'I do,' returned the old woman. 'I mean it all. If he hadn't been
poring over his books out of fear of you, he would have been well
and merry now, I know he would.'
The schoolmaster looked round upon the other women as if to entreat
some one among them to say a kind word for him, but they shook
their heads, and murmured to each other that they never thought
there was much good in learning, and that this convinced them.
Without saying a word in reply, or giving them a look of reproach,
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he followed the old woman who had summoned him (and who had now
rejoined them) into another room, where his infant friend,
half-dressed, lay stretched upon a bed.
He was a very young boy; quite a little child. His hair still hung
in curls about his face, and his eyes were very bright; but their
light was of Heaven, not earth. The schoolmaster took a seat beside
him, and stooping over the pillow, whispered his name. The boy
sprung up, stroked his face with his hand, and threw his wasted
arms round his neck, crying out that he was his dear kind friend.
'I hope I always was. I meant to be, God knows,' said the poor
schoolmaster.
'Who is that?' said the boy, seeing Nell. 'I am afraid to kiss her,
lest I should make her ill. Ask her to shake hands with me.' The
sobbing child came closer up, and took the little languid hand in
hers. Releasing his again after a time, the sick boy laid him
gently down.
'You remember the garden, Harry,' whispered the schoolmaster,
anxious to rouse him, for a dulness seemed gathering upon the
child, 'and how pleasant it used to be in the evening time? You
must make haste to visit it again, for I think the very flowers
have missed you, and are less gay than they used to be. You will
come soon, my dear, very soon now--won't you?'
The boy smiled faintly--so very, very faintly--and put his hand
upon his friend's grey head. He moved his lips too, but no voice
came from them; no, not a sound.
In the silence that ensued, the hum of distant voices borne upon
the evening air came floating through the open window. 'What's
that?' said the sick child, opening his eyes.
'The boys at play upon the green.'
He took a handkerchief from his pillow, and tried to wave it above
his head. But the feeble arm dropped powerless down.
'Shall I do it?' said the schoolmaster.
'Please wave it at the window,' was the faint reply. 'Tie it to the
lattice. Some of them may see it there. Perhaps they'll think of
me, and look this way.'
He raised his head, and glanced from the fluttering signal to his
idle bat, that lay with slate and book and other boyish property
upon a table in the room. And then he laid him softly down once more,
and asked if the little girl were there, for he could not see her.
She stepped forward, and pressed the passive hand that lay upon the
coverlet. The two old friends and companions--for such they were,
though they were man and child--held each other in a long embrace,
and then the little scholar turned his face towards the wall, and
fell asleep.
The poor schoolmaster sat in the same place, holding the small cold
hand in his, and chafing it. It was but the hand of a dead child.
He felt that; and yet he chafed it still, and could not lay it down.
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CHAPTER 26
Almost broken-hearted, Nell withdrew with the schoolmaster from the
bedside and returned to his cottage. In the midst of her grief and
tears she was yet careful to conceal their real cause from the old
man, for the dead boy had been a grandchild, and left but one aged
relative to mourn his premature decay.
She stole away to bed as quickly as she could, and when she was
alone, gave free vent to the sorrow with which her breast was
overcharged. But the sad scene she had witnessed, was not without
its lesson of content and gratitude; of content with the lot which
left her health and freedom; and gratitude that she was spared to
the one relative and friend she loved, and to live and move in a
beautiful world, when so many young creatures--as young and full
of hope as she--were stricken down and gathered to their graves.
How many of the mounds in that old churchyard where she had lately
strayed, grew green above the graves of children! And though she
thought as a child herself, and did not perhaps sufficiently
consider to what a bright and happy existence those who die young
are borne, and how in death they lose the pain of seeing others die
around them, bearing to the tomb some strong affection of their
hearts (which makes the old die many times in one long life), still
she thought wisely enough, to draw a plain and easy moral from what
she had seen that night, and to store it, deep in her mind.
Her dreams were of the little scholar: not coffined and covered up,
but mingling with angels, and smiling happily. The sun darting his
cheerful rays into the room, awoke her; and now there remained but
to take leave of the poor schoolmaster and wander forth once more.
By the time they were ready to depart, school had begun. In the
darkened room, the din of yesterday was going on again: a little
sobered and softened down, perhaps, but only a very little, if at
all. The schoolmaster 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 the lady had given her at the races for her
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
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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 road-side 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.
The afternoon had worn away into a beautiful evening, when they
arrived at a point where the road made a sharp turn and struck
across a common. On the border of this common, and close to the
hedge which divided it from the cultivated fields, a caravan was
drawn up to rest; upon which, by reason of its situation, they came
so suddenly that they could not have avoided it if they would.
It was not a shabby, dingy, dusty cart, but a smart little house
upon wheels, with white dimity curtains festooning the windows, and
window-shutters of green picked out with panels of a staring red,
in which happily-contrasted colours the whole concern shone
brilliant. Neither was it a poor caravan drawn by a single donkey
or emaciated horse, for a pair of horses in pretty
good condition were released from the shafts and grazing on the
frouzy grass. Neither was it a gipsy caravan, for at the open door
and comfortable to look upon, who wore a large bonnet trembling
with bows. And that it was not an unprovided or destitute caravan
was clear from this lady's occupation, which was the very pleasant
and refreshing one of taking tea. The tea-things, including a
bottle of rather suspicious character and a cold knuckle of ham,
were set forth upon a drum, covered with a white napkin; and there,
as if at the most convenient round-table in all the world, sat
this roving lady, taking her tea and enjoying the prospect.
It happened that at that moment the lady of the caravan had her cup
(which, that everything about her might be of a stout and
comfortable kind, was a breakfast cup) to her lips, and that having
her eyes lifted to the sky in her enjoyment of the full flavour of
the tea, not unmingled possibly with just the slightest
dash or gleam of something out of the suspicious bottle--but this
is mere speculation and not distinct matter of history--it
happened that being thus agreeably engaged, she did not see the
travellers when they first came up. It was not until she was in
the act of getting down the cup, and drawing a long breath after
the exertion of causing its contents to disappear, that the lady of
the caravan beheld an old man and a young child walking slowly by,
and glancing at her proceedings with eyes of modest but hungry
admiration.
'Hey!' cried the lady of the caravan, scooping the crumbs out of
her lap and swallowing the same before wiping her lips. 'Yes, to
be sure--Who won the Helter-Skelter Plate, child?'
'Won what, ma'am?' asked Nell.
'The Helter-Skelter Plate at the races, child--the plate that was
run for on the second day.'
'On the second day, ma'am?'
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'Second day! Yes, second day,' repeated the lady with an air of
impatience. 'Can't you say who won the Helter-Skelter Plate when
you're asked the question civilly?'
'I don't know, ma'am.'
'Don't know!' repeated the lady of the caravan; 'why, you were
there. I saw you with my own eyes.'
Nell was not a little alarmed to hear this, supposing that the lady
might be intimately acquainted with the firm of Short and Codlin;
but what followed tended to reassure her.
'And very sorry I was,' said the lady of the caravan, 'to see you
in company with a Punch; a low, practical, wulgar wretch, that
people should scorn to look at.'
'I was not there by choice,' returned the child; 'we didn't know
our way, and the two men were very kind to us, and let us travel
with them. Do you--do you know them, ma'am?'
'Know 'em, child!' cried the lady of the caravan in a sort of
shriek. 'Know them! But you're young and inexperienced, and
that's your excuse for asking sich a question. Do I look as if I
know'd 'em, does the caravan look as if it know'd 'em?'
'No, ma'am, no,' said the child, fearing she had committed some
grievous fault. 'I beg your pardon.'
It was granted immediately, though the lady still appeared much
ruffled and discomposed by the degrading supposition. The child
then explained that they had left the races on the first day, and
were travelling to the next town on that road, where they purposed
to spend the night. As the countenance of the stout lady began to
clear up, she ventured to inquire how far it was. The reply--which
the stout lady did not come to, until she had thoroughly explained
that she went to the races on the first day in a gig, and as an
expedition of pleasure, and that her presence there had no
connexion with any matters of business or profit--was, that the
town was eight miles off.
This discouraging information a little dashed the child, who could
scarcely repress a tear as she glanced along the darkening road.
Her grandfather made no complaint, but he sighed heavily as he
leaned upon his staff, and vainly tried to pierce the dusty
distance.
The lady of the caravan was in the act of gathering her tea
child's anxious manner she hesitated and stopped. The child
curtseyed, thanked her for her information, and giving her hand to
the old man had already got some fifty yards or so away, when the
lady of the caravan called to her to return.
'Come nearer, nearer still,' said she, beckoning to her to ascend
the steps. 'Are you hungry, child?'
'Not very, but we are tired, and it's--it IS a long way.'
'Well, hungry or not, you had better have some tea,' rejoined her
new acquaintance. 'I suppose you are agreeable to that, old
gentleman?'
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The grandfather humbly pulled off his hat and thanked her. The
lady of the caravan then bade him come up the steps likewise, but
the drum proving an inconvenient table for two, they descended
again, and sat upon the grass, where she handed down to them the
tea-tray, the bread and butter, the knuckle of ham, and in short
everything of which she had partaken herself, except the bottle
which she had already embraced an opportunity of slipping into her
pocket.
'Set 'em out near the hind wheels, child, that's the best place,'
said their friend, superintending the arrangements from above.
'Now hand up the teapot for a little more hot water, and a pinch of
fresh tea, and then both of you eat and drink as much as you can,
and don't spare anything; that's all I ask of you.'
Th
ey might perhaps have carried out the lady's wish, if it had been
less freely expressed, or even if it had not been expressed at all.
But as this direction relieved them from any shadow of delicacy or
uneasiness, they made a hearty meal and enjoyed it to the utmost.
While they were thus engaged, the lady of the caravan alighted
on the earth, and with her hands clasped behind her, and her large
bonnet trembling excessively, walked up and down in a measured
tread and very stately manner, surveying the caravan from time to
time with an air of calm delight, and deriving particular
gratification from the red panels and the brass knocker. When she
had taken this gentle exercise for some time, she sat down upon the
steps and called 'George'; whereupon a man in a carter's frock, who
had been so shrouded in a hedge up to this time as to see
everything that passed without being seen himself, parted the twigs
that concealed him, and appeared in a sitting attitude, supporting
on his legs a baking-dish and a half-gallon stone bottle, and
bearing in his right hand a knife, and in his left a fork.
'Yes, Missus,' said George.
'How did you find the cold pie, George?'
'It warn't amiss, mum.'
'And the beer,' said the lady of the caravan, with an appearance of
being more interested in this question than the last; 'is it
passable, George?'
'It's more flatterer than it might be,' George returned, 'but it
an't so bad for all that.'
To set the mind of his mistress at rest, he took a sip (amounting
in quantity to a pint or thereabouts) from the stone bottle, and
then smacked his lips, winked his eye, and nodded his head. No
doubt with the same amiable desire, he immediately resumed his
knife and fork, as a practical assurance that the beer had wrought
no bad effect upon his appetite.
The lady of the caravan looked on approvingly for some time, and
then said,
'Have you nearly finished?'
'Wery nigh, mum.' And indeed, after scraping the dish all round
with his knife and carrying the choice brown morsels to his mouth,
and after taking such a scientific pull at the stone bottle that,
by degrees almost imperceptible to the sight, his head went further
and further back until he lay nearly at his full length upon the
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ground, this gentleman declared himself quite disengaged, and came