In which one Scene of this History is closed
Dividing the distance into two days’ journey, in order that his charge
might sustain the less exhaustion and fatigue from travelling so far,
Nicholas, at the end of the second day from their leaving home, found
himself within a very few miles of the spot where the happiest years
of his life had been passed, and which, while it filled his mind with
pleasant and peaceful thoughts, brought back many painful and vivid
recollections of the circumstances in which he and his had wandered
forth from their old home, cast upon the rough world and the mercy of
strangers.
It needed no such reflections as those which the memory of old days,
and wanderings among scenes where our childhood has been passed, usually
awaken in the most insensible minds, to soften the heart of Nicholas,
and render him more than usually mindful of his drooping friend. By
night and day, at all times and seasons: always watchful, attentive, and
solicitous, and never varying in the discharge of his self-imposed duty
to one so friendless and helpless as he whose sands of life were now
fast running out and dwindling rapidly away: he was ever at his side. He
never left him. To encourage and animate him, administer to his wants,
support and cheer him to the utmost of his power, was now his constant
and unceasing occupation.
They procured a humble lodging in a small farmhouse, surrounded by
meadows where Nicholas had often revelled when a child with a troop of
merry schoolfellows; and here they took up their rest.
At first, Smike was strong enough to walk about, for short distances
at a time, with no other support or aid than that which Nicholas could
afford him. At this time, nothing appeared to interest him so much as
visiting those places which had been most familiar to his friend in
bygone days. Yielding to this fancy, and pleased to find that its
indulgence beguiled the sick boy of many tedious hours, and never failed
to afford him matter for thought and conversation afterwards, Nicholas
made such spots the scenes of their daily rambles: driving him from
place to place in a little pony-chair, and supporting him on his arm
while they walked slowly among these old haunts, or lingered in the
sunlight to take long parting looks of those which were most quiet and
beautiful.
It was on such occasions as these, that Nicholas, yielding almost
unconsciously to the interest of old associations, would point out some
tree that he had climbed, a hundred times, to peep at the young birds in
their nest; and the branch from which he used to shout to little Kate,
who stood below terrified at the height he had gained, and yet urging
him higher still by the intensity of her admiration. There was the
old house too, which they would pass every day, looking up at the tiny
window through which the sun used to stream in and wake him on the
summer mornings--they were all summer mornings then--and climbing up
the garden-wall and looking over, Nicholas could see the very rose-bush
which had come, a present to Kate, from some little lover, and she had
planted with her own hands. There were the hedgerows where the brother
and sister had so often gathered wild flowers together, and the green
fields and shady paths where they had so often strayed. There was not
a lane, or brook, or copse, or cottage near, with which some childish
event was not entwined, and back it came upon the mind--as events of
childhood do--nothing in itself: perhaps a word, a laugh, a look, some
slight distress, a passing thought or fear: and yet more strongly and
distinctly marked, and better remembered, than the hardest trials or
severest sorrows of a year ago.
One of these expeditions led them through the churchyard where was his
father’s grave. ‘Even here,’ said Nicholas softly, ‘we used to loiter
before we knew what death was, and when we little thought whose ashes
would rest beneath; and, wondering at the silence, sit down to rest
and speak below our breath. Once, Kate was lost, and after an hour of
fruitless search, they found her, fast asleep, under that tree which
shades my father’s grave. He was very fond of her, and said when he took
her up in his arms, still sleeping, that whenever he died he would wish
to be buried where his dear little child had laid her head. You see his
wish was not forgotten.’
Nothing more passed at the time, but that night, as Nicholas sat beside
his bed, Smike started from what had seemed to be a slumber, and laying
his hand in his, prayed, as the tears coursed down his face, that he
would make him one solemn promise.
‘What is that?’ said Nicholas, kindly. ‘If I can redeem it, or hope to
do so, you know I will.’
‘I am sure you will,’ was the reply. ‘Promise me that when I die, I
shall be buried near--as near as they can make my grave--to the tree we
saw today.’
Nicholas gave the promise; he had few words to give it in, but they were
solemn and earnest. His poor friend kept his hand in his, and turned as
if to sleep. But there were stifled sobs; and the hand was pressed
more than once, or twice, or thrice, before he sank to rest, and slowly
loosed his hold.
In a fortnight’s time, he became too ill to move about. Once or twice,
Nicholas drove him out, propped up with pillows; but the motion of the
chaise was painful to him, and brought on fits of fainting, which, in
his weakened state, were dangerous. There was an old couch in the house,
which was his favourite resting-place by day; and when the sun shone,
and the weather was warm, Nicholas had this wheeled into a little
orchard which was close at hand, and his charge being well wrapped
up and carried out to it, they used to sit there sometimes for hours
together.
It was on one of these occasions that a circumstance took place, which
Nicholas, at the time, thoroughly believed to be the mere delusion of an
imagination affected by disease; but which he had, afterwards, too good
reason to know was of real and actual occurrence.
He had brought Smike out in his arms--poor fellow! a child might have
carried him then--to see the sunset, and, having arranged his couch, had
taken his seat beside it. He had been watching the whole of the night
before, and being greatly fatigued both in mind and body, gradually fell
asleep.
He could not have closed his eyes five minutes, when he was awakened by
a scream, and starting up in that kind of terror which affects a person
suddenly roused, saw, to his great astonishment, that his charge had
struggled into a sitting posture, and with eyes almost starting from
their sockets, cold dew standing on his forehead, and in a fit of
trembling which quite convulsed his frame, was calling to him for help.
‘Good Heaven, what is this?’ said Nicholas, bending over him. ‘Be calm;
you have been dreaming.’
‘No, no, no!’ cried Smike, clinging to him. ‘Hold me tight. Don’t let me
go. There, there. Behind the tree!’
Nicholas followed his eyes, which were directed to some distance behind
the chair from which he himself had just risen. But, there was nothing
there.
‘This is nothing but your fancy,’ he said, as he strove to compose him;
‘nothing else, indeed.’
‘I know better. I saw as plain as I see now,’ was the answer. ‘Oh! say
you’ll keep me with you. Swear you won’t leave me for an instant!’
‘Do I ever leave you?’ returned Nicholas. ‘Lie down again--there! You
see I’m here. Now, tell me; what was it?’
‘Do you remember,’ said Smike, in a low voice, and glancing fearfully
round, ‘do you remember my telling you of the man who first took me to
the school?’
‘Yes, surely.’
‘I raised my eyes, just now, towards that tree--that one with the thick
trunk--and there, with his eyes fixed on me, he stood!’
‘Only reflect for one moment,’ said Nicholas; ‘granting, for an instant,
that it’s likely he is alive and wandering about a lonely place like
this, so far removed from the public road, do you think that at this
distance of time you could possibly know that man again?’
‘Anywhere--in any dress,’ returned Smike; ‘but, just now, he stood
leaning upon his stick and looking at me, exactly as I told you I
remembered him. He was dusty with walking, and poorly dressed--I think
his clothes were ragged--but directly I saw him, the wet night, his face
when he left me, the parlour I was left in, and the people that were
there, all seemed to come back together. When he knew I saw him, he
looked frightened; for he started, and shrunk away. I have thought of
him by day, and dreamt of him by night. He looked in my sleep, when I
was quite a little child, and has looked in my sleep ever since, as he
did just now.’
Nicholas endeavoured, by every persuasion and argument he could think
of, to convince the terrified creature that his imagination had deceived
him, and that this close resemblance between the creation of his dreams
and the man he supposed he had seen was but a proof of it; but all in
vain. When he could persuade him to remain, for a few moments, in the
care of the people to whom the house belonged, he instituted a strict
inquiry whether any stranger had been seen, and searched himself
behind the tree, and through the orchard, and upon the land immediately
adjoining, and in every place near, where it was possible for a man
to lie concealed; but all in vain. Satisfied that he was right in his
original conjecture, he applied himself to calming the fears of Smike,
which, after some time, he partially succeeded in doing, though not in
removing the impression upon his mind; for he still declared, again and
again, in the most solemn and fervid manner, that he had positively seen
what he had described, and that nothing could ever remove his conviction
of its reality.
And now, Nicholas began to see that hope was gone, and that, upon the
partner of his poverty, and the sharer of his better fortune, the world
was closing fast. There was little pain, little uneasiness, but there
was no rallying, no effort, no struggle for life. He was worn and wasted
to the last degree; his voice had sunk so low, that he could scarce be
heard to speak. Nature was thoroughly exhausted, and he had lain him
down to die.
On a fine, mild autumn day, when all was tranquil and at peace: when the
soft sweet air crept in at the open window of the quiet room, and not a
sound was heard but the gentle rustling of the leaves: Nicholas sat in
his old place by the bedside, and knew that the time was nearly come.
So very still it was, that, every now and then, he bent down his ear to
listen for the breathing of him who lay asleep, as if to assure himself
that life was still there, and that he had not fallen into that deep
slumber from which on earth there is no waking.
While he was thus employed, the closed eyes opened, and on the pale face
there came a placid smile.
‘That’s well!’ said Nicholas. ‘The sleep has done you good.’
‘I have had such pleasant dreams,’ was the answer. ‘Such pleasant, happy
dreams!’
‘Of what?’ said Nicholas.
The dying boy turned towards him, and, putting his arm about his neck,
made answer, ‘I shall soon be there!’
After a short silence, he spoke again.
‘I am not afraid to die,’ he said. ‘I am quite contented. I almost think
that if I could rise from this bed quite well I would not wish to do
so, now. You have so often told me we shall meet again--so very often
lately, and now I feel the truth of that so strongly--that I can even
bear to part from you.’
The trembling voice and tearful eye, and the closer grasp of the
arm which accompanied these latter words, showed how they filled the
speaker’s heart; nor were there wanting indications of how deeply they
had touched the heart of him to whom they were addressed.
‘You say well,’ returned Nicholas at length, ‘and comfort me very much,
dear fellow. Let me hear you say you are happy, if you can.’
‘I must tell you something, first. I should not have a secret from you.
You would not blame me, at a time like this, I know.’
‘I blame you!’ exclaimed Nicholas.
‘I am sure you would not. You asked me why I was so changed, and--and
sat so much alone. Shall I tell you why?’
‘Not if it pains you,’ said Nicholas. ‘I only asked that I might make
you happier, if I could.’
‘I know. I felt that, at the time.’ He drew his friend closer to him.
‘You will forgive me; I could not help it, but though I would have
died to make her happy, it broke my heart to see--I know he loves her
dearly--Oh! who could find that out so soon as I?’
The words which followed were feebly and faintly uttered, and broken by
long pauses; but, from them, Nicholas learnt, for the first time, that
the dying boy, with all the ardour of a nature concentrated on one
absorbing, hopeless, secret passion, loved his sister Kate.
He had procured a lock of her hair, which hung at his breast, folded
in one or two slight ribbons she had worn. He prayed that, when he was
dead, Nicholas would take it off, so that no eyes but his might see it,
and that when he was laid in his coffin and about to be placed in the
earth, he would hang it round his neck again, that it might rest with
him in the grave.
Upon his knees Nicholas gave him this pledge, and promised again that
he should rest in the spot he had pointed out. They embraced, and kissed
each other on the cheek.
‘Now,’ he murmured, ‘I am happy.’
He fell into a light slumber, and waking smiled as before; then, spoke
of beautiful gardens, which he said stretched out before him, and were
filled with figures of men, women, and many children, all with light
upon their faces; then, whispered that it was Eden--and so died.