A CHILD FORLORN.
Nello sobbed himself to sleep that night, scarcely conscious of the
hubbub that was going on around him. He had watched with a pang
unspeakable the escape of his bird, then had rushed blindly among the
culprits, fighting and struggling in a passion of tears and childish
rage, raining down harmless blows all around him, struggling to get out
after it, to try to bring it back. Then Nello had been caught, too
desperate to know who held him, in the hands of the head boy, who paid
no more attention to his kicks and struggles than to his cries, and held
him until, half dead with passion and misery, the poor little fellow
sank exhausted, almost fainting, in the rough hands of his captors. Then
the boys, who were not cruel, laid him on his bed and summoned Mrs.
Swan. They all crowded round her to tell their story. Nobody had meant
any harm. They had taken his basket to look at it, and the pigeon had
got loose. “And it was a carrier!” the head boy said regretfully. They
were as sorry as Nello could be, though by this time, under the combined
influences of loneliness, desolation, homesickness, weariness, and loss,
poor little Nello was almost beyond feeling the full extent of his
troubles. “He’s a mammy’s boy,” said Mrs. Swan, who was rough, but not
unkind. “He has never been at school before. A spoiled child, by all I
can see.” But why had a spoiled child been sent here? This was what the
good woman could not understand.
Nello slept and forgot his woes; and when he was awoke in the morning by
the tumult, all the eleven jumping out of bed at once, performing their
noisy but scanty ablutions, tossing boots about, and scrambling for
clothes, the child lay trembling yet anxious, and half amused in spite
of himself. The rough fun that was going on tempted Nello to laugh,
though he was miserable. He shrank from them all, so big, so loud, so
coarsely clothed, and in such a hurry; but he was tickled by their
horse-play with each other--the hits and misses with which their
missiles went and came. When the head boy was caught by a pillow
straight in the face as he approached to execute justice upon one of the
laggards, Nello could not restrain a little broken chuckle, which
attracted the attention of the combatants. This, however, drew upon him
the arrest of fate. “I say, little one, ain’t you going to get
up?--bell’s rung!” said his next neighbour. The head boy was aggrieved
by the poor little laugh. “Get up, you lazy little beggar!” he cried. “I
say, let’s toss him!” cried another, with sudden perception of fun to be
had easily. The boys meant no particular harm; but they made a
simultaneous rush at the little trembling creature. Nello felt himself
seized, he knew not for what purpose. Then the noise, and the rude,
laughing faces--which looked to him in his fright like demons--all swam
in giddy uncertainty round him, and the poor little fellow came down
upon the floor, slipping out of their rough and careless hands, faint
and sick and sore, his head turning, his little bones aching. But though
in his giddiness and faintness he scarcely saw anything--even the faces
turning into misty spectres--Nello’s spirit survived for a moment the
collapse of his little frame. He got to his feet in a frenzy, and struck
out at them with his white little childish fists. “I will kill you!”
cried Nello, through his teeth; and a great horse-laugh got up. But this
was soon extinguished in dismay and horror when the little fellow fell
back fainting. They all gathered around, horror-stricken. “Lift him on
his bed,” said the head boy almost in a whisper. They did not know
anything about faints; they thought the child was dead. Then there was a
pause. In their horror it occurred to more than one inexperienced
imagination to hide the little body and run away. “What can they do to
us?” said another, awe-stricken. “We didn’t mean it.” For a moment the
boys had all that thrill of horrible sensation which ought to (but, it
would seem, does not always) accompany homicide. At the end, however,
humanity prevailed over villanous panic, and Mrs. Swan was called to the
rescue. The boys were too glad to troop away, already subject to
punishment on account of being late, and, huddling together, went down
to the schoolroom in a band, where vengeance awaited them--though not
for Nello’s murder, as some of them thought.
Nello came to himself at last, after giving Mrs. Swan a great deal of
trouble; and there was nothing for it but to leave him in bed all day;
for the child was bruised with the fall, aching in every limb, and too
resentful and wretched to make any effort. He lay and cried and brooded,
what between childish plans of vengeance and equally childish projects
of escape. Oh, the pangs of impotence with which the small boy wronged
contemplated the idea of those big fellows who had been so cruel to him!
How should weakness be aware that strength does not intend to be cruel?
Nello could not be tolerant, or understanding, at his age, even if there
had not been his aching bones to prove the wickedness of his assailants.
He hated them all. How could he help hating them? He lay and planned
what he would do to them. But Nello’s dreams were not malicious. At the
last moment, when they had suffered torments of dread in prospect of the
punishment which he permitted them (in his fancy) to see approaching,
Nello’s vengeance suddenly turned into magnanimous contempt. He would
not condescend to reprisals; he would crush them with forgiveness as
soon as they saw his power. Such were the plans which the child lay and
concocted, and which amused him, though he was not aware of it. But when
the boys came in Nello shrank to the farther side of his bed; he would
not look at them; he would not listen to the rough inquiries. When they
went away again, however, and he was left alone, a sudden fit of longing
came over him. Oh, to see somebody he knew!--somebody that was kind!
Schemes of vengeance pall, like every other amusement. He gazed round
upon the bare walls, the range of beds, the strange, ugly, desolate
place. He could not tell if it was worse when the savages were there,
filling it with noise, stumblings of heavy feet, cries of rough voices,
or when the sounds all died away, and he was left lonely, not a soul to
speak to him; no kind hand to touch his hot little head; nobody to give
him a drink, though he wanted it so much. Nello had to clamber out of
bed, to pour himself out a cup of water from the great brown jug, which
he could scarcely lift--and fell upon his bed again, utterly heartsick
and desolate. Nobody to give him a drink! How they used to pet him when
he had a headache! How Martuccia would croon over him, and bathe his
head, and kiss his hands, and bring him everything she could think of
to please him! And Mary would come and stand by his side, and put her
cool, white hand upon his head--that hand which he had once called “as
soft as snow.” Nello remembered the smile that came on Mary’s face when
he had called her hand “as soft as snow.” He did not himself see the
poetry of the phrase, but he thought he could feel again that mingled
coolness, and softness, and whiteness. And Lily! Lily would sit by him
all day long, and read to him, or sing to him, or tell him stories, or
play when he got a little better and could play. A great lump came in
Nello’s throat. “Oh, my Lily!” he cried, with a lamentable cry. He had
no mother to appeal to, poor child--not even the imagination of a
mother. Lily had been everything. Nothing had ever been so bad with him
but could be borne when Lily was there. Naturally he had not so much
felt the want of Lily when it was pleasure (as he thought) that he was
going to. He could part with her without much emotion in the excitement
of novelty and childish hope; but now----. Nello turned his face to the
wall and sobbed. The lonely place--all the lonelier for bearing traces
of that rude multitude--held him, a little atom, in its midst. Nobody
heard his crying, or cared. He tore the bedclothes with his little
frantic hands, with that sense of the intolerable which comes so easily
to a child. But what did it matter that it was intolerable? Little
Nello, like older people, had to bear it all the same.
It was best to leave the child quiet, the Swans thought. They were not
unkind, but they were not used to take much trouble. The boys who came
to them generally were robust boys, able to take care of themselves, and
to whom it did no harm to be hustled about--who enjoyed the scrimmages
and struggles. Mrs. Swan had her own children to look after. “I’ve left
him to himself; he’s better to be quite quiet,” she said to her husband,
and the husband approved; “far better for him to be quiet.” Attempts to
amuse a child, in such circumstances, would have been foolish, they
thought, and as for petting and sympathising with him, far better that
he should get accustomed to it, and make up his mind to put up with it
like the rest. They could not make any difference between one and
another; and if he had a day’s rest, and was allowed to lie in bed,
what could the child want more? There was no imagination in the house
lively enough to _envisager_ the circumstances from Nello’s point of
view, or to understand what chills of terror, what flushes of passion,
came over the child, when the others poured in to bed again in the
evening, driving him desperate with fear and wild with anger. Who could
imagine anything so vehement in the mind of such a little boy? But Nello
was not molested that next evening; they were disposed rather to be
obsequious to him, asking, in their rough way, how he was, and offering
him half-eaten apples and bits of sticky sweetmeats, by way of
compensation. But Nello would not listen to these clumsy overtures. He
turned his face to the wall persistently, and would have nothing to say
to them. Even the tumult that was going on did not tempt him to turn
round, though, after the first moment of fright, the crowd in the room
was rather comforting than otherwise to Nello. The sound of their voices
kept him from that melancholy absorption in himself.
Next morning he had to get up, though he was still sick and sore. Nello
was so obstinate in his refusal to do so, that the master himself had to
be summoned. Mr. Swan would stand no nonsense.
“Get up, my boy,” he said, “you’ll get no good lying there. There has
nothing happened to you more than happens to new boys everywhere. Come,
you’re not a baby to cry. Get up, and be a man.”
“I want to go home,” said Nello.
“I daresay you do; but you’re not going home. So your plan is to make
the best of it,” said the schoolmaster. “Now come, I let you off
yesterday; but I’ll send a man to take you out of bed if you don’t get
up now. Come along, boy. I see you want to be a baby, as your uncle
said.”
“I am no baby,” cried Nello, furious; but the schoolmaster only laughed.
“I give you half-an-hour,” he said; and in half-an-hour, indeed, Nello,
giddy and weak, managed to struggle down to the schoolroom. His watch
was no longer going. He had forgotten it in the misery of the past day;
it lay there dead, as Nello felt--and his bird was flown. He stumbled
downstairs, feeling as if he must fall at each step, and took his seat
on the lowest bench. The lessons were not much, but Nello was not equal
to them. The big figures about seemed to darken the very air to the
boy--to darken it, and fill it up. He had no room to breathe. His hand
shook, so that he could not write a copy, which seemed a simple matter
enough. “Put him at the very bottom; he knows nothing,” Mr. Swan said to
his assistant; and how this galled the poor little gentleman, to whom,
in his feebleness, this was the only way left of proving a little
superiority, what words could say? Poor little Nello! he cried over the
copy, mingling his tears with the ink, and blurring the blurred page
still more. He could not get the figures right in the simplest of sums.
He was self-convicted of being not only the least, but the very last,
the dunce of the school. When the others went out to play, he sat
wretched in a corner of the wretched schoolroom, where there was no air
to breathe. He had not energy enough to do anything or think of
anything; and it was only the sight of another boy, seated at a desk
writing a letter, which put it into his head that he too might find a
way of appeal against this cruelty. He could not write anything but the
largest of large hands. But he tore a leaf out of the copybook, and
scrawled a few lines across it. “I am verrey meeserble,” he wrote; “Oh,
Lily, ask Mary to kome and take me home.”
“Will you put it into a cover for me?” he said to the boy who was
writing, who proved to be the very head boy who reigned over Nello’s
room. “Oh, please, put it into a cover. I’ll forgive you if you will,”
cried Nello.
The head boy looked at him with a grin.
“You little toad, don’t you forgive me without that? I never meant to
hurt you,” he said: but melting, he added, “give it here.” Nello’s
epistle, written across the lined paper, in big letters, did not seem to
require any ceremony as a private communication. The head boy read it
and laughed. “They won’t pay any attention,” he said; “they never do.
Little boys are always miserable. And won’t you catch it from Swan if he
sees it!”
“It is for my sister Lily; it is not for Mr. Swan,” cried the child,
upon which the head boy laughed again.
That letter never reached Penninghame. The schoolmaster read it
according to his orders, and put it into the fire. He wrote himself to
the address which Nello had given, to say that the little gentleman was
rather homesick, but pretty well; and that perhaps it would be better,
in the circumstances, not to write to him till he had got a little
settled down, and used to his new home. He hoped his little pupil would
soon be able to write a decent letter; but he feared his education had
been very much neglected hitherto, Mr. Swan wrote. Thus it came to pass
that Nello lived on, day after day, eagerly expecting some event which
never happened. He expected, first of all, Mary to arrive in a beautiful
chariot, such as was wont to appear in Lily’s stories, with beautiful
prancing horses--(where they were to come from, Nello never asked
himself, though he was intimately acquainted with the two brown ponies
and the cob, which were all the inhabitants of the Squire’s stables),
and with an aspect splendid, but severe, to proceed to the punishment of
his adversaries. Nello did not settle what deaths they were to die; but
all was arranged except that insignificant circumstance. Mary would
come; she would punish all who had done wrong; she would give presents
to those who had been kind; and all the boys who had laughed at little
Nello would see him drive away glorious behind those horses, with their
arching necks, and high-stepping, dainty feet. Then after a few days,
which produced nothing, Nello settled, with a pang of visionary
disappointment, that it was Mr. Pen who could come. He would not make a
splendid dash up to the door like Mary in her chariot; but still he
would deliver the little captive. Another day, and Nello, coming down
and down in his demands, thought it might at least be Martuccia, or
perhaps Miss Brown, who would come for him. That would not be so
satisfactory to his pride, for he felt that the boys would laugh and
jeer at him, and say it was his nurse who had come; but still even Miss
Brown would be good to see in this strange place. At the end of the
week, however, all Nello’s courage fled. He thought then faintly of a
letter, and watched when the postman came with packets of letters for
the other boys. He could not read writing very well; but he could make
it out if they would only write to him. Why would not they write to him?
Had they forgotten him altogether, clean forgotten him, though he had
been but a week away?
Nello did what he was told to do at school: but he was very slow about
it, being so little, and so unused to work--for which he was punished;
and he could not learn his lessons for brooding over his troubles, and
wondering when _they_ would come, or what they could mean; and naturally
he was punished for that too. The big boys hustled him about; they
played him a hundred tricks: they laughed at his timid, baby-washings,
his carefulness, the good order to which he had been trained. To toss
everything about, to do everything loudly, and noisily, and carelessly,
was the religion of Mr. Swan’s boys, as everything that was the reverse
of this had been the religion in which Nello was trained. Poor little
boy, his life was as full of care as if he had been fifty. He was sent
here and there on a hundred errands; he had impositions which he could
not write, and lessons which he could not learn; and not least, perhaps,
meals which he could not eat; and out-of-door tasks quite unsuitable for
him, and which he could not perform. He was for ever toiling after
something he ought to have done. He grew dirty, neglected, unkempt,
miserable. He could not clean his own boots, which was one thing
required of him; but plastered him self all over with mysterious
blacking, in a vain attempt to fulfil this task, he who had scarcely
dressed himself till now, scarcely brushed his own hair. He kept up a
struggle against all these labours, which were more cruel than those of
Hercules, as long as he had the hope within him that somebody must come
to deliver him; for, with a childish jump at what he wished, he had
believed that some one might come “to-morrow,” when he sent, or thought
he sent, his letter away. The to-morrow pushed itself on and on, hope
getting fainter, and misery stronger, yet still seemed to gleam upon
him, a possibility still. “Oh, pray God send Mary,” he said, every night
and morning. When a week was over, he added a more urgent cry, “Oh, pray
God send _some one_, only some one! Oh, pray God take me home!” the
child cried. He repeated it one night aloud, in the exhaustion of his
disappointment, with an irrepressible moaning and crying: “Oh, pray God
take me home!” He was very tired, poor little boy; he was half wrapped
in his little bit of curtain, to hide him as he said his prayers, and he
had fallen half asleep while he said them, and was struggling with
drowsiness, and duty, and a hope which though now falling more and more
into despondency, still gave pertinacity to his prayer. He was anxious,
very anxious to press this petition on God’s notice. Repetition; is not
that the simplest primitive necessity of earnest supplication? Perhaps
God might not take any notice the first time, but He might the next.
“Oh, take me home. Oh, pray God take me home!” God too, like Mary and
the rest, seemed to pay no attention; but God did not require written
letters or directions in a legible hand: He could be approached more
easily. So Nello repeated and repeated, half-asleep, yet with his little
heart full of trouble, and all his cares awake, this appeal to the only
One who could help him, “Oh, pray God, pray God, take me home!”
But in this trance of beseeching supplication, half asleep, half
conscious, poor little Nello caught the eye of one of his room-fellows,
who pointed out the spectacle to the rest. “Little beggar! pretending to
say his prayers; and much he cares for his prayers, going to sleep in
the middle of them,” they said. Then one wag suggested, “Let’s wake him
up!” It was a very funny idea. They got his water-jug, a small enough
article indeed, not capable of doing very much harm. Had poor little
Nello been less sleepy in his half-dream of pathetic appeal, he must
have heard the titterings and whisperings behind him; but he was too
much wrapt in that drowsy, painful abstraction, to take any notice, till
all at once he started bolt upright, crying and gasping, woke up and
drenched by the sudden dash of cold water over him. A shout of laughter
burst from all the room, as Nello turned round frantic, and flew at the
nearest of his assailants with impotent rage. What did the big fellow
care for his little blows? he lay back and laughed and did not mind,
while the small creature in his drenched nightgown, his face crimson
with rage, his little frame shivering, his curly locks falling about his
cheeks, flew at his throat. The head boy, however, awakening to a sense
of the indiscretion, and perhaps touched by a pang of remorse at sight
of the misery and fury in the child’s face, got hold of Nello in his
strong arms, and plucked the wet garment off him, and threw him into his
bed. “Let the child alone, I tell you. I won’t have him meddled with,”
he said to the others--and covered him up with the bedclothes. Poor
little Nello! he wanted to strike at and struggle with his defender. He
was wild with rage and misery. His small heart was full, and he could
bear no more.
After this, however, the boys, half ashamed of themselves, got quickly
to bed; and darkness, and such silence as can exist in the heavy
atmosphere where twelve rustics sleep and snore, succeeded to the tumult
and riot. Nello, exhausted, sobbed himself to sleep under the
bedclothes; but woke up in the middle of the night to remember all his
wrongs and his misery. His cup was full; even God would not pay any
attention to him, and it seemed to Nello that it would be better to die
than to bear this any longer. Though the dark frightened him, it was
less alarming than the rough boys, the hard lessons, the pangs of
longing and waiting for a deliverance which never came. He had still the
sovereign which Mary gave him, and the watch he had been so proud of,
though that was dead now, and he had not spirit enough left to wind it
up. It was October, and the nights were long. Though it was but in
reality between two and three o’clock in the morning, Nello thought it
would soon be time for all these savage companions to get out of bed
again, and for the noisy dreadful day to begin. He got up very quietly,
trembling at every sound. There was a window at the end of the room
through which the moon shone, and the light gave him a little
consolation. He kept his eye fixed upon it, and groped for his clothes,
and put them on very stealthily. If any one should hear him, he would be
lost; but Nello’s little rustlings, like a bird in the dark, what were
they to break the slumbers of all those outdoor lads, who slept
violently, as they did everything else! No one stirred; the snoring and
the breathing drowned all the little misadventures which chilled Nello
with terror, as when his boots dropt out of his hand, or the buttons on
his trousers struck shrilly against the chair. Nothing happened; nobody
stirred, and Nello crept out of the room, holding his breath with the
courage of despair. He got downstairs, trembling and stumbling at almost
every step. When he got to the lower story, that kind moon, which had
seemed to look at him through the window, almost to smile at him in
encouragement and cheerful support, showed him a little window which had
been left open by some chance. He clambered through and found himself in
the garden. There was a great dog in front of the house, of which Nello
was in mortal terror; but here at the back there was no dog, only the
kitchen garden, with the tranquil breadth of a potato-field on the other
side of the hedge. It was not easy to get through that hedge; but a
small boy not quite nine years old can go through gaps which would
scarcely show to the common eye. It scratched him and tore his trousers;
but there was nothing in such simple accidents to stop the little
fugitive. And what it was to feel himself outside, free and safe, and
all his tormentors snoring! Nello looked up at the moon, which was
mellow and mild, not white as usual, and which seemed to smile at him.
The potato-field was big and black, with its long lines running to a
point on either side of him; and the whole world seemed to lie round him
dark and still; nothing stirred, except now and then a rat in the ditch,
which chilled Nello with horror. Had he known it was so early, the child
would have been doubly frightened; but he felt that it was morning, not
night, which encouraged him. And how big the world was! how vast, and
silent, and solitary! only Nello, one little atom, with a small heart
beating, a little pulse throbbing in the midst of that infinite quiet.
The space grew vaster, the stillness more complete, the distance more
visionary, and there was a deeper sable in the dark, because of Nello’s
little heart beating so fast, and his eyes that took everything in. What
was he to do, poor little soul, there by himself in the open country, in
the unknown world all in the middle of the night!