faltering, Mrs. Jarley passed on to the fat man, and then to the thin
man, the tall man, the short man, the old lady who died of dancing at a
hundred and thirty-two, the wild boy of the woods, the woman who
poisoned fourteen families with pickled walnuts, and other historical
characters, and interesting but misguided individuals. So well did Nell
profit by her instructions, that at the end of a couple of hours, she
was in full possession of the history of the whole establishment, and
perfectly competent to the enlightenment of visitors, and Mrs. Jarley
was not slow to express her admiration at this happy result.
In the midst of the various devices used later for attracting visitors
to the exhibition, little Nell was not forgotten. The cart in which the
Brigand usually made his perambulations, being gayly dressed with flags
and streamers, and the Brigand placed therein, Nell sat beside him,
decorated with artificial flowers, and rode slowly through the town
every morning, dispersing hand-bills from a basket to the sound of drum
and trumpet. The beauty of the child, coupled with her gentle and timid
bearing, produced quite a sensation in the little country place: the
Brigand, became a mere secondary consideration, and important only as
part of the show of which she was the chief attraction, Grown-up folks
began to be interested in the bright-eyed girl, and some score of little
boys fell desperately in love, and constantly left inclosures of nuts
and apples at the wax-work door.
This desirable impression was not lost on Mrs. Jarley, who, lest Nell
should become too cheap, sent the Brigand out alone again, and kept her
in the exhibition room, where she described the figures every half-hour,
to the great satisfaction of admiring audiences.
Although her duties were sufficiently laborious, Nell found the lady of
the caravan a very kind and considerate person indeed. As her popularity
procured her various little fees from the visitors, on which her
patroness never demanded any toll, and as her grandfather too was
well-treated and useful, Nell had no cause for anxiety until one holiday
evening, when they went out together for a walk. They had been closely
confined for some days, and the weather being warm, had strolled a long
distance, when they were caught in a most terrific thunder-shower, from
which they sought refuge in a roadside tavern, where some men sat
playing cards with a pile of silver money between them. When the old
man's eye lighted upon them, the child saw with alarm that his whole
appearance underwent a complete change. His face was flushed and eager,
his breath came short and quick, and the hand he laid upon her arm
trembled so violently, that she shook beneath its grasp. To his frenzied
appeal for money, Nell repeated a firm refusal, but he was insistent.
"Give me the money," he exclaimed--"I must have it. There there--that's
my dear Nell. I'll right thee one day, child, never fear!"
She took from her pocket a little purse. He seized it, and hastened to
the other side of the screen where the two men were playing. Almost
immediately they invited him to join their game, whereupon, throwing
Nell's purse down upon the table, he gathered up the cards as a miser
would clutch at gold. The child sat by and watched the game in a perfect
agony of fear, regardless of the run of luck; and mindful only of the
desperate passion which had its hold upon her grandfather, losses and
gains were to her alike.
The storm had raged for full three hours, when at length the play came
to an end. Nell's little purse lay empty, and still the old man sat
poring over the cards until the child laid her arm upon his shoulder,
telling him that it was near midnight.
Now Nell had still the piece of gold, and considering the lateness of
the hour, and into what a state of consternation they would throw Mrs.
Jarley by knocking her up at that hour, proposed to her grandfather that
they stay where they were for the night. As they would leave very early
in the morning, the child was anxious to pay for their entertainment
before they retired, but as she felt the necessity of concealing her
little hoard from her grandfather, and had to change the piece of gold,
she took it out secretly, and following the landlord into the bar,
tendered it to him there. She was returning, when she fancied she saw a
figure gliding in at the door. There was only a dark passage between
this door and the place where she had changed the money, and being very
certain that no person had passed in or out while she stood there, she
felt that she had been watched. She was still thinking of this, when a
girl came to light her to bed.
It was a great gloomy house, which the flaring candles seemed to make
yet more gloomy, and the child did not feel comfortable when she was
left alone. She could not help thinking of the figure stealing through
the passage downstairs. At last a broken and fitful sleep stole upon
her. A deeper slumber followed this--and then--What! That figure in the
room! A figure was there, it crouched and slunk along, stealing round
the bed. She had no voice to cry for help, no power to move,--on it
came--silently and stealthily to the bed's head. There it remained,
motionless as she. At length, it busied its hands in something, and she
heard the chink of money. Then it dropped upon its hands and knees, and
crawled away. It reached the door at last, the steps creaked beneath its
noiseless tread, and it was gone.
The first impulse of the child was not to be alone--and with no
consciousness of having moved, she gained the door. Once in her
grandfather's room, she would be safe. An idea flashed suddenly upon
her--what if the figure should enter there, and have a design upon the
old man's life? She turned faint and sick. She saw it creeping in front
of her. It went in. Not knowing what she meant to do, but meaning to
preserve him, or be killed herself, she staggered forward and looked in.
What sight was that which met her view?
The bed was smooth and empty. And at a table sat the old man
himself--the only living creature there--his white face pinched and
sharpened by the greediness which made his eyes unnaturally
bright--counting the money of which his hands had robbed her.
With steps more unsteady than those with which she had approached the
room, the child groped her way back into her own chamber. The terror
which she had lately felt was nothing compared with that which now
oppressed her. The grey-haired old man, gliding like a ghost into her
room, and acting the thief, while he supposed her fast asleep, then
bearing off his prize, and hanging over it with the ghastly exultation
she had witnessed, was far more dreadful than anything her wildest fancy
could have suggested. The feeling which beset her was one of uncertain
horror. She had no fear of the dear old grandfather, but the man she had
seen that night seemed like another creature in his shape. She could
scarcely connect her own affectionate companion, save by his loss, with
this old man, so like yet so unlike him. She had wept to see him dull
and quiet. How much greater cause she had for weeping now!
She sat thinking of these things, until she felt it would be a relief to
hear his voice, or if he were asleep, even to see him, and so she stole
down the passage again. Looking into the room, she saw him lying calmly
on his bed, fast asleep. She had no fear as she looked upon his
slumbering features, but she had a deep and weighty sorrow, and it found
its relief in tears.
"God bless him," said the child, softly kissing his placid cheek. "I see
too well now that they would indeed part us if they found us out, and
shut him up from the light of the sun and sky. He has only me. God
bless us both!"
Lighting her candle, she retreated as silently as she had come, and
gaining her own room once more, sat up during the remainder of that
long, long miserable night. Upon searching her pocket on the following
morning she found her money was all gone--not a sixpence remained.
"Grandfather," she said in a tremulous voice, after they had walked
about a mile on their road in silence, "Do you think they are honest
people at the house yonder? I ask because I lost some money last
night--out of my bedroom, I am sure. Unless it was taken by some one in
jest--only in jest, dear grandfather, which would make me laugh heartily
if I could but know it--"
"Who would take money in jest?" returned the old man in a hurried
manner. "Those who take money, take it to keep. Don't talk of jest."
"Then it was stolen out of my room, dear," said the child, whose last
hope was destroyed by the manner of this reply.
"But is there no more, Nell," said the old man--"no more anywhere? Was
it all taken--was there nothing left?"
"Nothing," replied the child.
"We must get more," said the old man, "we must earn it, Nell--hoard it
up, scrape it together, come by it somehow. Never mind this loss. Tell
nobody of it, and perhaps we may regain it. Don't ask how--we may regain
it, and a great deal more, but tell nobody, or trouble may come of it.
And so they took it out of thy room, when thou wert asleep!" He added in
a compassionate tone, very different from the secret, cunning way in
which he had spoken until now. "Poor Nell, poor little Nell!"
The child hung down her head and wept. It was not the lightest part of
her sorrow that this was done for her.
"Let me persuade you, dear grandfather," she said earnestly, "Oh, do let
me persuade you to think no more of gains or losses, and to try no
fortune but the fortune we pursue together. Only remember what we have
been since that bright morning when we turned our backs upon that
unhappy house for the last time," continued Nell. "Think what beautiful
things we have seen, and how contented we have felt, and why was this
blessed change?"
He stopped her with a motion of his hand, and bade her talk to him no
more just then, for he was busy. After a time he kissed her cheek, and
walked on, looking as if he were painfully trying to collect his
thoughts. Once she saw tears in his eyes. When they had gone on thus for
some time, he took her hand in his, as he was accustomed to do, with
nothing of the violence or animation of his late manner; and by degrees
settled down into his usual quiet way, and suffered her to lead him
where she would.
As Nell had anticipated, they found Mrs. Jarley was not yet out of bed,
and that although she had suffered some uneasiness on their account, she
had felt sure that being overtaken by the storm, they had sought the
nearest shelter for the night. And as they sat down to breakfast, she
requested Nell to go that morning to Miss Monflather's Boarding and Day
School to present its principal with a parcel of new bills, as her
establishment had yet sent but half-a-dozen representatives to see the
stupendous wax-work collection. Nell's expedition met with no success,
to Mrs. Jarley's great indignation, and Nell would have been
disappointed herself at its failure, had she not had anxieties of a
deeper kind to occupy her thoughts.
That evening, as she had dreaded, her grandfather stole away, and did
not come back until the night was far spent. Worn out as she was, she
sat up alone until he returned--penniless, broken spirited, and
wretched, but still hotly bent upon his infatuation.
"Give me money," he said wildly, "I must have money, Nell. It shall be
paid thee back with gallant interest one day, but all the money which
comes into thy hands must be mine--not for myself, but to use for thee.
Remember, Nell, to use for thee!"
What could the child do, with the knowledge she had, but give him every
penny that came into her hands, lest he should be tempted on to rob
their benefactress? 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 supply himself; supplying him, she fed the fire that burned him,
and put him perhaps beyond recovery. Distracted by these thoughts,
tortured by a crowd of apprehensions whenever he was absent, and
dreading alike his stay and his return, the color forsook her cheek, her
eyes grew dim, and her heart was oppressed and heavy.
One evening, wandering alone not far from home, the child came suddenly
upon a gypsy camp, and looking at the group of men around the fire saw
to her horror and dismay that one was her grandfather. The others she
recognized as the card-players at the public-house on the eventful night
of the storm. Drawing near, where she could listen unseen, she heard
their conversation; heard them obtain her grandfather's promise to rob
Mrs. Jarley of the tin box in which she kept her savings--and to play a
game of cards with them, with its contents for stakes.
"God be merciful to us!" cried the child, "and help us in this trying
hour! What shall I do to save him?"
The remainder of the conversation related merely to the execution of
their project, after which the old man shook hands with his tempters,
and withdrew. Then Nell crept away, fled home as quickly as she could,
and threw herself upon her bed, distracted. The first idea that flashed
upon her mind was instant flight. Then she remembered that the crime was
not to be committed until next night, and there was time for resolving
what to do. Then she was distracted with a horrible fear that he might
be committing it at that moment. She stole to the room where the money
was, and looked in. God be praised! 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 who could sleep--sleep! distracted by such
terrors? They came upon her more and more strongly yet. Half-undressed,
and with her hair in wild disorder, she flew to the old man's bedside,
and roused him from his sleep.
"What's this?" he cried, starting up in bed, and fixing his eyes upon
her spectral face.
"I have had a dreadful dream," said the child. "A dreadful, horrible
dream! I have had it once before. It is a dream of gray-haired men like
you, in darkened rooms by night, robbing the 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, "Not to me--to 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. We must
fly. There is no time to lose;" said the child. "Up! and away with me!"
"To-night?" murmured the old man.
"Yes, to-night," replied the child. "To-morrow night will be too late.
Nothing but flight can save us. Up!"
The old man arose, his forehead bedewed with the cold sweat of fear, and
bending before the child, as if she had been an angel messenger sent to
lead him where she would, made ready to follow her. She took him by the
hand and led him on. She took him to her own chamber, and, still holding
him by the hand, as if she feared to lose him for an instant, gathered
together the little stock she had, and hung her basket on her arm. The
old man took his wallet from her hands, his staff too, and then she led
him forth.
Through the streets their trembling feet passed quickly, and at last the
child looked back upon the sleeping town, on the far-off river, on the
distant hills; and as she did so, she clasped the hand she held less
firmly, and bursting into tears, fell upon the old man's neck. Her
momentary weakness passed, she again summoned the resolution to keep
steadily in view the one idea that they were flying from disgrace and
crime, and that her grandfather's preservation depended solely on her
firmness. While he, subdued and abashed, seemed to shrink and cower down
before her, the child herself was sensible of a new feeling within her
which elevated her nature, and inspired her with an energy and
confidence she had never known. "I have saved him," she thought, "in all
distresses and dangers I will remember that."
At any other time the recollection of having deserted the friend who had
shown them so much homely kindness, without a word of justification,
would have filled her with sorrow and regret. But now, all other
considerations were lost in the new uncertainties and anxieties, and in
the desperation of their condition.
In the pale moonlight, which lent a wanness of its own to the delicate
face where thoughtful care already mingled with a winning grace and
loveliness of youth, the too bright eye, the spiritual head, the lips
that pressed each other with such high resolve and courage of the heart,
the slight figure, firm in its bearing, and yet so very weak, told their
silent tale; but told it only to the wind that rustled by. The night
crept on apace, the moon went down and when the sun had climbed into the
sky, and there was warmth in its cheerful beams, they laid them down to
sleep upon a bank hard by some water.
But Nell retained her grasp upon the old man's arm, and long after he
was slumbering soundly, watched him with untiring eyes. Fatigue stole
over her at last; her grasp relaxed, and they slept side by side. A
confusion of voices, mingling with her dreams, awoke her, and she
discovered a man of rough appearance standing over her, while his
companions were looking on from a canal-boat which had come close to the
bank while she was sleeping. The man spoke to Nell, asking what was the
matter, and where she and her grandfather were going. Nell faltered,
pointing at hazard toward the west--and upon the man inquiring if she
meant a certain town which he named, Nell, to avoid more questioning,
said "Yes, that was the place." After asking some other questions, he
mounted one of the horses towing the boat, which at once went on.
Presently it stopped again, and the man beckoned to Nell: "You may go
with us if you like," he said. "We're going to the same place."
The child hesitated for one moment. Thinking that the men whom she had
seen with her grandfather might perhaps in their eagerness for the
booty, follow them, and regain their influence over him, and that if
they went on the canal-boat all traces of them must be surely
lost--accepted the offer. Before she had any more time for
consideration, she and her grandfather were on board, gliding smoothly
down the canal, through the bright water.
They did not reach their destination until the following morning, and
Nell was glad indeed when the trip was ended, for the noisy rugged
fellows on the boat were rough enough to make her heart palpitate for
fear, but though they quarrelled among themselves, they were civil
enough to their two passengers; and at length the boat floated into its
destination. The men were occupied directly, and the child and her
grandfather, after waiting in vain to thank them, or ask whither they
should go, passed out into a crowded noisy street of a manufacturing
village, and stood, in the pouring rain, distressed and confused.
Evening came on. They were still wandering up and down, bewildered by
the hurry they beheld, but had no part in. Shivering with the cold and
damp, ill in body, and sick to death at heart, the child needed her
utmost resolution to creep along. No prospect of relief appearing, they
retraced their steps to the wharf, hoping to be allowed to sleep on
board the boat that night. But here again they were disappointed, for
the gate was closed.
"Why did you bring me here?" asked the old man fiercely, "I cannot bear
these close eternal streets. We came from a quiet part. Why did you
force me to leave it?"
"Because I must have that dream I told you of, no more," said the child,
"and we must live among poor people or it will come again. Dear
grandfather, you are old and weak, I know; but look at me. I never will
complain if you will not, but I have some suffering indeed."
"Ah! Poor, houseless, wandering, motherless child!" cried the old man,
gazing as if for the first time upon her anxious face, her
travel-stained dress, and bruised and swollen feet. "Has all my agony of
care brought her to this at last? Was I a happy man once, and have I
lost happiness and all I had, for this?"
Wandering on, they took shelter in an old doorway from which the figure
of a man came forth, who, touched with the misery of their situation,
and with Nell's drenched condition, offered them such lodging as he had
at his command, in the great foundry where he was employed. He led them
through the bewildering sights and deafening sounds of the huge
building, to his furnace, and there spread Nell's little cloak upon a
heap of ashes, and showing her where to hang her outer clothes to dry,
signed to her and the old man to lie down and sleep. The warmth of her
bed, combined with her great fatigue, caused the tumult of the place to
lull the child to sleep, and the old man was stretched beside her, as
she lay and dreamed. On the following morning her friend shared his
breakfast with the child and her grandfather, and parting with them left
in Nell's hand two battered smoke-encrusted penny pieces. Who knows but
they shone as brightly in the eyes of angels as golden gifts that have
been chronicled on tombs?
With an intense longing for pure air and open country, they toiled
slowly on, the child walking with extreme difficulty, for the pains that
racked her joints were of no common severity, and every exertion
increased them. But they wrung from her no complaint, as the two
proceeded slowly on, clearing the town in course of time. They slept
that night with nothing between them and the sky, amid the horrors of a
manufacturing suburb, and who shall tell the terrors of that night to
the young wandering child.
And yet she had no fear for herself, for she was past it, but put up a
prayer for the old man. A penny loaf was all that they had had that day.
It was very little, but even hunger was forgotten in the strange
tranquillity that crept over her senses. So very weak and spent she felt
as she lay down, so very calm and unresisting, that she had no thought
of any wants of her own, but prayed that God would raise up some friend
for him. Morning came--much weaker, yet the child made no complaint--she
felt a hopelessness of their ever being extricated together from that
forlorn place; a dull conviction that she was very ill, perhaps dying;
but no fear or anxiety. Objects appeared more dim, the noise less, the
path more uneven, for sometimes she stumbled, and became roused, as it
were, in the effort to prevent herself from falling. Poor child! The
cause was in her tottering feet.
They were dragging themselves along toward evening and the child felt
that the time was close at hand when she could bear no more. Before them
she saw a traveller reading from a book which he carried.
It was not an easy matter to come up with him, and beseech his aid, for
he walked fast. At length he stopped, to look more attentively at some
passage in his book. Animated with a ray of hope, the child shot on
before her grandfather, and going close to the stranger without rousing
him by the sound of her footsteps, began faintly to implore his help.
He turned his head. Nell clapped her hands together, uttered a wild
shriek, and fell senseless at his feet. It was no other than the poor
schoolmaster. Scarcely less moved and surprised than the child herself,
he stood for a moment, silent and confounded by the unexpected
apparition, without even presence of mind to raise her from the ground.
But, quickly recovering his self-possession, and dropping on one knee
beside her, he endeavored to restore her to herself.
"She is quite exhausted," he said, glancing upward into the old man's
face. "You have taxed her powers too far, friend."
"She is perishing of want," rejoined the old man. "I never thought how
weak and ill she was, till now."
Casting a look upon him, half-reproachful and half-compassionate, the
schoolmaster took the child in his arms, and bore her away at his utmost
speed to a small inn within sight.