*III. AT THE END OF THE JOURNEY*
It was the poor schoolmaster. Scarcely less moved and surprised by thesight of the child than she had been on recognizing him, he stood, for amoment, without even the presence of mind to raise her from the ground.
But quickly recovering his self-possession, he threw down his stick andbook, and dropping on one knee beside her, endeavored by such simplemeans as occurred to him to restore her to herself; while hergrandfather, standing idly by, wrung his hands, and implored her withmany endearing expressions to speak to him, were it only a word.
"She is quite exhausted," said the schoolmaster, glancing upward intohis face. "You have taxed her powers too far, friend."
"She is perishing of want," rejoined the old man. "I never thought howweak and ill she was till now."
Casting a look upon him, half reproachful and half compassionate, theschoolmaster took the child in his arms, and, bidding the old man gatherup her little basket and follow him directly, bore her away at hisutmost speed.
There was a small inn within sight, to which, it would seem, he had beendirecting his steps when so unexpectedly overtaken. Towards this placehe hurried with his unconscious burden, and rushing into the kitchendeposited it on a chair before the fire.
A doctor was hastily called in and restoratives were applied; afterwhich 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, andwas greatly relieved to find that she was much better, though still soweak that it would require a day's careful nursing before she couldproceed upon her journey. That evening he was allowed to see her, andwas greatly touched by the sight of her pale, pinched face. But sheheld out both hands to him.
"It makes me unhappy even in the midst of all this kindness," said thechild, "to think that we should be a burden upon you. How can I everthank you? If I had not met you so far from home, I must have died, andpoor 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 andschoolmaster to a village a long way from here--and a long way from theold 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 methe stagecoach hire--outside stage-coach hire all the way. Bless you,they grudge me nothing. But as the time at which I am expected thereleft me ample leisure, I determined to walk instead. How glad I am tothink 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 areyou coming from, what have you been doing since you left me, what hadyou been doing before? Now, tell me--do tell me. I know very little ofthe world, and perhaps you are better fitted to advise me in its affairsthan I am qualified to give advice to you; but I am very sincere, and Ihave a reason (you have not forgotten it) for loving you. I have feltsince that time as if my love for him who died had been transferred toyou."
Nell was moved in her turn by this allusion to the favorite pupil whohad died, and by the plain, frank kindness of the good schoolmaster. Shetold him all--that they had no friend or relative--that she had fledwith the old man to save him from all the miseries he dreaded--that shewas flying now to save him from himself--and that she sought an asylumin some quiet place, where the temptation before which he fell wouldnever 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 wereall three to travel together to the village where his new school waslocated, and he made no doubt he could find them some simple andcongenial employment.
The child joyfully accepted this; and the journey was made verycomfortably in a stage which went that way. Stowed among the softerbundles and packages she thought this to be a drowsy, luxurious way ofgoing, indeed.
At last they came upon a quiet, restful-looking hamlet clustered in avalley among some stately trees.
"See--here's the church!" cried the delighted schoolmaster, in a lowvoice; "and that old building close beside it is the schoolhouse, I'llbe sworn. Five-and-thirty pounds a year in this beautiful place!"
They admired everything--the old gray porch, the green churchyard, theancient tower, the very weathercock; the brown thatched roofs ofcottage, barn, and homestead, peeping from among the trees; the streamthat rippled by the distant watermill; the blue Welsh mountains faraway. 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 thesqualid horrors through which they had forced their way, visions of suchscenes--beautiful indeed, but not more beautiful than this sweetreality--had been always present to her mind. They had seemed to meltinto a dim and airy distance, as the prospect of ever beholding themagain grew fainter; but, as they receded, she had loved and panted forthem more.
"I must leave you somewhere for a few minutes," said the schoolmaster,at length breaking the silence into which they had fallen in theirgladness. "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 inthe 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 hadcarried 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 hidhim from her view, and then stepped softly out into the oldchurchyard--so solemn and quiet that every rustle of her dress upon thefallen leaves, which strewed the path and made her footsteps noiseless,seemed an invasion of its silence. It was an aged, ghostly place; thechurch had been built hundreds of years before; yet from this firstglimpse the child loved it and felt that in some strange way she was apart of its crumbling walls and grass-grown churchyard.
After a time the schoolmaster reappeared, hurrying towards them andswinging 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, theschoolmaster took her hand, and, his honest face quite radiant withexultation, led her to the place of which he spoke.
They stopped before its low, arched door. After trying several of thekeys in vain, the schoolmaster found one to fit the huge lock, whichturned back, creaking, and admitted them into the house.
It was a very old house, and, like the church, falling into decay, yetstill handsome with high vaulted ceilings and queer carvings. It wasnot quite destitute of furniture. A few strange chairs, whose arms andlegs looked as though they had dwindled away with age; a table, the veryspectre of its race; a great old chest that had once held records in thechurch, with other quaintly fashioned domestic necessaries, and store offirewood for the winter, were scattered around, and gave evident tokensof its occupation as a dwelling-place, at no very distant time.
The child looked around her, with that solemn feeling with which wecontemplate the work of ages that have become but drops of water in thegreat ocean of eternity. The old man had followed them, but they wereall three hushed for a space, and drew their breath softly, as if theyfeared to break the silence, even by so slight a sound.
"It is a very beautiful place!" said the child, in a low v
oice.
"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, fromthe church porch, the same feeling came over me. It is its being so oldand 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 bodyin," 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 isyours."
Having now disburdened himself of his great surprise, the schoolmastersat down, and drawing Nell to his side, told her how he had learned thatthe ancient tenement had been occupied for a very long time by an oldperson, who kept the keys of the church, opened and closed it for theservices, and showed it to strangers; how she had died not many weeksago, and nobody had yet been found to fill the office; how, learning allthis in an interview with the sexton, he had hurried to the clergymanand obtained the vacant post for Nell and her grandfather.
"There's a small allowance of money," said the schoolmaster. "It is notmuch, but still enough to live upon in this retired spot. By clubbingour 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 itwill, and has, in leading us through sorrow and trouble to this tranquillife. But we must look at my house now. Come!"
They repaired to the other tenement; tried the rusty keys as before; atlength found the right one; and opened the worm-eaten door. It led intoa chamber, vaulted and old, like that from which they had come, but notso spacious, and having only one other little room attached. It was notdifficult to divine that the other house was of right theschoolmaster's, and that he had chosen for himself the least commodious,in his care and regard for them. Like the adjoining habitation, it heldsuch old articles of furniture as were absolutely necessary, and had itsstack 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 cheerfulfire glowing and crackling on the hearth, and reddening the pale oldwalls with a hale and healthy blush. Nell, busily plying her needle,repaired the tattered window-hangings, drew together the rents that timehad worn in the threadbare scraps of carpet, and made them whole anddecent. The schoolmaster swept and smoothed the ground before the door,trimmed the long grass, trained the ivy and creeping plants, which hungtheir drooping heads in melancholy neglect; and gave to the outer wallsa cheery air of home. The old man, sometimes by his side and sometimeswith the child, lent his aid to both, went here and there on littlepatient services, and was happy. Neighbors, too, as they came fromwork, proffered their help; or sent their children with such smallpresents or loans as the strangers needed most. So it was not many daysbefore they were quite cosy; and Nell felt again, in that strange waywhich had come over her at the church, that she had always been a partof the place.
And how she loved her work from the very first! Hour after hour shewould spend in the old church, dusting off its pews or casements withreverent fingers, or more often, sitting quietly before some tablet orinscription looking at it or beyond it, with a dreamy light in her eyes.
Her grandfather noted her attitude anxiously. He saw that she grew morelistless and frail, day by day, and he sought constantly--poor oldman!--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 apartfrom them. They were constantly showing her kindness, or pausing at thechurch gate to speak with her; but as they went their way, a sad smileor shake of the head told only too plainly of their fears. She was likesome rare, delicate flower which, they knew, could not endure the frostof winter.
The good schoolmaster gently chided her for spending so much of her timein the church and among the graves, instead of out in the light andsunshine. But she only smiled and said she loved to tend the graves andkeep them neat, for she could not bear to think that any lying thereshould be forgotten, or that she herself might be forgotten some day.
"There is nothing good that is forgotten," he replied kindly. "There isnot an angel added to the host of Heaven but does its blessed work onearth in those that loved it here."
As the cold days of autumn and winter drew on, the child spent more andmore time within doors, on a couch before the fire. The slightest taskwearied her now, and her grandfather kept watch night and day to saveher needless steps. He could scarcely bear her out of his sight; andoften would creep to the side of her couch during the night, listeningto her breathing or stroking her slender fingers softly. And if bychance she awoke and smiled on him, he would creep back to his own bedcomforted.
But one chill morning in midwinter, when the snow lay thickly on theground, it seemed to him that she slept more quietly than usual. Theschoolmaster, coming in, found him crouched over a fire, mutteringsoftly to himself, and wondering why she slumbered so long. The twowent softly into her chamber, and then the schoolmaster knew why she wasso quiet.
For she was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead. No sleepso 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 breathof life; not one who had lived and suffered death.
The old man held one languid arm in his, and had the small hand tightfolded to his breast, for warmth. It was the hand she had stretched outto him with her last smile--the hand that had led him on, through alltheir wanderings. Ever and anon he pressed it to his lips, then huggedit to his breast again, murmuring that it was warmer now; and, as hesaid it, he looked in agony to the schoolmaster, as if imploring him tohelp her.
She was dead, and past all help, or need of it. The ancient rooms shehad seemed to fill with life, even while her own was waning fast; thegarden she had tended; the eyes she had gladdened; the noiseless hauntsof many a thoughtful hour; the paths she had trodden as it were butyesterday--could know her nevermore.
"It is not," said the schoolmaster, as he bent down to kiss her on thecheek, and gave his tears free vent, "it is not on earth that Heaven'sjustice ends. Think what earth is, compared with the world to which heryoung spirit has winged its early flight, and say, if one deliberatewish expressed in solemn terms above this bed could call her back tolife, which of us would utter it!"
The whole village, young and old, came to the churchyard when they laidher to rest--save only the old man. He could not realize that she wasdead, 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 himthe truth--that her body had been put away in the cold earth--and thenhis grief and distress were pitiful to see. He seemed at once to loseall 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, callingher 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 hisknapsack on his back, his staff in hand, her own straw hat, and littlebasket full of such things as she had been used to carry, was gone. Asthey were making ready to pursue him far and wide, a frightenedschoolboy came who had seen him, but a moment before, sitting in thechurch--upon her grave, he said.
They hastened there, and going softly to the door, espied him in theattitude of one who waited patiently. Th
ey did not disturb him then,but kept a watch upon him all that day. When it grew quite dark, he roseand returned home, and went to bed, murmuring to himself, "She will cometo-morrow!"
Upon the morrow he was there again from sunrise until night; and stillat night he laid him down to rest, and murmured, "She will cometo-morrow!"
And thenceforth, every day, and all day long, he waited at her grave forher. How many pictures of new journeys over pleasant country, ofresting-places under the free broad sky, of rambles in the fields andwoods, and paths not often trodden; how many tones of that onewell-remembered voice; how many glimpses of the form, the flutteringdress, the hair that waved so gaily in the wind; how many visions ofwhat had been, and what he hoped was yet to be--rose up before him, inthe old, dull, silent church! He never told them what he thought, orwhere he went. He would sit with them at night, pondering with a secretsatisfaction, they could see, upon the flight that he and she would takebefore night came again; and still they would hear him whisper in hisprayers, "Lord! Let her come to-morrow!"
The last time was on a genial day in spring. He did not return at theusual hour, and they went to seek him. He was lying dead upon thestone.
They laid him by the side of her whom he had loved so well; and, in thechurch 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*
Stories from Dickens Page 10