When the wagon came Nell was placed inside (page [138])
NELL AND HER
GRANDFATHER
Told from Charles Dickens's
"The Old Curiosity Shop"
THOMAS NELSON AND SONS, LTD.
LONDON, EDINBURGH, AND NEW YORK
1908
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN AT
THE PRESS OF THE PUBLISHERS.
CONTENTS.
- [The Old Curiosity Shop]
- [Driven from Home]
- [In the Open Country]
- [The Village School]
- [The Caravan]
- [The Wax-work Show]
- [Nell the Bread-Winner]
- [Trouble for Nell]
- [Flying from Temptation]
- [A Bed of Ashes]
- [A Friend in Need]
- [Peace after Storm]
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
[When the wagon came Nell was placed inside] ... Frontispiece
[The old man gave an angry reply]
Forth from the city went the two poor wanderers (missing from book)
The tea things were set forth upon a drum (missing from book)
[After a few moments she moved nearer to the group]
NELL AND HER GRANDFATHER.
Chapter I.
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
One evening an Old Gentleman was taking a walk in the city of London, when some one spoke to him in a soft, sweet voice that fell pleasantly upon his ears. He turned hastily round, and found at his elbow a pretty little girl of some thirteen summers, who begged to be directed to a certain street which was in quite another part of London.
"It is a very long way from here, my child," said the Old Gentleman.
"I know that, sir," she replied timidly. "I am afraid it is a very long way, for I came from there to-night."
"Alone?" said the Old Gentleman.
"Oh yes; I don't mind that. But I am a little afraid now, for I have lost my road."
"And what made you ask it of me? Suppose I should tell you wrong?"
"I am sure you will not do that," said the little maiden. "You are such a very old gentleman, and walk so slow yourself."
As the child spoke these words a tear came into her clear eye, and her slight figure trembled as she looked up into the Old Gentleman's face.
"Come," said he, "I'll take you there."
She put her hand in his as if she had known him from her cradle; and they trudged away together, the little creature rather seeming to lead and take care of the Old Gentleman than he to be protecting her.
"Who has sent you so far by yourself?" said he.
"Somebody who is very kind to me, sir."
"And what have you been doing?"
"That I must not tell," said the child.
The Old Gentleman looked at the little creature with surprise, for he wondered what kind of errand it might be that made her unwilling to answer the question. Her quick eye seemed to read his thoughts. As it met his she added that there was no harm in what she had been doing, but it was a great secret—a secret which she did not even know herself.
This was said with perfect frankness. She now walked on as before, talking cheerfully by the way; but she said no more about her home, beyond remarking that they were going quite a new road, and asking if it were a short one.
At length, clapping her hands with pleasure and running on before her new friend for a short distance, the little girl stopped at a door, and remaining on the step till the Old Gentleman came up, knocked at it when he joined her. When she had knocked twice or thrice there was a noise as if some person were moving inside, and at length a faint light was seen through the glass of the upper part of the door. As this light approached very slowly it showed clearly both what kind of person it was who advanced and what kind of apartment it was through which he came.
He was a little old man, with long gray hair, whose face and figure, as he held the light above his head and looked before him, could be plainly seen. The place through which he made his way was one of those found in odd corners of the town, and known as "curiosity shops." There were suits of mail standing like ghosts in armour here and there; rusty weapons of various kinds; twisted figures in china, and wood, and iron, and ivory; curtains, and strange furniture that might have been designed in dreams.
The thin, worn face of the little old man was suited to the place. He might have groped among old churches, and tombs, and deserted houses, and gathered all the spoils with his own hands. As he turned the key in the lock he looked at the Old Gentleman with some surprise. The door being opened, the child addressed him as her grandfather, and in a few words told him the little story of her meeting with her new friend.
"Why, bless thee, child," said the old man, patting her on the head, "how couldst thou miss thy way? What if I had lost thee, Nell!"
"I would have found my way back to you, grandfather," said the child boldly. "Never fear."
The old man kissed her, then turned to the stranger, and begged him to walk in. He did so. The door was closed and locked. Going first with the light, the old man led the way into a small sitting-room behind the shop. From this apartment another door opened into a kind of closet, in which stood a little bed that a fairy might have slept in, it looked so very small and was so prettily draped. The child took a candle and tripped into this little room, leaving the two old men together.
In a few moments, however, the door of the closet opened and the child came back, her light-brown hair hanging loose about her neck, and her face flushed with the haste she had made to return. She at once set about preparing supper. The Old Gentleman was surprised to see that everything was done by the child, and that there appeared to be no other persons in the house. When she left the room for a moment he expressed his surprise, and the old man replied that there were few grown persons as careful and useful as she.
"It always grieves me," said the visitor, "to see children entering on the duties of life when they are scarcely more than infants."
"It will do her no harm," said the old man, looking steadily at his guest. "The children of the poor know but few pleasures. Even the cheap delights of childhood must be bought and paid for."
"But—forgive me for saying this—you are surely not so very poor," said the Old Gentleman.
"She is not my child, sir," returned the old man. "Her mother was my daughter, and she was poor. I save nothing, not a penny, though I live as you see; but"—he leaned forward to whisper—"she shall be rich one of these days and a fine lady. Don't you think ill of me because I use her help. She gives it cheerfully, as you see, and it would break her heart if she knew that I suffered anybody else to do for me what her own little hands can do so well."
At this moment the child again returned, and the old man, motioning his visitor to come to the table, broke off and said no more.
They had scarcely begun their repast when there was a knock at the door, and Nell, bursting into a hearty laugh, said it was no doubt dear old Kit come back at last.
"Foolish Nell," said her grandfather, fondling with her hair. "She always laughs at poor Kit." Then he took up a candle, and went to open the door. When he came back Kit was at his heels.
Kit was a shock-headed, clumsy lad, with a very wide mouth, very red cheeks, a turned-up nose, and a very comical look on his face. He at once carried a large slice of bread and meat into a corner, and began to eat greedily.
"Ah!" said the old man, turning to his guest with a sigh, as if he had spoken to him at that very moment, "you don't know what you say when you tell me that I don't consider her."
"You must not think too much of what I said, my friend," said the other.
"No," returned the old man thoughtfully, "no.—Come hither, Nell."
The little girl hastened from her seat, and put her arm round his neck.
"Do I love thee, Nell?" said he. "Say, do I love thee, Nell, or no?"
The child only answered by her caresses, and laid her head upon his breast.
"Why dost thou sob?" said the grandfather, pressing her closer to him. "Is it because thou know'st that I love thee, and dost not like that I should seem to doubt it? Well, well; then let us say I love thee dearly."
"Indeed, indeed you do," replied the child. "Kit knows you do."
Kit, who in eating his bread and meat had been swallowing two-thirds of his knife at every mouthful with the coolness of a juggler, stopped short and bawled, "Nobody isn't such a fool as to say he doesn't," after which he took a huge sandwich at one bite.
"She is poor now," said the old man, patting the child's cheek, "but, I say again, the time is coming when she shall be rich. It has been a long time coming, but it must come at last. A very long time, but it surely must come. It has come to other men, who do nothing but waste time and money. When will it come to me?"
"I am very happy as I am, grandfather," said the child.
"Tush, tush!" returned the old man, "thou dost not know; how shouldst thou?" Then he muttered again between his teeth, "The time must come—I am very sure it must. It will be all the better for coming late;" and then he sighed, and still holding the child between his knees, appeared to be insensible to everything around him. By this time it was very near midnight, and the Old Gentleman rose to go, a movement which recalled his host to himself.
"One moment, sir," he said.—"Now, Kit—near midnight, boy, and you still here! Get home, get home, and be true to your time in the morning, for there's work to do. Good-night!—There, bid him good-night, Nell, and let him be gone."
"Good-night, Kit," said the child, her eyes lighting up with merriment and kindness.
"Good-night, Miss Nell," returned the boy.
"And thank this gentleman," said the old man, "but for whose care I might have lost my little girl to-night."
"No, no, master," said Kit; "that won't do, that won't."
"What do you mean?" cried the old man.
"I'd have found her, master," said Kit; "I'd have found her if she was above ground. I would, as quick as anybody, master. Ha, ha, ha!"
Once more opening his mouth and shutting his eyes and laughing loudly, Kit gradually backed to the door and roared himself out.
When he had gone, and the child was busily clearing the table, the old man said,—
"I haven't seemed to thank you enough, sir, for what you have done to-night, but I do thank you, humbly and heartily; and so does she, and her thanks are worth more than mine. I should be sorry that you went away and thought I was unmindful of your goodness, or careless of her; I am not, indeed."
The Old Gentleman said he was sure of that from what he had seen. "But," he added, "may I ask you a question?"
"Ay, sir," replied the old man; "what is it?"
"This delicate child," said the other, "with so much beauty and brightness—has she nobody to care for her but you?"
"No," he returned, looking anxiously into the other's face, "no, and she wants no other."
Seeing that he seemed excited and impatient, the visitor turned to put on an outer coat which he had thrown off on entering the room, meaning to say no more. He was surprised to see the child standing by with a cloak upon her arm, and in her hand a hat and stick.
"Those are not mine, my dear," said the visitor.
"No," returned the child quietly, "they are grandfather's."
"But he is not going out to-night."
"Oh yes, he is," said the child with a smile.
"And what becomes of you, my pretty one?"
"Me! I stay here, of course. I always do."
The stranger looked towards the old man, but he had turned away his head. Then he looked back to the slight, gentle figure of the child. Alone! In that gloomy place all the long, dreary night!
Nell, however, seemed to have no thought for herself, but cheerfully helped her grandfather with his cloak, and when he was ready, took a candle to light the way to the street door.
When they reached the door, the child, setting down the candle, turned to say good-night, and raised her face to kiss the visitor. Then she ran to her grandfather, who folded her in his arms and bade God bless her.
"Sleep soundly, Nell," he said in a low voice, "and angels guard thy bed! Do not forget thy prayers, my sweet."
"No, indeed," said the child; "they make me feel so happy."
"That's well; I know they do—they should," said the old man. "Bless thee a hundred times! Early in the morning I shall be home."
"You'll not ring twice," returned the child. "The bell wakes me, even in the middle of a dream."
With this they parted. The child opened the door (now guarded by a shutter which the boy had put up before he left the house), and with another farewell, held it until the two men had passed out. Her grandfather paused a moment while it was gently closed and fastened on the inside, and then walked on at a slow pace.
At the street corner he stopped. Looking at his guest with a troubled face, he said that their ways were widely different, and that he must here take his leave. The Old Gentleman would have spoken, but the other hurried quickly away, and was soon lost in the darkness.
Chapter II.
DRIVEN FROM HOME.
The Old Gentleman lingered about the street for two long hours; for he could not tear himself away from the place. Nor could he help thinking of all the harm that might come to the child shut up alone in the old gloomy shop; and he wondered what it was that took the old man from his home so late at night.
The child had told him that she always stayed there quite alone; so that it was clearly the usual thing for the old man to spend the night away from his home.
At last, quite tired out with watching and thinking, the Old Gentleman hired a coach and drove to his own home. A week later, however, he paid a second visit to the Old Curiosity Shop to learn something more of the strange old man and his beautiful grandchild.
He found that the old dealer had a visitor, a young man of about twenty-one, with a bold but handsome face and a careless, impudent manner. "I tell you again," the young fellow was saying as the Old Gentleman entered, "that I want to see Nell my sister."
The old man gave an angry reply, and the visitor soon gathered that what the young fellow really wanted was not so much to see Little Nell as to wring from her grandfather some of his money, which he said was being hoarded to no purpose.
The old man gave an angry reply
While the quarrel was at its height the door opened, and Little Nell herself came in. She was followed by an elderly man with a hard, forbidding face, and so small that he was quite a dwarf. His black eyes were restless, sly, and cunning; his upper lip and chin were bristly with a coarse, hard beard; and his face bore a smile in which there was neither mirth nor pleasure.
For a few moments he stood listening to the angry voices of the two men; and when Nell's brother had flung himself out of the house in a fierce rage, the dwarf, whose name was Quilp, came forward, put his hand into his breast, and took out a bag of money. This he handed to the old man with the words, "I brought it myself, as, being in gold, it was too heavy for Nell to carry in her bag. She ought to get used to such loads though, for she will have gold enough when you are dead."
"I hope so," said the old man, with something like a frown.
"Hope so!" echoed the dwarf. "Neighbour, I wish I knew in what safe place you have placed all I have given you from time to time. But you keep your secret very close."
"My secret!" said the other, with a haggard look. "Yes, you are right. I—I—keep it close—very close."
The old man said no more, but taking the bag in his hand, turned away with a slow, uncertain step. The dwarf then took his leave, wondering as he went what the old man did with the money he had borrowed. After some days, however, he was able by means best known to himself to find out the truth of the matter.
Nell's grandfather was a gambler. The money Quilp lent him was gambled away night after night in the vain hope of winning a fortune for his grandchild. When the dwarf learnt the truth, he refused to give the old man any more money.
This made Nell's grandfather very unhappy, and the girl, seeing his misery, begged him to let her go and ask for the dwarf's help once more. He gave her leave, and the child brought a note in reply, to the effect that Quilp would visit the old man shortly.
One night, the third after Nell's visit to Quilp's house, the old man, who had been weak and ill all day, said he should not leave home. The child's eyes sparkled at the news, but her joy departed when she looked at his worn and sickly face.
"Two days," he said, "two whole clear days have passed, and there is no reply. What did he tell thee, Nell?"
"Just what I have 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 thee? 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 drew her towards him.
"'Twould be of no use, my dear. But if he deserts me, Nell, at this moment, if he deserts me now, I am ruined; and worse—far worse than that—have ruined thee. If we are beggars—"
"What if we are?" cried 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 flushed face and trembling voice, "I am not a child, 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," said the child. "If you are sad, let me know why, and be sad 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 and die. Dear grandfather, let us leave this sad place to-morrow, and beg our way from door to door."
The old man covered his face with his hands, and hid it in the pillow of the couch on which he lay.
"Let us be beggars," said the child, passing an arm round his neck. "I have no fear but we shall have enough. I am sure we shall. Let us walk through country places, and sleep in fields and under trees, and never think of money again, or anything that can make you sad, but rest at nights, and have the sun and wind upon our faces in the day, and thank God together. Let us never set foot in dark rooms or houses any more, but wander up and down wherever we like to go; and when you are tired you shall stop and rest in the pleasantest place that we can find, and I will go and beg for both."
The child's voice was lost in sobs as she dropped upon the old man's neck; nor did she weep alone.
Meanwhile Quilp had entered the room unseen, and skipping upon a chair, placed himself upon the back with his feet on the seat. Then he looked at the two with a leer upon his face. Turning, the old man saw him, and asked how he came there.
"Through the door," said the dwarf. "I wish to have some words with you alone."
Nell looked at her grandfather, who nodded, and she left the room.
"Have you brought me any money?" asked the old man.
"No," said Quilp; "and, neighbour, you have no secret from me now. To think that I should have been blinded by a mere gambler!"
"I am no gambler," said the old man. "I played to win a fortune for Nell. Do not desert me. I only need a few pounds to make good my losses and to win wealth in plenty."
But the dwarf would not listen to the old man's pleading. He had come, he said, to claim his own. The shop and its contents were his, and he meant to take them over at once.
He was as good as his word. Before long he had taken up his abode in the parlour, where he plainly meant to stay; and the old man was in his bed raving with fever.
Nell nursed her grandfather with tender care, and after a weary time saw him come slowly back to life again; but his mind was now very weak, and he spent each day in moody thought brooding over his troubles.
The dwarf was not slow to hint that he would be glad to see the last of Nell and her grandfather, and at length the old man said he would move out in a couple of days. "Very good," said Quilp; "but mind, I can't go beyond that time."
When the dwarf had left them to themselves the old man's tears fell fast, and making as though he would fall upon his knees, he begged his tender little nurse to forgive him.
"Forgive you—what?" said Nell. "O grandfather, what should I forgive?"
"All that is past, all that has come upon thee, Nell; all that was done in that uneasy dream," 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 said. "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.
"It has come back upon me to-day; it has all come back since we have been sitting here. I bless thee for it, Nell."
"For what, dear grandfather?"
"For what you said when we were first made beggars, Nell. Let us speak softly. Hush! for if they knew downstairs they would say that I was mad, and take thee away from me. We will not stop here another day. We will go far away from here."
"Yes, let us go," said the child. "Let us be gone from this place, and never turn back or think of it again. Let us wander barefoot through the world rather than linger here."
"We will," answered the old man. "We will travel afoot through the woods and fields, and by the side of rivers, and trust ourselves to God in the places where He dwells. It is far better to lie down at night beneath an open sky like that yonder—see how bright it is!—than to rest in close rooms, which are always full of care and weary dreams. Thou and I together, Nell, may be cheerful and happy yet, and learn to forget this time as if it had never been."
"We will be happy!" cried the child, "We never can be here."
"No, we never can again—never again—that's truly said," replied the old man. "Let us steal away to-morrow morning, early and softly, that we may not be seen or heard, and leave no trace or track for them to follow by. Poor Nell! Thy cheek is pale, and thy eyes are heavy with watching and weeping for me—I know—for me; but thou wilt be well again, and merry too, when we are far away. To-morrow morning, dear, we'll turn our faces from this scene of sorrow, and be as free and happy as the birds."
And then the old man clasped his hands above her head and said, in a few broken words, that from that time forth they would wander up and down together, and never part again.
The child's heart beat high with hope and joy. She had no thought of hunger, or cold, or thirst. They would be happy together as they had been before. This was all she cared for.
While the old man slept soundly in his bed, she set herself to prepare for their flight. There were a few articles of clothing for herself to carry, as well as a few for him; and a staff to support his feeble steps was put ready for his use.
When she had finished the old man was yet asleep, and as she was unwilling to disturb him, she left him to slumber on until the sun rose. He was then very anxious that they should leave the house without a minute's loss of time, and was soon ready.
The child took him by the hand, and they trod lightly down the stairs, trembling whenever a board creaked, and often stopping to listen.
At last they reached the passage on the ground floor, where the snoring of Quilp sounded more terrible in their ears than the roaring of lions.
They opened the door without noise, and passing into the street, stood still.
"Which way?" said the child.
The old man looked first at her, then to the right and left, then at her again, and shook his head. It was plain that she was now his guide. The child knew it, and putting her hand in his, led him gently away.
It was the beginning of a day in June, the deep blue sky unbroken by a cloud, and full of brilliant light. The streets were, as yet, almost empty. The houses and shops were closed, and the sweet air of morning fell like breath from angels on the sleeping town.
Forth from the city, while it yet slept, went the two poor wanderers, they knew not whither.
Chapter III.
IN THE OPEN COUNTRY.
The two pilgrims, often pressing each other's hands, or looking at each other with a smile, went on their way in silence. After walking a long, long way they left the city behind, and came in sight of fields, tiny cottages, and large mansions with lawns and porters' lodges.
Then came a turnpike, then fields again with trees and haystacks, then a hill; and on top of that the traveller might stop, and looking back at old St. Paul's looming through the smoke, might feel at last that he was clear of London.
Near such a spot as this, and in a pleasant field, the old man and his little guide sat down to rest. Nell had brought in her basket some slices of bread and meat, and here they made their simple breakfast.
The freshness of the day, the singing of the birds, the beauty of the waving grass, the deep-green leaves, the wild flowers, and the scents and sounds that floated in the air, filled them with gladness. The child had said her simple prayers once that morning, but now in her deep thankfulness they rose to her lips again. The old man took off his hat; he had no memory for the words, but he said Amen, for he knew that they were very good.
There had been an old copy of the "Pilgrim's Progress," with pictures, upon a shelf at home, over which Nell had often pored in wonder. As she looked back upon the place they had left, one part of it came strongly into her mind.
"Dear grandfather," she said, "I feel as if we were both pilgrims like Christian, and had laid down on this grass all the cares and troubles we brought with us, never to take them up again."
"No, never to return, never to return," replied the old man, waving his hands towards the city. "Thou and I are free of it now, Nell. They shall never lure us back."
"Are you tired?" said the child. "Are you sure you don't feel ill from this long walk?"
"I shall never feel ill again, now that we are once away," was his reply. "Let us be stirring, Nell. We must be farther away—a long, long way farther. We are too near to stop and be at rest. Come."
There was a pool of clear water in the field, in which the child now laved her hands and face, and cooled her feet. She would have the old man refresh himself in this way too; and making him sit down upon the grass, cast the water on him with her hands, and dried it with her dress.
"I can do nothing for myself, my darling," said the old man. "I don't know how it is; I could once, but the time's gone. Don't leave me, Nell; say that thou'lt not leave me. I loved thee all the while, indeed I did. If I lose thee too, my dear, I must die!"
He laid his head upon her shoulder, and Nell soothed him with gentle and tender words, and smiled at his thinking they could ever part. He was soon calmed, and fell asleep, singing to himself in a low voice like a little child.
He awoke refreshed, and they went on their way once more. The road was pleasant, lying between beautiful pastures and fields of corn, above which the lark trilled out its happy song. The air came laden with the fragrance it caught upon its way, and the bees hummed forth their drowsy song as they floated by.
They were now in the open country; the houses were very few, and often miles apart. Now and again they came upon a cluster of poor cottages, some with a chair or low board put across the open door, to keep the children from the road, others shut up close while all the family were working in the fields.
They walked all day, and slept at night at a small cottage where beds were let to travellers. Next morning they were afoot again, and though at first they were very tired, recovered before long and went briskly forward.
They often stopped to rest, but only for a short space at a time, and then went on, having had but little food since the morning. It was nearly five o'clock in the afternoon when, drawing near another cluster of huts, the child looked into each, doubtful at which to ask for leave to rest awhile and buy a drink of milk.
It was not easy to choose, for she was very timid. Here was a crying child, and there a noisy wife. In this, the people seemed too poor, in that too many. At length she stopped at one where the family were seated round the table. She chose this cottage because there was an old man sitting in a chair beside the hearth, and she thought he was a grandfather, and would be kind to hers.
There were, besides, the cottager, his wife, and three little children, brown as berries. As soon as Nell had made known her wants she was invited within. The eldest boy ran out to fetch some milk, the second dragged two stools towards the door, while the youngest crept to his mother's gown, and looked at the strangers from beneath his sunburnt hand.
"You are welcome, master," said the old cottager, in a thin, piping voice. "Are you travelling far?"
"Yes, sir; a long way," replied the child, for her grandfather had turned to her for an answer.
"From London?" asked the old man
The child said yes.
The milk arrived, and Nell having opened her little basket and selected the best pieces for her grandfather, they made a hearty meal.
"How far is it to a town or village?" she asked of the husband.
"A matter of a good five mile, my dear." was the reply; "but you're not going on to-night?"
"Yes, yes, Nell," said the old man hastily. "Farther on, farther on, darling; farther away, if we walk till midnight."
"There's a good barn hard by, master," said the man. "Excuse me, but you do seem a little tired, and unless you wish to get on—"
"Yes, yes, we do," said the old man fretfully.—"Farther away, dear Nell; pray, farther away."
"We must go on, indeed," said the child. "We thank you very much, but we cannot stop so soon.—I'm quite ready, grandfather."
But the woman had seen that one of Nell's little feet was blistered and sore, and she would not let her go until she had washed the place, which she did so carefully and with such a gentle hand that the child's heart was too full for her to say more than a fervent "God bless you!"
When they had left the cottage some distance behind Nell turned her head and saw that the whole family, even the old grandfather, were standing in the road, watching them as they went on their way; and so, with many waves of the hand and cheering nods, and on one side at least not without tears, they parted company.
They now walked more slowly and painfully than they had done yet for about a mile, when they heard the sound of wheels behind them, and looking round saw an empty cart drawing near to them. The driver on coming up to them stopped his horse and looked hard at Nell.
"Didn't you stop to rest at a cottage yonder?" he said.
"Yes, sir," replied the child.
"Ah! they asked me to look out for you," said the man. "I'm going your way. Give me your hand; jump up, master."
This was a great relief, for they were so very tired that they could scarcely crawl along. To them the jolting cart was a comfortable carriage, and the ride the finest in the world. Nell had scarcely settled herself on a little heap of straw in one corner, when she fell fast asleep.
She was awakened by the stopping of the cart, which was about to turn up a by-lane. The driver kindly got down to help her out. Then he pointed to some trees at a very short distance before them, said that the town lay in that direction, and that they had better take the path through the churchyard. So towards this spot they bent their weary steps.
As they crossed the churchyard they saw two men seated upon the grass, and so busily at work that at first they did not notice the little girl and the old man. Nell saw at a glance that they were Punch and Judy men, for she noticed Punch himself, smiling as usual, perched upon a tombstone. Here and there on the ground were other parts of the show, and the two men were mending the wooden frame with glue and tacks.
As Nell and her grandfather drew near they looked up. One was a little merry man with a bright eye and a red nose. The other seemed to be of a graver character. Both greeted the newcomers heartily, and after a few moments Nell's grandfather, pointing to Punch and Judy, asked, "Are you going to show them to-night?"
"Yes," said the merry man. "Look here," he went on, turning to his partner, "here's Judy's clothes falling to pieces again. Much good you do at sewing things."
Nell saw at once that help such as she could give was badly needed, and said timidly, "I have a needle, sir, in my basket, and thread too. Let me try to mend the clothes for you."
The showman was much pleased, and in a few moments Nell had done the work very neatly, to his great delight. When she had finished he asked whether she and the old man were going on again. "No farther to-night," said Nell.
"If you want a place to stop at," said the showman, "come with us to the tavern. It's very cheap." This they did, and in the evening saw the Punch and Judy show in the tavern kitchen; but Nell was so tired that she fell asleep before the play was half over.
Next day the showman asked the two travellers to go with them to some races that were being held not far away; and the old man, who had been as pleased as a child with the performance, at once said that they would be much pleased to go. So they set off together, and for the next few days travelled in company.
So they set off together
But after a while Nell noticed that the two men were often whispering together, and that they took great care to keep them always in sight.
"Grandfather," she whispered, when they were alone for a moment, "these men think that we have secretly left our friends, and mean to have us sent back."
The old man was very much frightened, and began to shake. After soothing him she said, "I shall find a time when we can steal away. When I do, mind you come with me, and do not stop or speak a word." So at the close of a long day, when the men were setting up the show in a suitable spot, Nell touched the old man's arm, and turning with him fled along the nearest road. They never once stopped to look behind, and creeping under the brow of a bill at a quick pace, made for the open fields.
Chapter IV.
THE VILLAGE SCHOOL.
It was not until they were quite tired out and could no longer keep up the pace at which they had fled from the race-ground that the old man and the child stopped to rest upon the borders of a little wood. Here, though the race-ground could not be seen, they could yet hear the noise of the distant shouts, the hum of the voices, and the beating of the drums.
Some time passed before Nell could bring the trembling old man to a state of quiet.
"We are quite safe now, and have nothing to fear indeed, dear grandfather," she said.
After a while they rose up from the ground, and took the shady track which led them through the wood. Passing along it for a short distance they came to a lane, completely shaded by the trees on either hand which met together overhead. A broken finger-post told them that this lane led to a village three miles off, and thither they bent their steps.
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 old man in the little garden before his cottage, and him they were too timid to approach, 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 smoking his pipe in the little porch before his cottage 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."
The slight noise they made in raising the latch caught his ear. He looked at them kindly, but gently shook his head.
Nell dropped a curtsy, and told him they were poor travellers, who sought a shelter for the night, for which they would gladly pay. The schoolmaster looked at her as she spoke, laid aside his pipe, and rose to his feet.
"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?"
"Ay, sir," cried the old man, "and the stay and comfort of my life."
"Come in," said the schoolmaster. Then he led them into his little school-room, which was parlour and kitchen also, and told them that they were welcome to stay under his roof till morning. Before they had done thanking him, he spread a coarse white cloth upon the table, with knives and plates, and bringing out some bread and cold meat besought them to eat.
The child looked round the room as she took her seat. There were a couple of forms, notched and cut and inked all over; a small deal desk perched on four legs, at which no doubt the master sat; a few dog's-eared books upon a high shelf; and beside them a collection of peg-tops, balls, kites, fishing-lines, marbles, half-eaten apples, and other things taken from idle urchins. Hanging on hooks upon the wall were the cane and ruler; and near them, on a small shelf of its own, the dunce's cap, made of old newspapers. But the great ornaments of the wall were certain sentences fairly copied in good round text, and well-worked sums in simple addition and multiplication, which were pasted all round the room.
"Yes," said the old schoolmaster, following Nell's eyes with his own; "that's beautiful writing, my dear."
"Very, sir," replied the child modestly; "is it yours?"
"Mine!" he returned, taking out his spectacles and putting them on; "I couldn't write like that nowadays. No, they're all done by one hand; a little hand it is, not so old as yours, but a very clever one."
As the schoolmaster said this he saw that a small blot of ink had been thrown on one of the copies; so he took a penknife from his pocket, and going up to the wall carefully scraped it out.
"A little hand, indeed," said the poor schoolmaster. "Far beyond all his mates in his learning and his sports too, how did he ever come to be so fond of me? That I should love him is no wonder, but that he should love me!" And here the schoolmaster stopped, and took off his spectacles to wipe them, as though they had grown dim.
"I hope there is nothing the matter, sir," said Nell anxiously.
"Not much, my dear," said the schoolmaster. "I hoped to have seen him on the green to-night. But he'll be there to-morrow."
Then after a pause he turned to her, and speaking very gently, hoped she would say a prayer that night for a sick child.
After a sound night's rest the child rose early in the morning and went down to the room where she had supped last night. As the schoolmaster had already left his bed and gone out, she began herself to make the room neat and tidy, and had just finished when her kind host returned.
He thanked her many times, and said that the old dame who did such work for him had gone out to nurse the little scholar of whom he had told her. The child asked how he was, and hoped he was better.
"No," said the schoolmaster, shaking his head sorrowfully. "No better. They even say he is worse."
"I am very sorry for that, sir," said the child.
She then asked his leave to prepare breakfast; and her grandfather coming downstairs after a while, they all three sat down together. While they were eating, their host said that the old man seemed much tired, and stood in need of rest.
"If the journey you have before you is a long one," he said, "you are very welcome to pass another night here. I should really be glad if you would, friend."
He saw that the old man looked at Nell, and added,—
"I shall be glad to have your young companion with me for one day. If you can do a charity to a lone man, and rest yourself at the same time, do so. But if you must go again upon your journey, I wish you well through it, and will walk a little way with you before school begins."
"What are we to do, Nell?" said the old man in great doubt. "Say what we're to do, dear."
Nell was only too glad to stay. She was happy to show how thankful she was to the kind schoolmaster by doing such household duties as his little cottage stood in need of. When these were done she took some needlework from her basket and sat down upon a stool beside the window. Her grandfather was resting in the sun outside, and idly watching the clouds as they floated on before the light summer wind.
As the schoolmaster took his seat behind his desk to begin the day's work, the child was afraid that she might be in the way, and offered to go to her little bedroom. But this he would not allow; and as he seemed pleased to have her there, she stayed, busying herself with her work.
"Have you many scholars, sir?" she asked.
The poor schoolmaster shook his head, and said that they barely filled the two forms.
"Are the others clever, sir?" asked the child, glancing at the wall.
"Good boys," returned the schoolmaster. "good boys enough, my dear; but they'll never do like that."
At the top of the first form—the post of honour in the school—was the empty place of the little sick scholar, and at the head of the row of pegs on which hats or caps were hung, one was empty.
Soon began the hum of learning lessons, the whispered jest, and all the noise and drawl of school; and in the midst of the din sat the poor schoolmaster, trying in vain to fix his mind upon the duties of the day, and to forget his little friend. But the work only reminded him more strongly of the willing scholar.
"I think, boys," said the schoolmaster, when the clock struck twelve, "that I shall give a half-holiday this afternoon."
Upon this the boys, led on by the tallest among them, raised a great shout.
"You must promise me first," said the schoolmaster, "that you'll not be noisy, or at least, if you are, that you'll go away and be so—away out of the village, I mean. I'm sure you wouldn't disturb your old playmate."
"No, sir! no, sir!" said the boys in a chorus.
"Then pray don't forget—there's my dear scholars," said the schoolmaster—"what I have asked you, and do it as a favour to me. Good-bye all."
"Thank'ee, sir," and "Good-bye, sir," were said a great many times, and the boys went out very slowly and softly. But there was the sun shining, and there were the birds singing, as the sun only shines and the birds only sing on holidays and half-holidays; there were the trees waving for all free boys to climb and nestle among their leafy branches; the hay begging them to come and scatter it to the pure air; the smooth ground, inviting to runs and leaps and long walks. It was more than boy could bear, and with a joyous whoop the whole band took to their heels and spread themselves about, shouting and laughing as they went.
"It's natural, thank Heaven!" said the poor schoolmaster, looking after them. "I'm very glad they didn't mind me."
Towards night an old woman came up the garden, and meeting the schoolmaster at the door, said he was to go to Dame West's directly. He and Nell were at the moment on the point of going out for a walk, and they hurried away together at once.
They stopped at a cottage door, and the schoolmaster knocked softly at it with his hand. It was opened without loss of time, and they entered a room where a little group of women were gathered about one older than the rest, who was crying and rocking herself to and fro.
"O dame!" said the schoolmaster, drawing near her chair, "is it so bad as this?"
"He's going fast," cried the old woman; "my grandson's dying."
Without saying a word in reply the schoolmaster went into another room, where he found his little scholar, and stayed with him till he passed gently away.
Almost broken-hearted, Nell returned with her kind friend to his cottage. She stole away to bed as quickly as she could, and when she was alone gave free vent to her sorrow in a flood of tears. But she felt through her grief a feeling of thankfulness that she herself was spared to the one relative and friend she loved so well.
The sun darting his cheerful rays into she room awoke her next morning; and now they must take leave of the poor schoolmaster, and wander forth once more. By the time they were ready to go school had begun. But the schoolmaster rose from his desk and walked with them to the gate.
It was with a trembling hand that the child held out to him the money which a lady had given her at the race-meeting for some wild 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 again, and, stooping, kissed her cheek.
They bade him good-bye very many times, and turned away, walking slowly and often looking back, until they could see him no more. At length they left the village far behind, and even lost sight of the smoke above the trees. They walked onward now at a quicker pace, keeping to the main road, meaning to go wherever it might lead them.
Chapter V.
THE CARAVAN.
The afternoon had worn away into a beautiful evening when the travellers came to 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 fields, a caravan was drawn up to rest, upon which they came so suddenly that they could not have passed it by even if they had wished to do so.
It was not a shabby, dingy, dusty cart, but a smart little house upon wheels, with white curtains to the windows, and window shutters of green with bright panels of red. Neither was it a poor caravan drawn by a single donkey or horse, for a pair of fine horses were grazing on the grass. Near it at the open door (graced with a bright brass knocker) sat a stout lady taking tea. The tea-things, as well as a cold knuckle of ham, were set forth upon a drum covered with a white napkin.
It happened that at that moment the lady of the caravan had her large cup to her lips, and having her eyes also lifted to the sky in her enjoyment of the tea, she did not see the travellers when they first came up. It was not until she was setting down the cup, and drawing a long breath of contentment, that she beheld an old man and a young child walking slowly by, and glancing at her with hungry eyes.
"Hey!" cried the lady, scooping the crumbs out of her lap, and swallowing the same before wiping her lips. "Yes, to be sure. Who won the second day's race, child?"
"Won what, ma'am?" asked Nell.
"The race that was run on the second day."
"I don't know, ma'am."
"Don't know!" said 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 a friend of the Punch and Judy men, but what followed calmed her fears.
"And very sorry I was," said the lady of the caravan, "to see you in company with a Punch—a low 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 them, child!" cried the lady of the caravan in a sort of shriek. "Know them! But you're young and know very little, and that's your excuse for asking such a question. Do I look as if I knowed 'em?"
"No, ma'am, no," said the child. "I beg your pardon."
It was granted at once, though the lady still appeared much ruffled by the question. The child then said that they had left the races on the first day, and were travelling to the next town on that road, where they meant to spend the night. As the face of the stout lady began to brighten, she asked how far it was. The reply was that the town was eight miles off.
The child could scarcely keep back a tear as she glanced along the darkening road. Her grandfather made no complaint, but he sighed heavily, and peered forward into the dusky distance.
The lady of the caravan was about to gather her tea-things together, but noting the child's look, she stopped. Nell curtsied, thanked her, 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. "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," said the lady.—"I suppose you are agreeable to that, old gentleman?"
The grandfather humbly pulled off his hat, and thanked her. The lady of the caravan then bade him come up the steps also; but the drum proving an unsuitable table for two, they came down again, and sat upon the grass. The lady then handed down to them the tea-tray, the bread-and-butter, and the ham.
"Set 'em out near the hind wheels, child—that's the best place," said their friend 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."
While they were eating, the lady of the caravan came down the steps, and with her hands clasped behind her, walked up and down in a very stately manner. She looked at the caravan from time to time with an air of calm delight, and seemed to be much pleased with the red panels and the brass knocker.
When she had taken this exercise for some time, she sat down upon the steps and called "George," whereupon a man in a carter's frock, who had been hidden in a hedge up to this time, parted the twigs and looked out. He was seated on the ground, and had on his legs a baking-dish and a stone bottle, 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."
"We are not a heavy load, George?
"That's always what the ladies say," replied the man. "If you see a woman a-driving, you'll always see she never will keep her whip still; the horse can't go fast enough for her. If horses have got their proper load, a woman always thinks that they can bear something more. What is the cause of this here?"
"Would these two travellers make much difference to the horses if we took them with us?" asked his mistress, pointing to Nell and the old man, who were now ready to go on their way on foot.
"They'd make a difference, in course," said George slowly.
"Would they make much difference?" repeated his mistress. "They can't be very heavy."