hugging them to his breast, uttered a few broken sounds which were
unintelligible. Squeers entered, at the moment, and he shrank back into
his old corner.
The next morning--a cold, gray day in January--Nicholas was awakened by
hearing the voice of Squeers roughly demanding, "Where's that Smike?"
Nicholas looked over in the corner where the boy usually slept, but it
was vacant; so he made no answer.
"Smike!" shouted Squeers.
"Do you want your head broke in a fresh place, Smike?" demanded his
amiable lady, in the same key.
Still there was no reply, and still Nicholas stared about him, as did
the greater part of the boys, who were by this time roused.
"Confound his impudence!" muttered Squeers, rapping the stair-rail
impatiently with his cane. "Nickleby!"
"Well, sir."
"Send that obstinate scoundrel down; don't you hear me calling?"
"He is not here, sir," replied Nicholas.
"Don't tell me a lie," retorted the schoolmaster. "He is."
"He is not," retorted Nicholas, angrily. "Don't tell me one."
"We shall soon see that," said Mr. Squeers, rushing upstairs. "I'll
find him, I warrant you."
With which assurance Mr. Squeers bounced into the dormitory, and,
swinging his cane in the air ready for a blow, darted into the corner.
The cane descended harmlessly upon the ground. There was nobody there.
"What does this mean?" said Squeers, turning round. "Where have you hid
him?"
"I have seen nothing of him since last night," replied Nicholas.
"Come," blustered Squeers, "you won't save him this way. Where is he?"
"At the bottom of the nearest pond, for aught I know," rejoined
Nicholas, in a low voice, and fixing his eyes full on the master's face.
"Confound you, what do you mean by that?" retorted Squeers. Without
waiting for a reply, he inquired of the boys whether any one among them
knew anything of their missing schoolmate.
There was a general hum of anxious denial, in the midst of which one
shrill voice was heard to say (as, indeed, everybody thought):
"Please, sir, I think Smike's run away, sir."
"Ha!" cried Squeers, turning sharp round. "Who said that?"
And, pouncing suddenly, he seized a small urchin, who was rewarded for
his suggestion so soundly that he howled with pain.
"There," said Squeers. "Now, if any other boy thinks Smike has run
away, I shall be glad to have a talk with him."
There was, of course, a profound silence, during which Nicholas showed
his disgust as plainly as looks could show it.
"Well, Nickleby," said Squeers, eyeing him maliciously. "_You_ think he
has run away, I suppose?"
"I think it extremely likely," replied Nicholas, in a quiet manner.
"Oh, you do, do you?" sneered Squeers. "Maybe you know he has?"
"I know nothing of the kind."
"He didn't tell you he was going, I suppose, did he?" continued Squeers.
"He did not," replied Nicholas; "I am very glad he did not, for it would
then have been my duty to have warned you in time."
"Which no doubt you would have been devilish sorry to do," said Squeers,
in a taunting fashion.
"I should indeed," replied Nicholas.
Meanwhile Mrs. Squeers, who had been hunting elsewhere for the boy,
bustled in with great excitement.
"He is off!" said she. "The cow-house and stable are locked up, so he
can't be there; and he's not downstairs anywhere, for the girl has
looked. He must have gone York way, and by a public road too."
"Why must he?" inquired Squeers.
"Stupid!" said Mrs. Squeers, angrily. "He hadn't any money, had he?"
"Never had a penny of his own in his whole life, that I know of,"
replied Squeers.
"To be sure," rejoined Mrs. Squeers, "and he didn't take anything to eat
with him; that I'll answer for. So, of course, he must beg his way, and
he could do that nowhere but on the public road."
"That's true," exclaimed Squeers, clapping his hands.
"True! Yes; but you would never have thought of it, for all that, if I
hadn't said so," replied his wife. "Now, if you take the chaise and go
one road, and I borrow Swallow's chaise and go the other, what with
keeping our eyes open and asking questions, one or other of us is pretty
certain to lay hold of him."
The worthy lady's plan was put into action without delay; while Nicholas
remained behind in a tumult of anxiety. He realized the bitter
consequences of Smike's rash act. The boy was liable to freeze or
starve to death on the roadside--which could not, perhaps, be much worse
than to fall again into the clutches of Mr. and Mrs. Squeers.
All that day there was no tidings of the runaway. But at daybreak the
second morning the sound of wheels was heard. Nicholas hardly dared to
look out of the window; but he did so, and the very first object that
met his eyes was the wretched Smike: so bedabbled with mud and rain, so
haggard and worn and wild, that, but for his garments being such as no
scarecrow was ever seen to wear, he might have been doubtful, even then,
of his identity.
"Lift him out," said Squeers, after he had literally feasted his eyes,
in silence, upon the culprit. "Bring him in; bring him in!"
Smike, to all appearance more dead than alive, was brought into the
house and securely locked up in a cellar until such time as Mr. Squeers
should deem it expedient to operate upon him in presence of the
assembled school.
After a hasty breakfast of very thin porridge, the boys were summoned to
the schoolroom by resounding whacks on the desk from an ugly-looking
whip in the hands of the master.
"Is every boy here?" asked Squeers, in a tremendous voice.
Every boy was there, but every boy was afraid to speak; so Squeers
glared along the lines to assure himself; and every eye drooped, and
every head cowered down, as he did so.
"Each boy keep his place," said Squeers, administering his favorite blow
to the desk, and regarding with gloomy satisfaction the universal start
which it never failed to occasion. "Nickleby! to your desk, sir!"
It was remarked by more than one small observer that there was a very
curious and unusual expression in the usher's face; but he took his seat
without opening his lips in reply. Squeers, casting a triumphant glance
at his assistant and a scowl on the boys, left the room, and shortly
afterwards returned, dragging Smike by the collar.
In any other place the appearance of the wretched, jaded, spiritless
object would have occasioned a murmur of compassion and remonstrance.
It had some effect, even there; for the lookers-on moved uneasily in
their seats, and a few of the boldest ventured to steal looks at each
other, expressive of indignation and pity.
They were lost on Squeers, however, whose gaze was fastened on the
luckless Smike, as he inquired, according to custom in such cases,
whether he had anything to say for himself.
"Nothing, I suppose?" said Squeers, with a diabolical grin.
Smike glanced round, and his eye rested, for an instant, on Nicholas, as
if he had expected him to intercede; but his look was riveted on his
desk.
"Have you anything to say?" demanded Squeers again, giving his right arm
two or three flourishes to try its power and suppleness. "Stand a little
out of the way, Mrs. Squeers, my dear; I've hardly got room enough."
"Spare me, sir!" cried Smike.
"Oh! that's all, is it?" said Squeers. "Yes, I'll flog you within an
inch of your life, and spare you that."
"Ha, ha, ha," laughed Mrs. Squeers, "that's a good 'un!"
"I was driven to do it," said Smike, faintly, and casting another
imploring look about him.
"Driven to do it, were you?" said Squeers. "Oh! it wasn't your fault; it
was mine, I suppose--eh?"
Then he caught the boy firmly in his grip. One desperate cut had fallen
on his body--he was wincing from the lash and uttering a scream of
pain--it was raised again, and again about to fall--when Nicholas
Nickleby, suddenly starting up, cried "_Stop!_" in a voice that made the
rafters ring.
"Who cried stop?" said Squeers, turning savagely round.
"I," said Nicholas, stepping forward. "This must not go on."
"Must not go on!" cried Squeers, almost in a shriek.
"_No!_" thundered Nicholas.
Aghast at the boldness of this interference, Squeers released his hold
of Smike, and, falling back a pace or two, gazed upon Nicholas with
looks that were positively frightful.
"I say _must not_!" repeated Nicholas, nothing daunted; "_shall not_! I
will prevent it!"
Squeers continued to gaze upon him, with his eyes starting out of his
head; but astonishment had actually, for the moment, bereft him of
speech.
"You have disregarded all my quiet interference in the miserable lad's
behalf," said Nicholas; "you have returned no answer to the letter in
which I begged forgiveness for him, and offered to be responsible that
he would remain quietly here. Don't blame me for this public
interference. You have brought it upon yourself; not I."
"Sit down, beggar!" screamed Squeers, almost beside himself with rage,
and seizing Smike as he spoke.
"Wretch," rejoined Nicholas, fiercely, "touch him at your peril! I will
not stand by, and see it done. My blood is up, and I have the strength
of ten such men as you. Look to yourself, for by Heaven I will not spare
you, if you drive me on!"
"Stand back," cried Squeers, brandishing his weapon.
"I have a long series of insults to avenge," said Nicholas, flushed with
passion; "and my indignation is aggravated by the cruelties of this foul
den. Have a care; for if you rouse me farther, the consequences shall
fall heavily upon your own head!"
He had scarcely spoken, when Squeers, in a violent outbreak of wrath,
struck him a blow across the face which raised up a bar of livid flesh
as it was inflicted. Smarting with the agony of the blow, and
concentrating into that one moment all its feelings of rage and scorn,
Nicholas sprang upon him, wrested the weapon from his hand, and pinning
him by the throat, beat the ruffian till he roared for mercy.
Then Nicholas left the astounded boys and the crestfallen master, and
stalked out of the room. He looked anxiously around for Smike, as he
closed the door, but he was nowhere to be seen.
There was nothing left for him to do. He must face the world again; but
_anything_--he told himself--would be better than this. So he packed up
a few clothes in a small valise, and, finding that nobody offered to
oppose him, he marched boldly out by the front door and struck into the
road which led to Greta Bridge.
He did not travel far that day, as there had been a heavy fall of snow
which made the way toilsome and hard to find. He lay, that night, at a
cottage, where beds were let at a cheap rate to the more humble class of
travellers; and, rising betimes next morning, made his way before night
to Boroughbridge. Passing through that town in search of some cheap
resting-place, he stumbled upon an empty barn within a couple of hundred
yards of the roadside; in a warm corner of which he stretched his weary
limbs, and soon fell asleep.
When he awoke next morning, and tried to recollect his dreams, which had
been all connected with his recent sojourn at Dotheboys Hall, he sat up,
rubbed his eyes, and stared--not with the most composed countenance
possible--at some motionless object which seemed to be stationed within
a few yards in front of him.
"Strange!" cried Nicholas; "can this be some lingering creation of the
visions that have scarcely left me! It cannot be real--and yet I---I am
awake! Smike!"
The form moved, rose, advanced, and dropped upon its knees at his feet.
It was Smike indeed.
"Why do you kneel to me?" said Nicholas, hastily raising him.
"To go with you--anywhere--everywhere--to the world's end!" replied
Smike, clinging to his hand. "Let me, oh, do let me! You are my
home--my kind friend--take me with you, pray!"
"I am a friend who can do little for you," said Nicholas, kindly. "How
came you here?"
He had followed him, it seemed; had never lost sight of him all the way;
had watched while he slept, and when he halted for refreshment; and had
feared to appear before, lest he should be sent back. He had not
intended to appear now, but Nicholas had awakened more suddenly than he
looked for, and he had had no time to conceal himself.
"Poor fellow!" said Nicholas, "your hard fate denies you any friend but
one, and he is nearly as poor and helpless as yourself."
"May I--may I go with you?" asked Smike, timidly. "I will be your
faithful, hard-working servant, I will, indeed. I want no clothes,"
added the poor creature, drawing his rags together; "these will do very
well. I only want to be near you."
"And you shall," cried Nicholas. "And the world shall deal by you as it
does by me, till one or both of us shall quit it for a better. Come!"
With these words he strapped his valise on his shoulders, and, taking
his stick in one hand, extended the other to the delighted boy; and so
they passed out of the old barn together.
And in the days to come--through thick and thin--Smike and Nicholas
fought their battles together--and _won_!
*THE STORY OF LITTLE NELL*
*I. IN THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP*
It was a queer home for a child--this place where Little Nell lived with
her grandfather. He was a dealer in all sorts of curious old things:
suits of mail which stood like ghosts in armor here and there; fantastic
carved tables and chairs; rusty weapons of various kinds; distorted
figures in china and wood and iron. And, amid it all, the oldest thing
in the shop seemed to be the little old man with the long gray hair.
The only bit of youth was Nell herself; and yet she had a strange
intermingling of dignity and responsibility, in spite of her small
figure and childish ways. Her fourteen years of life had left her
undecided between childhood and girlhood. She had not begun to grow up;
and yet she was an orphan, accustomed to doing everything for herself.
Her grandfather tried in his way to take care of her, for he loved her
dearly. But between the tending of his shop and the mysterious journeys
which he made night after night, the child was often sent upon strange
errands or left alone in the old house. And at all times it was she who
took care of him. But the old man did not see that this lonely life was
putting lines of sorrow into her face. To him she was still the child
of yesterday, care-free and happy.
She had been happy once. She had gone singing through the dim rooms,
and moving with gay step among their dusty treasures, making them older
by her young life, and sterner and more grim by her cheerful presence.
But now the chambers were cold and gloomy, and when she left her own
little room to while away the tedious hours, and sat in one of them, she
was still and motionless as their inanimate occupants, and had no heart
to startle the echoes--hoarse from their long silence--with her voice.
In one of these rooms was a window looking into the street, where the
child sat, many and many a long evening, and often far into the night,
alone and thoughtful. None are so anxious as those who watch and wait;
and at these times mournful fancies came flocking on her mind in crowds.
She knew instinctively that her grandfather was hiding something from
her. What it was she could not guess; but these regular journeys at
night, while she watched and waited, left him only the more fretful and
careworn. He seemed to have a constant fever for something; yet all he
would say was that he would some day leave her a fortune. Meanwhile he
had fallen into the clutches of Quilp a terrible dwarf, who had lent him
money from time to time, until the entire contents of the shop were
mortgaged. So it is not strange that Little Nell should have mournful
thoughts.
When the night had worn away, the child would close the window and even
smile, with the first dawn of light, at her night-time fears. Then after
praying earnestly for her grandfather and the restoring of their former
happy days, she would unlatch the door for him and fall into a troubled
sleep.
One night the old man said that he would not leave home. The child's
face lit up at the news, but became grave again when she saw how worried
he looked.
"You took my note safely to Mr. Quilp, you say?" he asked fretfully.
"What did he tell you, Nell?"
"Exactly what I told you, dear grandfather, indeed."
"True," said the old man, faintly. "Yes. But tell me again, Nell. My
head fails me. What was it that he told you? Nothing more than that he
would see me to-morrow or next day? That was in the note."
"Nothing more," said the child. "Shall I go to him again to-morrow,
dear grandfather? Very early? I will be there and back before
breakfast."
The old man shook his head and, sighing mournfully, drew her towards
him.
"'T would be no use, my dear, no earthly use. But if he deserts me,
Nell, at this moment--if he deserts me now, when I should, with his
assistance, be recompensed for all the time and money I have lost and
all the agony of mind I have undergone, which makes me what you see, I
am ruined and worse,--far worse than that--I have ruined you, for whom I
ventured all. If we are beggars--!"
"What if we are?" said the child, boldly. "Let us be beggars and be
happy."
"Beggars--and happy!" said the old man. "Poor child!"
"Dear grandfather," cried the girl with an energy which shone in her
flushed face, trembling voice, and impassioned gesture, "I am not a
child in that I think, but even if I am, oh, hear me pray that we may
beg, or work in open roads or fields, to earn a scanty living, rather
than live as we do now."
"Nelly!" said the old man.
"Yes, yes, rather than live as we do now," the child repeated more
earnestly than before. "If you are sorrowful, let me know why and be
sorrowful too; if you waste away and are paler and weaker every day, let
me be your nurse and try to comfort you. If you are poor, let us be
poor together; but let me be with you, do let me be with you; do not let
me see such change and not know why, or I shall break my heart."
The child's voice was lost in sobs, as she clasped her arms about the
old man's neck; nor did she weep alone.
These were not words for other ears, nor was it a scene for other eyes.
And yet other ears and eyes were there and greedily taking in all that
passed, and moreover they were the ears and eyes of no less a person
than Mr. Daniel Quilp, who, having entered unseen when the child first
placed herself at the old man's side, stood looking on with his
accustomed grin. Standing, however, being tiresome, and the dwarf being
one of that kind of persons who usually make themselves at home, he soon
cast his eyes upon a chair, into which he skipped with uncommon agility,
and perching himself on the back with his feet upon the seat, was thus
enabled to look on and listen with greater comfort to himself, besides
gratifying at the same time that taste for doing something fantastic and
monkey-like, which on all occasions had strong possession of him. Here,
then, he sat, one leg cocked carelessly over the other, his chin resting
on the palm of his hand, his head turned a little on one side, and his
ugly features twisted into a complacent grimace. And in this position
the old man, happening in course of time to look that way, chanced to
see him.
The child uttered a suppressed shriek on beholding this figure; in their
first surprise both she and the old man, not knowing what to say, and
half doubting its reality, looked shrinkingly at it. Not at all
disconcerted by this reception, Daniel Quilp preserved the same
attitude, merely nodding twice or thrice with great condescension. At
length, the old man pronounced his name and inquired how he came there.
"Through the door," said Quilp, pointing over his shoulder with his
thumb. "I'm not quite small enough to get through keyholes. I wish I
was. I want to have some talk with you, particularly, and in
private--with nobody present, neighbor. Good-bye, little Nelly."
Nell looked at the old man, who nodded to her to retire, and kissed her
cheek.
The dwarf said never a word, but watched his companion as he paced
restlessly up and down the room, and presently returned to his seat.
Here he remained, with his head bowed upon his breast for some time, and
then suddenly raising it, said,
"Once, and once for all, have you brought me any money?"
"No!" returned Quilp.
"Then," said the old man, clenching his hands desperately and looking
upward, "the child and I are lost!"
"Neighbor," said Quilp, glancing sternly at him, and beating his hand
twice or thrice upon the table to attract his wandering attention, "let
me be plain with you, and play a fairer game than when you held all the
cards, and I saw but the backs and nothing more. You have no secret
from me, now."
The old man looked up, trembling.
"You are surprised," said Quilp. "Well, perhaps that's natural. You
have no secret from me now, I say; no, not one. For now I know that all
those sums of money, that all those loans, advances, and supplies that
you have had from me, have found their way to--shall I say the word?"
"Aye!" replied the old man, "say it if you will."
"To the gaming-table," rejoined Quilp, "your nightly haunt. This was
the precious scheme to make your fortune, was it; this was the secret
certain source of wealth in which I was to have sunk my money (if I had
been the fool you took me for); this was your inexhaustible mine of
gold, your El Dorado, eh?"
"Yes," cried the old man, turning upon him with gleaming eyes, "it was.
It is. It will be, till I die."
"That I should have been blinded," said Quilp, looking contemptuously at
him, "by a mere shallow gambler!"
"I am no gambler," cried the old man, fiercely. "I call Heaven to
witness that I never played for gain of mine, or love of play. It was
all for _her_--for my little Nelly! I had sworn to leave her rich!"
"When did you first begin this mad career?" asked Quilp, his taunting
inclination subdued, for a moment, by the old man's grief and wildness.
"When did I first begin?" he rejoined, passing his hand across his brow.
"When was it, that I first began? When should it be, but when I began
to think how little I had saved, how long a time it took to save at all,
how short a time I might have, at my age, to live, and how she would be
left to the rough mercies of the world with barely enough to keep her
from the sorrows that wait on poverty; then it was that I began to think
about it."
"Humph! the old story," said the dwarf. "You lost what money you had
laid by, first, and then came to me. While I thought you were making
your fortune (as you said you were) you were making yourself a beggar,
eh? Dear me! And so it comes to pass that I hold every security you
could scrape together, and a bill of sale upon the--upon the stock and
property. But did you never win?"
"Never!" groaned the old man. "Never won back my loss!"
"I thought," sneered the dwarf, "that if a man played long enough he was
sure to win at last, or, at the worst, not to come off a loser."
"And so he is!" cried the old man, "so he is; I have felt that from the
first, I have always known it, I've seen it, I never felt it half so
strongly as I feel it now. Quilp, I have dreamed, three nights, of
winning the same large sum. I never could dream that dream before,
though I have often tried. Do not desert me, now I have this chance! I
have no resource but you,--give me some help, let me try this one last
hope."
The dwarf shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.
"Nay, Quilp, _good_ Quilp!" gasped the old man, extending his hands in
entreaty; "let me try just this once more. I tell you it is not for
me--it is for _her_! Oh, I cannot die and leave her in poverty!"
"I couldn't do it, really," said Quilp, with unusual politeness. And
grinning and making a low bow he passed out of the door.
The dwarf was, for once, as good as his word. He not only refused to
lend any more money, but he at once began to make plans for closing the
shop. The old man was so broken-hearted that he fell ill of a raging
fever, and for days was delirious. Little Nell, his only nurse,
gradually learned the truth about her grandfather's evening pursuit--the
gaming-table--and it added all the more to her sorrow.
At last when he was well enough to go about again, the impatient dwarf
would not be put off any longer in regard to the sale. An early day was
fixed for it, and the old dealer no longer offered any objections.
Instead, he sat quietly, dully in his chair, looking at a tiny patch of
green through his window.
To one who had been tossing on a restless bed so long, even these few
green leaves and this tranquil light, although it languished among
chimneys and house-tops, were pleasant things. They suggested quiet
places afar off, and rest and peace.
The child thought, more than once, that he was moved and had forborne to
speak. But now he shed tears--tears that it lightened her aching heart
to see--and making as though he would fall upon his knees, he besought
her to forgive him.
"Forgive you--what?" said Nell, interposing to prevent his purpose.
"Oh, grandfather, what should _I_ forgive?"
"All that is past, all that has come upon you, Nell," returned the old
man.
"Do not talk so," said the child. "Pray do not. Let us speak of
something else."
"Yes, yes, we will," he rejoined. "And it shall be of what we talked of
long ago--many months--months is it, or weeks, or days? which is it,
Nell?"
"I do not understand you," said the child.
"You said, let us be beggars and happy in the open fields," he answered.
"Oh, let us go away--anywhere!"
"Yes, let us go," said Nell, earnestly; "there will we find happiness
and peace."
And so it was arranged. On the night before the public auction they
were to steal forth quietly, out into the wide world.
The old man had slept for some hours soundly in his bed, while she was
busily engaged in preparing for their flight. There were a few articles
of clothing for herself to carry, and a few for him; old garments, such
as became their fallen fortunes, laid out to wear; and a staff to
support his feeble steps, put ready for his use. But this was not all
her task, for now she must visit the old rooms for the last time.
And how different the parting with them was from any she had expected,
and most of all from that which she had oftenest pictured to herself!
How could she ever have thought of bidding them farewell in triumph,
lonely and sad though her days had been! She sat down at the window
where she had spent so many evenings---darker far, than this--and every
thought of hope or cheerfulness that had occurred to her in that place
came vividly upon her mind, and blotted out all its dull and mournful
associations in an instant.
Her own little room, too, where she had so often knelt down and prayed
at night--prayed for the time which she hoped was dawning now--the
little room where she had slept so peacefully, and dreamed such pleasant
dreams--it was hard to leave it without one kind look or grateful tear.
But at last she was ready to go, and her grandfather was awakened. Just
as the first rays of dawn were seen they stole forth noiselessly, hand
in hand. They dared not awaken Quilp, who was sleeping that night in
the shop to guard his prospective wealth. Out in the middle of the
street they paused.
"Which way?" said the child.
The old man looked irresolutely and helplessly, first at her, then to
the right and left, then at her again, and shook his head. It was plain
that she was thenceforth his guide and leader. The child felt it, but
had no doubts or misgiving, and putting her hand in his led him gently
away.
*II. OUT IN THE WIDE WORLD*
It was a bright morning in June when Nell and her grandfather set forth
upon their travels. Out of the city they walked briskly, for the desire
to leave their old life--to elude pursuit--lay strong upon them. Nell
had provided a simple lunch for that day's needs; and at night they
stopped foot-sore and weary at a hospitable farmhouse.
Late in the next day they chanced to pass a country church. Among the
tombstones, at one side, they saw two men who were seated upon the
grass, so busily at work as not to notice the newcomers.
It was not difficult to guess that they were of a class of travelling
showmen who went from town to town showing Punch and his antics, for
perched upon a tombstone was a figure of that hero himself, his nose and
chin as hooked and his face as beaming as usual.
Scattered upon the ground were the other members of the play, in various
stages of repair; while the two showmen were engaged with glue, hammer,
and tacks, in putting their proper parts more strongly together.
The showmen raised their eyes when the old man and his young companion
were close upon them, and pausing in their work, returned their looks of
curiosity. One of them, the actual exhibitor, no doubt, was a little
merry-faced man with a twinkling eye and a red nose, who seemed to have
unconsciously imbibed something of his hero's character. The
other--that was he who took the money--had rather a careful and cautious
look, which was perhaps inseparable from his occupation also.
The merry man was the first to greet the strangers with a nod; and
following the old man's eyes, he observed that perhaps that was the
first time he had ever seen a Punch off the stage.
"Why do you come here to do this?" asked the old man, after answering
their greeting.
"Why, you see," rejoined the little man, "we're putting up for to-night
at the public-house yonder, and it wouldn't do to let 'em see the
present company undergoing repair."
"No!" cried the old man, making signs to Nell to listen, "why not, eh?
why not?"
"Because it would destroy all the delusion, and take away all the
interest, wouldn't it?" replied the little man. "Would you care a
ha'penny for the Lord Chancellor if you know'd him in private and
without his wig?--certainly not."
"Good!" said the old man, venturing to touch one of the puppets, and
drawing away his hand with a shrill laugh. "Are you going to show 'em
to-night? are you?"
"That is the intention, governor," replied the other. "Look here," he
continued, turning to his partner, "here's all this Judy's clothes
falling to pieces again. Much good you do at sewing things!"
Seeing that they were at a loss, the child said timidly:
"I have a needle, sir, in my basket, and thread too. Will you let me
try to mend it for you? I think I can do it neater than you could."
The showman had nothing to urge against a proposal so seasonable.
Nelly, kneeling down beside the box, was soon busily engaged in her
task, and accomplishing it to a miracle.
While she was thus engaged, the merry little man looked at her with an
interest which did not appear to be diminished when he glanced at her
helpless companion. When she had finished her work he thanked her, and
inquired whither they were travelling.
"N--no farther to-night, I think," said the child, looking towards her
grandfather.
"If you're wanting a place to stop at," the man remarked, "I should
advise you to take up at the same house with us. That's it--the long,
low, white house there. It's very cheap. Come along."
The tavern was kept by a fat old landlord and landlady who made no
objection to receiving their new guests, but praised Nelly's beauty and
were at once prepossessed in her behalf. There was no other company in
the kitchen but the two showmen, and the child felt very thankful that
they had fallen upon such good quarters. The landlady was very much
astonished to learn that they had come all the way from London, and
appeared to have no little curiosity touching their farther destination.
But Nell could give her no very clear replies.
That evening the wayfarers enjoyed the Punch show, though poor Nell was
so tired that she went to sleep early in the performance.
The next morning she met the showmen at breakfast.
"And where are you going to-day?" asked the little man with the red
nose.
"Indeed, I hardly know. We have not decided," replied the child.
"We're going to the races," said the little man. "If that's your way
and you'd like to have us for company, let us travel together."
"We'll go with you, and gladly," interposed Nell's grandfather, eagerly;
for he had been as pleased as a child with the performance of Punch.
Nell was a trifle alarmed over the prospect of a crowded race-course;
but this seemed their best chance to press forward, so she accepted the
invitation thankfully.
For several days they travelled together, and despite the wearisome way
the child found much novelty and interest in the wandering life. But
presently she became uneasy in the changed attitude of the two showmen.
From being ordinarily kind, they now seemed to watch Nell and her
grandfather so closely as not to suffer them out of their sight.
The showmen had, in fact, got it into their heads that the two wayfarers
were not common people, but runaways for whom a reward must even now be
posted in London. And so they resolved to deliver them over to the
proper authorities at the first opportunity and claim the reward.
Now, although Nell and her grandfather had a perfect right to go where
they pleased, and there was no reward offered, they were at all times
fearful of being pursued by that terrible Quilp. So Nell determined to
flee from these two watchful men at the earliest moment.
The chance of escape offered during one of the busy days at the
race-course. While the two men were busy showing off Punch to the
delighted crowd, she took her grandfather by the hand and hurriedly
slipped away.
At first they pressed forward regardless of whither their steps led
them, and from time to time casting fearful glances behind them to see
if they were being pursued. But as they drew farther away they gained
more confidence. Weariness also forced them to slacken their pace. When
they had come into the middle of a little woodland they rested a short
time; then encountered a path which led to the opposite side. Taking
their way along it for a short distance they came to a lane, so shaded
by the trees on either hand that they met together overhead, and arched
the narrow way. A broken finger-post announced that this led to a
village three miles off; and thither they resolved to bend their steps.
The miles appeared so long that they sometimes thought they must have
missed their road. But at last, to their great joy, it led downward in
a steep descent, with overhanging banks over which the footpaths led;
and the clustered houses of the village peeped from the woody hollow
below.
It was a very small place. The men and boys were playing at cricket on
the green; and as the other folks were looking on, they wandered up and
down, uncertain where to seek a humble lodging. There was but one man
in the little garden before his cottage, and him they were timid of
approaching, for he was the schoolmaster, and had "School" written up
over his window in black letters on a white board. He was a pale,
simple-looking man, and sat among his flowers and beehives, smoking his
pipe, in the little porch before his door.
"Speak to him, dear," the old man whispered.
"I am almost afraid to disturb him," said the child, timidly. "He does
not seem to see us. Perhaps if we wait a little, he may look this way."
But as nobody else appeared and it would soon be dark, Nell at length
ventured to draw near, leading her grandfather by the hand. The slight
noise they made in raising the latch of the wicket-gate caught his
attention. He looked at them kindly but seemed disappointed too, and
slightly shook his head.
Nell dropped a courtesy, and told him they were poor travellers who
sought a shelter for the night which they would gladly pay for, so far
as their means allowed. The schoolmaster looked earnestly at her as she
spoke, laid aside his pipe, and rose up directly.
"If you could direct us anywhere, sir," said the child, "we should take
it very kindly."
"You have been walking a long way," said the schoolmaster.
"A long way, sir," the child replied.
"You're a young traveller, my child," he said, laying his hand gently on
her head. "Your grandchild, friend?"
"Aye, sir," cried the old man, "and the stay and comfort of my life."
"Come in," said the schoolmaster.
[Illustration: NELL AND HER GRANDFATHER.]
Without farther preface he conducted them into his little school-room,
which was parlor and kitchen likewise, and told them they were welcome
to remain under his roof till morning. Before they had done thanking
him, he spread a coarse white cloth upon the table, with knives and
platters; and bringing out some bread and cold meat, besought them to
eat.
They did so gladly, and the schoolmaster showed them, soon after, to
some plain but neat sleeping chambers up close under the thatched roof.
Here they slept the sound sleep of the very weary, and awoke refreshed
and light-hearted the following day.
But the schoolmaster, while kind and courteous, was sad and quiet. He
gave his small school a half-holiday that day, and Nell learned that it
was because of the illness of a favorite pupil--a boy about her own age.
"If your journey is not a long one," he added to the travellers, "you're
very welcome to pass another night here. I should really be glad if you
would do so, as I am very lonely to-day."
They accepted and thanked him with grateful hearts. Nell busied herself
tidying up the rooms and trying in many little ways to add to the
master's comfort. And that evening, when his pupil died, Nell's grief
was almost as deep in its sympathy as the master's own.
She bade him a reluctant farewell the next morning. School had already
begun, but he rose from his desk and walked with them to the gate.
It was with a trembling and reluctant hand that the child held out to
him the money which a lady had given her at the races for some flowers;
faltering in her thanks as she thought how small the sum was, and
blushing as she offered it. But he bade her put it up, and stooping to
kiss her cheek, turned back into his house.
They had not gone half-a-dozen paces when he was at the door again; the
old man retraced his steps to shake hands, and the child did the same.
"Good fortune and happiness go with you!" said the poor schoolmaster.
"I am quite a solitary man now. If you ever pass this way again, you'll
not forget the little village school."
"We shall never forget it, sir," rejoined Nell; "nor ever forget to be
grateful to you for your kindness to us."
"I have heard such words from the lips of children very often," said the
schoolmaster, shaking his head and smiling thoughtfully, "but they were
soon forgotten. I had attached one young friend to me, the better
friend for being young--but that's over--God bless you!"
They bade him farewell very many times and turned away, walking slowly
and often looking back, until they could see him no more. At length
they had left the village far behind, and even lost sight of the smoke
among the trees. They trudged onward now at a quicker pace, resolving
to keep the main road, and go wherever it might lead them.
But main roads stretch a long, long way. With the exception of two or
three inconsiderable clusters of cottages which they passed without
stopping, and one lonely roadside public-house where they had some bread
and cheese, this highway had led them to nothing--late in the
afternoon--and still lengthened out, far in the distance, the same dull,
tedious, winding course that they had been pursuing all day. As they
had no resource, however, but to go forward, they still kept on, though
at a much slower pace, being very weary and fatigued.
Finally, just at dusk, they came upon a curious little house upon
wheels--a travelling show somewhat more pretentious than the Punch
performance they had run away from. This little house was mounted upon a
cart, with white dimity curtains at the windows and shutters of green
set in panels of bright red. Altogether it was a smart little
contrivance. Grazing in front of it were two comfortable-looking horses;
while at its open door sat a stout lady--evidently the
proprietor--sipping tea.
This lady, Mrs. Jarley by name, had seen Nell and her grandfather at the
races, so hailed them and asked about the success of the Punch show.
She was greatly astonished to learn that they had nothing to do with it,
and were wandering about without any object in view.
Her own performance was more "classic," as she expressed it. It was a
Waxwork exhibition; and as she looked at Nell's attractive face she was
seized with an idea. This bright little girl was just the sort of
assistant she had been needing. So she invited them to stop and have
some tea with her. They did so; and when Mrs. Jarley presently unfolded
her plan--which was to engage Nell to exhibit the wax figures and
describe them in a set speech--Nell was delighted to accept the offer,
especially since it involved no separation from her grandfather, who
could dust the figures and do other light tasks.
It was really not a very hard position for Nell. At the first town
where the Waxworks were to be shown, Nell was given a private view and
instructed in her new duties. The figures were displayed on a raised
platform some two feet from the floor, running round the room and parted
from the rude public by a crimson rope breast high. They represented
celebrated characters, singly and in groups, clad in glittering dresses
of various climes and times, and standing more or less unsteadily upon
their legs, with their eyes very wide open, and their nostrils very much
inflated, and the muscles of their legs and arms very strongly
developed, and all their countenances expressing great surprise. All
the gentlemen were very pigeon-breasted and very blue about the beards,
and all the ladies were miraculous figures; and all the ladies and all
the gentlemen were looking with extraordinary earnestness at nothing at
all.
Nell was taught a little speech about each one of them, and so apt was
she that one rehearsal rendered her able to take the willow wand, which
Mrs. Jarley had formerly wielded, and tell the interesting history of
this very select Waxwork show to the audiences which presently began to
come.
Mrs. Jarley herself was delighted with her venture. She saw at once
that Nell would be a strong drawing card. And in order that the child
might remain contented she made her and her grandfather as comfortable
as possible, besides paying them a fair salary.
So the wanderers now rode in the van from town to town, and lived almost
happily. Nell carefully saved all their money, and watched over her
feeble grandfather with the tenderness of a little mother. She had one
scare in almost meeting face to face with Quilp, the dwarf, but he had
not recognized her.
Quilp, indeed, was a perpetual nightmare to the child, who was
constantly haunted by a vision of his ugly face and stunted figure. She
slept, for their better security, in the room where the waxwork figures
were, and she never retired to this place at night but she tortured
herself--she could not help it--with imagining a resemblance, in some
one or other of their death-like faces, to the dwarf, and this fancy
would sometimes so gain upon her that she would almost believe he had
removed the figure and stood within the clothes.
But presently a deeper and more real concern came to her. Her
grandfather had never alluded to their former life, nor to his passion
for gambling. He did not see the card-tables out in the country; and
that was the reason why she had been so eager to wander, even without a
roof over their heads. But now, as the Waxworks exhibited only in the
towns, temptation came again to the poor, weak old man. He saw some men
playing cards in a tavern, and instantly his slumbering passion was
aroused. He would play again and win a great fortune--for Nell!
He began to play, and, of course, with the old result. He was but a
tool in the hands of the sharpers, and presently he had exhausted all
the slender hoard which Nell had so carefully made. She watched his
actions with a bursting heart, but was powerless to stop him or keep the
money out of his grasp. At last the villains who had led him on--not
satisfied with their small winnings from him--urged him to get the money
belonging to the Waxwork show, saying that when he won he could pay it
all back.
Nell had followed her grandfather upon this visit to the gamblers, and
overheard their plot. She knew there was but one thing to do, to save
her grandfather. They must flee out into the world again at once. That
night she roused him from his sleep, and told him they must go away.
"What does this mean?" he cried.
"I have had dreadful dreams," said the child. "If we stay here another
night something awful will happen. Come!"
The old man looked at her as if she were a spirit, and trembled in every
joint.
"Must we go to-night?" he asked.
"Yes, to-night," she replied. "To-morrow night will be too late. The
dream will have come again. Nothing but flight can save us. Up!"
The old man rose obediently and made ready to follow. She had already
packed their scanty belongings. She gave him his wallet and staff, and
secretly, in the night, they fled away.
The wanderings of the next few days seemed like a nightmare to them.
Nell had brought only a few pennies in her pockets and these went for a
scant supply of bread and cheese. Two days and a night they rode on an
open canal-boat in company with some rough but not unkind men. It was
easier than walking, but the rain descended in torrents and drenched
them to the skin.
Finally the boat drew up to a wharf in an ugly manufacturing town, and
the travellers were cast adrift as lonely and helpless as though they
had just awakened from a sleep of a thousand years. They had not one
friend, nor the least idea where to turn for shelter. But a rough
stoker at one of the furnaces told them that they might pass the night
in front of his fire. It was nothing but a bed of ashes, yet they were
warm and the heat dried out the poor travellers' drenched garments.
The child felt stiff and weak in every joint the next morning, but the
furnace-tender told them that it was two days' journey to the open
country and sweet, pure fields, and she felt that they must press
forward at any cost. So they started forth, slowly and wearily, for
their journey and privations had almost exhausted them, but still with
brave hearts. Through long rows of red brick houses that looked exactly
alike they wended their way, asking for bread to eat only when obliged
to, and meeting little else but scowls from the dirty factory workers.
Finally, to their great joy, the open country began again to appear; and
with fresh courage in their hearts they continued to press on.
They were dragging themselves along through the last street, and the
child felt that the time was close at hand when her enfeebled powers
would bear no more; when there appeared before them, going in the same
direction as themselves, a traveller on foot, who, with a portmanteau
strapped to 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 beseech his aid, for
he walked fast, and was a little distance in advance. 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, in a few faint words, to implore his help.
He turned his head. The child clapped her hands together, uttered a
wild shriek, and fell senseless at his feet.
*III. AT THE END OF THE JOURNEY*
It was the poor schoolmaster. Scarcely less moved and surprised by the
sight of the child than she had been on recognizing him, he stood, for a
moment, without even the presence of mind to raise her from the ground.
But quickly recovering his self-possession, he threw down his stick and
book, and dropping on one knee beside her, endeavored by such simple
means as occurred to him to restore her to herself; while her
grandfather, standing idly by, wrung his hands, and implored her with
many endearing expressions to speak to him, were it only a word.
"She is quite exhausted," said the schoolmaster, glancing upward into
his 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, bidding the old man gather
up her little basket and follow him directly, bore her away at his
utmost speed.
There was a small inn within sight, to which, it would seem, he had been
directing his steps when so unexpectedly overtaken. Towards this place
he hurried with his unconscious burden, and rushing into the kitchen
deposited it on a chair before the fire.
A doctor was hastily called in and restoratives were applied; after
which Nell was given what she most needed, some warm broth and toast,
and was put to bed.
The schoolmaster asked anxiously after her health the next morning, and
was greatly relieved to find that she was much better, though still so
weak that it would require a day's careful nursing before she could
proceed upon her journey. That evening he was allowed to see her, and
was greatly touched by the sight of her pale, pinched face. But she
held out both hands to him.
"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
poor grandfather would have no one to take care of him."
"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 appointed 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!"
[#] About $175.
"I am very glad," said the child--"so very, very glad."
"I am on my way there now," resumed the schoolmaster. "They allowed me
the stagecoach hire--outside stage-coach hire all the way. Bless you,
they grudge me nothing. But as the time at which I am expected there
left me ample leisure, I determined to walk instead. How glad I am to
think I did so!"
"How glad should we be!"
"Yes, yes," said the schoolmaster, moving restlessly in his chair,
"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, and perhaps you are better fitted to advise me in its affairs
than I am qualified to give advice to you; but I am very sincere, and I
have a reason (you have not forgotten it) for loving you. I have felt
since that time as if my love for him who died had been transferred to
you."
Nell was moved in her turn by this allusion to the favorite pupil who
had died, and by the plain, frank kindness of the good schoolmaster. She
told him all--that they had no friend or relative--that she had fled
with the old man to save him from all the miseries he dreaded--that she
was flying now to save him from himself--and that she sought an asylum
in some quiet place, where the temptation before which he fell would
never enter, and her late sorrows and distresses could have no place.
The schoolmaster heard her with astonishment. "This child!" he thought;
"she is one of the heroines and saints of earth!"
Then he told her of a great idea which had occurred to him. They were
all three to travel together to the village where his new school was
located, and he made no doubt he could find them some simple and
congenial employment.
The child joyfully accepted this; and the journey was made very
comfortably in a stage which went that way. Stowed among the softer
bundles and packages she thought this to be a drowsy, luxurious way of
going, indeed.
At last they came upon a quiet, restful-looking hamlet clustered in a
valley among some stately trees.
"See--here's the church!" cried the delighted schoolmaster, in a low
voice; "and that old building close beside it is the schoolhouse, I'll
be sworn. Five-and-thirty pounds a year in this beautiful place!"
They admired everything--the old gray porch, the green churchyard, the
ancient tower, the very weathercock; the brown thatched roofs of
cottage, barn, and homestead, peeping from among the trees; the stream
that rippled by the distant watermill; the blue Welsh mountains far
away. It was for such a spot the child had wearied in the dense, dark,
miserable haunts of labor. Upon her bed of ashes, and amidst the
squalid horrors through which they had forced their way, visions of such
scenes--beautiful indeed, but not more beautiful than this sweet
reality--had been always present to her mind. They had seemed to melt
into a dim and airy distance, as the prospect of ever beholding them
again grew fainter; but, as they receded, she had loved and panted for
them more.
"I must leave you somewhere for a few minutes," said the schoolmaster,
at length breaking the silence into which they had fallen in their
gladness. "I have a letter to present, and inquiries to make, you know.
Where shall I take you? To the little inn yonder?"
"Let us wait here," rejoined Nell. "The gate is open. We will sit in
the church porch till you come back."
"A good place, too," said the schoolmaster, leading the way towards it.
"Be sure that I come back with good news, and am not long gone."
So the happy schoolmaster put on a brand-new pair of gloves which he had
carried in a little parcel in his pocket all the way, and hurried off,
full of ardor and excitement.
The child watched him from the porch until the intervening foliage hid
him from her view, and then stepped softly out into the old
churchyard--so solemn and quiet that every rustle of her dress upon the
fallen leaves, which strewed the path and made her footsteps noiseless,
seemed an invasion of its silence. It was an aged, ghostly place; the
church had been built hundreds of years before; yet from this first
glimpse the child loved it and felt that in some strange way she was a
part of its crumbling walls and grass-grown churchyard.
After a time the schoolmaster reappeared, hurrying towards them and
swinging a bunch of keys.
"You see those two houses?" he asked, pointing, quite out of breath.
"Well, one of them is mine."
Without saying any more, or giving the child time to reply, the
schoolmaster took her hand, and, his honest face quite radiant with
exultation, led her to the place of which he spoke.
They stopped before its low, arched door. After trying several of the
keys in vain, the schoolmaster found one to fit the huge lock, which
turned back, creaking, and admitted them into the house.
It was a very old house, and, like the church, falling into decay, yet
still handsome with high vaulted ceilings and queer carvings. It was
not quite destitute of furniture. A few strange chairs, whose arms and
legs looked as though they had dwindled away with age; a table, the very
spectre of its race; a great old chest that had once held records in the
church, with other quaintly fashioned domestic necessaries, and store of
firewood for the winter, were scattered around, and gave evident tokens
of its occupation as a dwelling-place, at no very distant time.
The child looked around her, with that solemn feeling with which we
contemplate the work of ages that have become but drops of water in the
great ocean of eternity. The old man had followed them, but they were
all three hushed for a space, and drew their breath softly, as if they
feared to break the silence, even by so slight a sound.
"It is a very beautiful place!" said the child, in a low voice.
"I almost feared you thought otherwise," returned the schoolmaster.
"You shivered when we first came in, as if you felt it cold or gloomy."
"It was not that," said Nell, glancing round with a slight shudder.
"Indeed, I cannot tell you what it was, but when I saw the outside, from
the church porch, the same feeling came over me. It is its being so old
and gray, perhaps."
"A peaceful place to live in, don't you think so?" said her friend.
"Oh, yes," rejoined the child, clasping her hands earnestly. "A quiet,
happy place--a place to live and learn to die in!"
"A place to live, and learn to live, and gather health of mind and body
in," said the schoolmaster; "for this old house is yours."
"Ours!" cried the child.
"Aye," returned the schoolmaster, gaily, "for many a merry year to come,
I hope. I shall be a close neighbor--only next door--but this house is
yours."
Having now disburdened himself of his great surprise, the schoolmaster
sat down, and drawing Nell to his side, told her how he had learned that
the ancient tenement had been occupied for a very long time by an old
person, who kept the keys of the church, opened and closed it for the
services, and showed it to strangers; how she had died not many weeks
ago, and nobody had yet been found to fill the office; how, learning all
this in an interview with the sexton, he had hurried to the clergyman
and obtained the vacant post for Nell and her grandfather.
"There's a small allowance of money," said the schoolmaster. "It is not
much, but still enough to live upon in this retired spot. By clubbing
our funds together, we shall do bravely; no fear of that."
"Heaven bless and prosper you!" sobbed the child.
"Amen, my dear," returned her friend, cheerfully; "and all of us, as it
will, and has, in leading us through sorrow and trouble to this tranquil
life. But we must look at my house now. Come!"
They repaired to the other tenement; tried the rusty keys as before; at
length found the right one; and opened the worm-eaten door. It led into
a chamber, vaulted and old, like that from which they had come, but not
so spacious, and having only one other little room attached. It was not
difficult to divine that the other house was of right the
schoolmaster's, and that he had chosen for himself the least commodious,
in his care and regard for them. Like the adjoining habitation, it held
such old articles of furniture as were absolutely necessary, and had its
stack of firewood.
To make these dwellings as habitable and full of comfort as they could,
was now their pleasant care. In a short time, each had its cheerful
fire glowing and crackling on the hearth, and reddening the pale old
walls with a hale and healthy blush. Nell, busily plying her needle,
repaired the tattered window-hangings, drew together the rents that time
had worn in the threadbare scraps of carpet, and made them whole and
decent. The schoolmaster swept and smoothed the ground before the door,
trimmed the long grass, trained the ivy and creeping plants, which hung
their drooping heads in melancholy neglect; and gave to the outer walls
a cheery air of home. The old man, sometimes by his side and sometimes
with the child, lent his aid to both, went here and there on little
patient services, and was happy. Neighbors, too, as they came from
work, proffered their help; or sent their children with such small
presents or loans as the strangers needed most. So it was not many days
before they were quite cosy; and Nell felt again, in that strange way
which had come over her at the church, that she had always been a part
of the place.
And how she loved her work from the very first! Hour after hour she
would spend in the old church, dusting off its pews or casements with
reverent fingers, or more often, sitting quietly before some tablet or
inscription looking at it or beyond it, with a dreamy light in her eyes.
Her grandfather noted her attitude anxiously. He saw that she grew more
listless and frail, day by day, and he sought constantly--poor old
man!--to lighten her few tasks. But it was not these which wearied her;
it was merely the burden of all things earthly.
Every person in the village soon grew to love this frail,
spiritual-looking child; but from the first she seemed a being apart
from them. They were constantly showing her kindness, or pausing at the
church gate to speak with her; but as they went their way, a sad smile
or shake of the head told only too plainly of their fears. She was like
some rare, delicate flower which, they knew, could not endure the frost
of winter.
The good schoolmaster gently chided her for spending so much of her time
in the church and among the graves, instead of out in the light and
sunshine. But she only smiled and said she loved to tend the graves and
keep them neat, for she could not bear to think that any lying there
should be forgotten, or that she herself might be forgotten some day.
"There is nothing good that is forgotten," he replied kindly. "There is
not an angel added to the host of Heaven but does its blessed work on
earth in those that loved it here."
As the cold days of autumn and winter drew on, the child spent more and
more time within doors, on a couch before the fire. The slightest task
wearied her now, and her grandfather kept watch night and day to save
her needless steps. He could scarcely bear her out of his sight; and
often would creep to the side of her couch during the night, listening
to her breathing or stroking her slender fingers softly. And if by
chance she awoke and smiled on him, he would creep back to his own bed
comforted.
But one chill morning in midwinter, when the snow lay thickly on the
ground, it seemed to him that she slept more quietly than usual. The
schoolmaster, coming in, found him crouched over a fire, muttering
softly to himself, and wondering why she slumbered so long. The two
went softly into her chamber, and then the schoolmaster knew why she was
so quiet.
For she was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead. No sleep
so beautiful and calm, so free from trace of pain, so fair to look upon.
She seemed a creature fresh from the hand of God, and waiting the breath
of life; not one who had lived and suffered death.
The old man held one languid arm in his, and had the small hand tight
folded to his breast, for warmth. It was the hand she had stretched out
to him with her last smile--the hand that had led him on, through all
their wanderings. Ever and anon he pressed it to his lips, then hugged
it to his breast again, murmuring that it was warmer now; and, as he
said it, he looked in agony to the schoolmaster, as if imploring him to
help her.
She was dead, and past all help, or need of it. The ancient rooms she
had seemed to fill with life, even while her own was waning fast; the
garden she had tended; the eyes she had gladdened; the noiseless haunts
of many a thoughtful hour; the paths she had trodden as it were but
yesterday--could know her nevermore.
"It is not," said the schoolmaster, as he bent down to kiss her on the
cheek, and gave his tears free vent, "it is not on earth that Heaven's
justice ends. Think what earth is, compared with the world to which her
young spirit has winged its early flight, and say, if one deliberate
wish expressed in solemn terms above this bed could call her back to
life, which of us would utter it!"
The whole village, young and old, came to the churchyard when they laid
her to rest--save only the old man. He could not realize that she was
dead, and he had gone to pick winter berries to decorate her couch.
When he returned and could not find her, they were obliged to tell him
the truth--that her body had been put away in the cold earth--and then
his grief and distress were pitiful to see. He seemed at once to lose
all power of thought or action, save as they concerned her alone.
Day by day he sought for her about the house or in the garden, calling
her name wildly. At other times he sat before the fire staring dully,
and did not seem to hear when they spoke to him.
At length, they found, one day, that he had risen early, and, with his
knapsack on his back, his staff in hand, her own straw hat, and little
basket full of such things as she had been used to carry, was gone. As
they were making ready to pursue him far and wide, a frightened
schoolboy came who had seen him, but a moment before, sitting in the
church--upon her grave, he said.
They hastened there, and going softly to the door, espied him in the
attitude of one who waited patiently. They did not disturb him then,
but kept a watch upon him all that day. When it grew quite dark, he rose
and returned home, and went to bed, murmuring to himself, "She will come
to-morrow!"
Upon the morrow he was there again from sunrise until night; and still
at night he laid him down to rest, and murmured, "She will come
to-morrow!"
And thenceforth, every day, and all day long, he waited at her grave for
her. How many pictures of new journeys over pleasant country, of
resting-places under the free broad sky, of rambles in the fields and
woods, and paths not often trodden; how many tones of that one
well-remembered voice; how many glimpses of the form, the fluttering
dress, the hair that waved so gaily in the wind; how many visions of
what had been, and what he hoped was yet to be--rose up before him, in
the old, dull, silent church! He never told them what he thought, or
where he went. He would sit with them at night, pondering with a secret
satisfaction, they could see, upon the flight that he and she would take
before night came again; and still they would hear him whisper in his
prayers, "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. He was lying dead upon the
stone.
They laid him by the side of her whom he had loved so well; and, in the
church where they had often prayed and mused and lingered hand in hand,
the child and the old man slept together.
*THE STORY OF PAUL AND FLORENCE DOMBEY*
*I. THE HOUSE OF DOMBEY AND SON*
Paul Dombey was a boy born to achieve great things. His birth was the
one historic event of the Dombey household--at least, so his father
said. 'T is true that Paul's sister Florence was six years older than
he, but then Florence was only a girl. What Mr. Dombey had long wanted
was a son who could grow up to carry on the business of the great export
house, and who from his birth would make possible the imposing title of
Dombey and Son.
So Florence, who had remained quietly neglected in her nursery, now came
into notice only as the sister of Paul, or as a faithful little nurse
who could help amuse him.
As for Mr. Dombey himself, he was a cold, haughty man, very proud of
what he had done, and at all times exacting obedience from every one
else. Paul's mother had died soon after he was born; and Mr. Dombey
having engaged the best nurses he could find, expected them forthwith to
bring the child through all the round of infant ailments--of which the
frail little fellow had more than his full share. Indeed, Mr. Dombey
loved his son with all the love he had. If there were a warm place in
his frosty heart, his son occupied it; though not so much as an infant
or a boy, as a prospective man--the "Son" of the firm. Therefore he was
impatient to have him grow up; feeling as if the boy had a charmed life,
and must become the man around whom all his hopes centred.
Thus Paul grew to be nearly five years old. He was a pretty little
fellow, though there was something wan and wistful in his small face,
that gave occasion to many significant shakes of his nurse's head. His
temper gave abundant promise of being imperious, like his father's, in
after life. He was childish and sportive enough at times; but he had a
strange, old-fashioned, thoughtful way at other times of sitting
brooding in his miniature arm-chair, when he looked and talked like one
of those terrible little beings in the fairy tales, who, at a hundred
and fifty or two hundred years of age, fantastically represent the
children for whom they have been substituted. He would frequently be
stricken with this mood upstairs in the nursery, and would sometimes
lapse into it suddenly, exclaiming that he was tired, even while playing
with Florence, or driving his nurse in single harness. But at no one
time did he fall into it so surely, as when, his little chair being
carried down into his father's room, he sat there with him after dinner
by the fire. They were the strangest pair at such a time that ever
firelight shone upon. Mr. Dombey, so erect and solemn, gazing at the
blaze; his little image, with an old, old face, peering into the red
perspective with the fixed and rapt attention of a sage; the two so very
much alike, and yet so monstrously contrasted.
On one of these occasions, when they had both been perfectly quiet for a
long time, little Paul broke the silence thus:--
"Papa! what's money?"
The abrupt question had such immediate reference to the subject of Mr.
Dombey's thoughts, that Mr. Dombey was quite disconcerted.
"What is money, Paul?" he answered. "Money?"
"Yes," said the child, laying his hands upon the elbows of his little
chair, and turning the old face up towards Mr. Dombey's, "what is
money?"
Mr. Dombey was in a difficulty. He would have liked to give him some
grown-up explanation; but looking down at the little chair, and seeing
what a long way down it was, he answered: "Gold, and silver, and copper.
Guineas, shillings, halfpence. You know what they are?"
"Oh, yes, I know what they are," said Paul. "I don't mean that, papa. I
mean what's money, after all."
"What is money, after all?" said Mr. Dombey, backing his chair a little,
that he might the better gaze at the atom that made such an inquiry.
"I mean, papa, what can it do?" returned Paul.
Mr. Dombey drew his chair back to its former place, and patted him on
the head. "You'll know better, by and by, my man," he said. "Money,
Paul, can do anything."
"Anything, papa?"
"Yes. Anything--almost," said Mr. Dombey.
"Anything means everything, don't it, papa?" asked his son, not
observing, or possibly not understanding the qualification.
"Yes," said Mr. Dombey.
"Why didn't money save me my mamma?" returned the child. "It isn't
cruel, is it?"
"Cruel!" said Mr. Dombey, settling his neckcloth, and seeming to resent
the idea. "No. A good thing can't be cruel."
"If it's a good thing, and can do anything," said the little fellow
thoughtfully, as he looked back at the fire, "I wonder why it didn't
save me my mamma."
Mr. Dombey having recovered from his surprise, not to say his alarm (for
it was the very first occasion on which the child had ever broached the
subject of his mother to him), expounded to him how that money, though a
very potent spirit, could not keep people alive whose time was come to
die; and how that we must all die, unfortunately, even in the city,
though we were never so rich.
Paul listened to all this and much more with grave attention, and then
suddenly asked a question which was still more alarming.
"It can't make me strong and quite well, either, papa, can it?"
"Why, you _are_ strong and quite well," returned Mr. Dombey. "Are you
not?"
Oh! the age of the face that was turned up again, with an expression,
half of melancholy, half of slyness on it!
"You are as strong and well as such little people usually are, eh?" said
Mr. Dombey.
"Florence is older than I am, but I'm not as strong and well as
Florence, I know," returned the child; "but I believe that when Florence
was as little as me, she could play a great deal longer at a time
without tiring herself. I am so tired sometimes that I don't know what
to do."
"But that's at night," said Mr. Dombey, drawing his own chair closer to
his son's, and laying his hand gently on his back; "little people should
be tired at night, for then they sleep well."
"Oh, it's not at night, papa," returned the child, "it's in the day; and
I lie down in Florence's lap, and she sings to me. At night I dream
about such cu-ri-ous things!"
Mr. Dombey was so astonished, and so perfectly at a loss how to pursue
the conversation, that he could only sit looking at his son by the light
of the fire.
Here they sat until Florence came timidly into the room to take Paul
upstairs to bed; when he raised towards his father, in bidding him
good-night, a countenance so much brighter, so much younger, and so much
more childlike altogether, that Mr. Dombey, while he felt greatly
reassured by the change, was quite amazed at it.
After they had left the room together, he thought he heard a soft voice
singing; and remembering that Paul had said his sister sang to him, he
had the curiosity to open the door and listen, and look after them. She
was toiling up the great, wide staircase, with him in her arms; his head
was lying on her shoulder, one of his arms thrown negligently round her
neck. So they went, toiling up; she singing all the way, and Paul
sometimes crooning out a feeble accompaniment.
Mr. Dombey was so alarmed about Paul's remarks as to his health, that he
called the family doctor in consultation the very next day. The doctor
admitted that Paul was not as strong as he could hope, and suggested
that sea air might benefit him. So the boy was sent to the home of a
Mrs. Pipchin at Brighton. But he refused to go without Florence, much to
the secret displeasure of Mr. Dombey, who did not like to see any
one--especially this neglected daughter--gain more influence with Paul
than he himself had.
Mrs. Pipchin was a cross-grained old lady who gained a livelihood by
taking care of delicate children. But she was not unkind to Paul, whose
patient little face and strange way of asking questions attracted her,
as they did everybody else.
When he had been with her for some time and it was found that he did not
gain in strength, a little carriage was hired for him, in which he could
lie at his ease with his books and be wheeled down to the seaside.
Consistent in his odd tastes, the child set aside a ruddy-faced lad who
was proposed as the drawer of this carriage, and selected, instead, the
boy's grandfather--a weazen, old, crab-faced man, in a suit of battered
oilskin. With this attendant to pull him along, and Florence always
walking by his side, he went down to the margin of the ocean every day;
and there he would sit or lie in his carriage for hours together; never
so distressed as by the company of children--Florence alone excepted,
always.
Some small voice, near his ear, would ask him how he was, perhaps.
"I am very well, I thank you," he would answer. "But you had better go
and play, if you please."
Then he would turn his head, and watch the child away, and say to
Florence, "We don't want any others, do we? Kiss me, Floy."
His favorite spot was quite a lonely one, far away from most loungers;
and with Florence sitting by his side at work, or reading to him, or
talking to him, and the wind blowing on his face, and the water coming
up among the wheels of his bed, he wanted nothing more.
"Floy," he said one day, "where's India?"
"Oh, it's a long, long distance off," said Florence, raising her eyes
from her work.
"Weeks off?" asked Paul.
"Yes, dear. Many weeks' journey, night and day."
"If you were in India, Floy," said Paul, after being silent for a
minute. "I should--what is it that mamma did? I forget."
"Loved me?" answered Florence.
"No, no. Don't I love you now, Floy? What is it?--Died. If you were in
India, I should die, Floy."
She hurriedly put her work aside, and laid her head down on his pillow,
caressing him. And so would she, she said, if he were there. He would be
better soon.
"Oh! I am a great deal better now!" he answered. "I don't mean that.
I mean that I should die of being so sorry and so lonely, Floy!"
Another time, in the same place, he fell asleep, and slept quietly for a
long time. Awaking suddenly, he started up, and sat listening.
Florence asked him what he thought he heard.
"I want to know what it says," he answered, looking steadily in her
face. "The sea, Floy; what is it that it keeps on saying?"
She told him that it was only the noise of the rolling waves.
"Yes, yes," he said. "But I know that they are always saying something.
Always the same thing. What place is over there?" He rose up, looking
eagerly at the horizon.
She told him that there was another country opposite, but he said he
didn't mean that; he meant farther away--farther away.
Very often afterwards, in the midst of their talk, he would break off to
try to understand what it was that the waves were always saying; and
would rise up in his couch to look towards that invisible region far
away.
But in spite of Paul's brooding fancies, the days in the open air, and
with the salt spray blowing about him, began to have good effect. Little
by little he grew stronger until he became able to do without his
carriage; though he still remained the same old, quiet, dreamy child.
One day after he had been with Mrs. Pipchin about a year, Mr. Dombey
came to see her. He informed Mrs. Pipchin that, as Paul was now six
years old and so much stronger, it was time his education was being
considered; and so the child was to be sent to a certain Dr. Blimber,
who lived near by and managed a select school of boys. Meanwhile,
Florence could continue to live here, so that Paul need not be entirely
separated from his sister.
Accordingly, a few days later, Paul stood upon the Doctor's doorsteps,
with his small right hand in his father's, and his other locked in that
of Florence. How tight the tiny pressure of that one, and how loose and
cold the other!
The doctor was sitting in his portentous study, with a globe at each
knee, books all round him, Homer over the door, and Minerva on the
mantel-shelf.
"And how do you do, sir," he said to Mr. Dombey, when they had been
ushered in, "and how is my little friend?"
Grave as an organ was the doctor's speech; and when he ceased, the great
clock in the hall seemed (to Paul at least) to take him up, and to go on
saying, "how-is-my-lit-tle-friend-how-is-my-lit-tle-friend," over and
over and over again.
The little friend being something too small to be seen at all from where
the doctor sat, over the books on his table, the doctor made several
futile attempts to get a view of him round the legs; which Mr. Dombey
perceiving, relieved the doctor from his embarrassment by taking Paul up
in his arms and sitting him on another little table, over against the
doctor, in the middle of the room.
"Ha!" said the doctor, leaning back in his chair with his hand in his
breast. "Now I see my little friend. How do you do, my little friend?"
The clock in the hall wouldn't subscribe to this alteration in the form
of words, but continued to repeat
"how-is-my--lit-tle-friend--how-is-my-lit-tle-friend!"
"Very well, I thank you, sir," returned Paul, answering the clock quite
as much as the doctor.
"Ha!" said Doctor Blimber. "Shall we make a man of him?"
"Do you hear, Paul?" added Mr. Dombey, Paul being silent.
"Shall we make a man of him?" repeated the doctor.
"I had rather be a child," replied Paul.
"Indeed!" said the doctor. "Why?"
The child sat on the table looking at him, with a curious expression of
suppressed emotion in his face, and beating one hand proudly on his knee
as if he had the rising tears beneath it, and crushed them. But his
other hand strayed a little way the while, a little farther--farther
from him yet--until it lighted on the neck of Florence. "This is why,"
it seemed to say, and then the steady look was broken up and gone, the
working lip was loosened and the tears came streaming forth.
"Never mind," said the doctor, blandly nodding his head. "Ne-ver mind;
we shall substitute new cares and new impressions, Mr. Dombey, very
shortly. You would wish my little friend to acquire--"
"Everything, if you please, doctor," returned Mr. Dombey, firmly.
"Yes," said the doctor, who, with his half-shut eyes, and his usual
smile, seemed to survey Paul with the sort of interest that might attach
to some choice little animal he was going to stuff. "Yes, exactly. Ha!
We shall impart a great variety of information to our little friend, and
bring him quickly forward, I dare say. I dare say."
As soon as Mr. Dombey and Florence were gone, Dr. Blimber gave into the
charge of his learned daughter Cornelia the little new pupil, saying,
"Bring him on, Cornelia, bring him on."
Miss Blimber received her young ward from the doctor's hands; and Paul,
feeling that the spectacles were surveying him, cast down his eyes.
"How old are you, Dombey?" said Miss Blimber.
"Six," answered Paul, wondering, as he stole a glance at the young lady,
why her hair didn't grow long like Florence's, and why she was like a
boy.
"How much do you know of your Latin Grammar, Dombey?" said Miss Blimber.
"None of it," answered Paul. Feeling that the answer was a shock to
Miss Blimber's sensibility, he looked up and added timidly,--
"I haven't been well. I have been a weak child. I couldn't learn a
Latin Grammar when I was out, every day, with old Glubb. I wish you'd
tell old Glubb to come and see me, if you please."
"What a dreadfully low name!" said Miss Blimber. "Unclassical to a
degree! Who is the monster, child?"
"What monster?" inquired Paul.
"Glubb."
"He's no more a monster than you are," returned Paul.
"What!" cried the doctor, in a terrible voice. "What's that?"
Paul was dreadfully frightened; but still he made a stand for the absent
Glubb, though he did it trembling.
"He's a very nice old man, ma'am," he said. "He used to pull my carriage
for me, down along the beach. I wish you'd let him come to see me. He
knows lots of things."
"Ha!" said the doctor, shaking his head; "this is bad, but study will do
much."
Mrs. Blimber opined, with something like a shiver, that he was an
unaccountable child; and, allowing for the difference of visage, looked
at him pretty much as Mrs. Pipchin had been used to do.
As for Miss Blimber, she told him to come down to her room that evening
at tea-time. When he did so he noticed a little pile of new books, which
she was glancing over.
"These are yours, Dombey," she said.
"All of 'em, ma'am?" said Paul.
"Yes," returned Miss Blimber; "and Mr. Feeder will look you out some
more very soon, if you are as studious as I expect you will be, Dombey."
"Thank you, ma'am," said Paul.
"I am going out for a constitutional," resumed Miss Blimber; "and while
I am gone, that is to say, in the interval between this and breakfast,
Dombey, I wish you to read over what I have marked in these books, and
to tell me if you quite understand what you have got to learn. Don't
lose time, Dombey, for you have none to spare, but take them downstairs,
and begin directly."
"Yes, ma'am," answered Paul.
There were so many of them that although Paul put one hand under the
bottom book and his other hand and his chin on the top book, and hugged
them all closely, the middle book slipped out before he reached the
door, and then they all tumbled down on the floor. Miss Blimber said,
"Oh, Dombey, Dombey, this is really very careless!" and piled them up
afresh for him; and this time, by dint of balancing them with great
nicety, Paul got out of the room.
But if the poor child found them heavy to carry downstairs, how much
harder was it to cram their contents into his head. Oh, how tired he
grew! But always there was a never-ending round of lessons waiting for
him during these long days and nights that Dr. Blimber and Cornelia
tried to make a man of him. And all week long his aching head held but
one longing desire--for Saturday to come.
Oh, Saturdays! Oh, happy Saturdays! when Florence always came at noon,
and never would, in any weather, stay away.
And when Florence found how hard Paul's studies were for him, she
quietly bought books just like his and studied them during the week, so
that she might keep along with him and help him when they were together.
Not a word of this was breathed to Mrs. Pipchin; but many a night when
she was in bed and the candles were spluttering and burning low,
Florence tried so hard to be a substitute for one small Dombey, that her
fortitude and perseverance might have almost won her a free right to
bear the name herself.
And high was her reward, when, one Saturday evening, as little Paul was
sitting down as usual to "resume his studies," she sat down by his side,
and showed him all that was so rough made smooth, and all that was so
dark made clear and plain before him. It was nothing but a startled
look in Paul's wan face--a flush--a smile--and then a close embrace--but
God knows how her heart leaped up at this rich payment for her trouble.
"Oh, Floy!" cried her brother, "how I love you! How I love you, Floy!"
"And I you, dear!"
"Oh! I am sure of that, Floy."
And so little Paul struggled on bravely under his heavy load, never
complaining, but growing more old-fashioned day by day--and growing
frailer, too.
[Illustration: MRS. PIPCHIN AND PAUL DOMBEY.]
Then came the holidays, and a grand party at the school, to which
Florence came, looking so beautiful in her simple ball dress that Paul
could hardly make up his mind to let her go again.
"But what is the matter, Floy?" he asked, almost sure he saw a tear on
her face.
"Nothing, dear. We will go home together, and I'll nurse you till you
are strong again."
"Nurse me!" echoed Paul.
Paul couldn't understand what that had to do with it, nor why the other
guests looked on so seriously, nor why Florence turned away her face for
a moment, and then turned it back, lighted up again with smiles.
"Floy," said Paul, holding a ringlet of her dark hair in his hand.
"Tell me, dear. Do _you_ think I have grown old-fashioned?"