you, they
grudge me nothing. But as I have plenty of time, I made up my mind to
walk. How glad I am to think I did so!"
"How glad should we be!" said the child.
"Yes, yes," said the schoolmaster, "certainly--that's very true. But
you--where are you going, where are you coming from, what have you been
doing since you left me, what had you been doing before? Now, tell
me--do tell me. I know very little of the world, but I have a reason
for loving you. I have felt since the time you visited me in my home as
if my love for the boy who died had been given to you."