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CHAPTER 25
After a sound night's rest in a chamber in the thatched roof, in
which it seemed the sexton had for some years been a lodger, but
which he had lately deserted for a wife and a cottage of his own,
the child rose early in the morning and descended to the room where
she had supped last night. As the schoolmaster had already left his
bed and gone out, she bestirred herself to make it neat and
comfortable, and had just finished its arrangement when the kind
host returned.
He thanked her many times, and said that the old dame who usually
did such offices for him had gone to nurse the little scholar whom
he had told her of. The child asked how he was, and hoped he was
better.
'No,' rejoined the schoolmaster shaking his head sorrowfully, 'no
better. They even say he is worse.'
'I am very sorry for that, Sir,' said the child.
The poor schoolmaster appeared to be gratified by her earnest
manner, but yet rendered more uneasy by it, for he added hastily
that anxious people often magnified an evil and thought it greater
than it was; 'for my part,' he said, in his quiet, patient way, 'I
hope it's not so. I don't think he can be worse.'
The child asked his leave to prepare breakfast, and her grandfather
coming down stairs, they all three partook of it together. While
the meal was in progress, their host remarked that the old man
seemed much fatigued, and evidently stood in need of rest.
'If the journey you have before you is a long one,' he said, 'and
don't press you for one day, you're 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, uncertain whether to accept
or decline his offer; 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. If you must proceed 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 irresolutely, 'say what
we're to do, dear.'
It required no great persuasion to induce the child to answer that
they had better accept the invitation and remain. She was happy to
show her gratitude to the kind schoolmaster by busying herself in
the performance of such household duties as his little cottage
stood in need of. When these were done, she took some needle-work
from her basket, and sat herself down upon a stool beside the
lattice, where the honeysuckle and woodbine entwined their tender
stems, and stealing into the room filled it with their delicious
breath. Her grandfather was basking in the sun outside, breathing
the perfume of the flowers, and idly watching the clouds as they
floated on before the light summer wind.
As the schoolmaster, after arranging the two forms in due order,
took his seat behind his desk and made other preparations for
school, the child was apprehensive that she might be in the way,
and offered to withdraw to her little bedroom. But this he would
not allow, and as he seemed pleased to have her there, she
remained, 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
trophies on the wall.
'Good boys,' returned the schoolmaster, 'good boys enough, my dear,
but they'll never do like that.'
A small white-headed boy with a sunburnt face appeared at the door
while he was speaking, and stopping there to make a rustic bow,
came in and took his seat upon one of the forms. The white-headed
boy then put an open book, astonishingly dog's-eared upon his
knees, and thrusting his hands into his pockets began counting the
marbles with which they were filled; displaying in the expression
of his face a remarkable capacity of totally abstracting his mind
from the spelling on which his eyes were fixed. Soon afterwards
another white-headed little boy came straggling in, and after him
a red-headed lad, and after him two more with white heads, and then
one with a flaxen poll, and so on until the forms were occupied by
a dozen boys or thereabouts, with heads of every colour but grey,
and ranging in their ages from four years old to fourteen years or
more; for the legs of the youngest were a long way from the floor
when he sat upon the form, and the eldest was a heavy good-tempered
foolish fellow, about half a head taller than the schoolmaster.
At the top of the first form--the post of honour in the school--
was the vacant place of the little sick scholar, and at the head of
the row of pegs on which those who came in hats or caps were wont
to hang them up, one was left empty. No boy attempted to violate
the sanctity of seat or peg, but many a one looked from the empty
spaces to the schoolmaster, and whispered his idle neighbour behind
his hand.
Then began the hum of conning over lessons and getting them by
heart, the whispered jest and stealthy game, and all the noise and
drawl of school; and in the midst of the din sat the poor
schoolmaster, the very image of meekness and simplicity, vainly
attempting to fix his mind upon the duties of the day, and to
forget his little friend. But the tedium of his office reminded him
more strongly of the willing scholar, and his thoughts were
rambling from his pupils--it was plain.
None knew this better than the idlest boys, who, growing bolder
with impunity, waxed louder and more daring; playing odd-or-even
under the master's eye, eating apples openly and without rebuke,
pinching each other in sport or malice without the least reserve,
and cutting their autographs in the very legs of his desk. The
puzzled dunce, who stood beside it to say his lesson out of book,
looked no longer at the ceiling for forgotten words, but drew
closer to the master's elbow and boldly cast his eye upon the page;
the wag of the little troop squinted and made grimaces (at the
smallest boy of course), holding no book before his face, and his
approving audience knew no constraint in their delight. If the
master did chance to rouse himself and seem alive to what was going
on, the noise subsided for a moment and no eyes met his but wore a
studious and a deeply humble look; but the instant he relapsed
again, it broke out afresh, and ten times louder than before.
Oh! how some of those idle fellows longed to be outside, and how
they looked at the open door and window, as if they half
meditated rushing violently out, plunging into the woods, and being
wild boys and savages from that time forth. What rebellious
thoughts of the cool river, and some shady bathing-place beneath
willow trees with branches dipping in the water, kept tempting and
urging that sturdy boy, who, with his shirt-collar unbuttoned and
flung back as far as it could go, sat fanning his flushed face with
a spelling-book, wishing himself a whale, or a tittlebat, or a fly,
or anything but a boy at school on that hot, broiling day! Heat!
ask that other boy, whose seat being nearest to the door gave him
opportunities of gliding out into the garden and driving his
companions to madness by dipping his face into the bucket of the
well and then rolling on the grass--ask him if there were ever
such a day as that, when even the bees were diving deep down into
the cups of flowers and stopping there, as if they had made up
their minds to retire from business and be manufacturers of honey
no more. The day was made for laziness, and lying on one's back in
green places, and staring at the sky till its brightness forced one
to shut one's eyes and go to sleep; and was this a time to be
poring over musty books in a dark room, slighted by the very sun
itself? Monstrous!
Nell sat by the window occupied with her work, but attentive still
to all that passed, though sometimes rather timid of the boisterous
boys. The lessons over, writing time began; and there being but one
desk and that the master's, each boy sat at it in turn and laboured
at his crooked copy, while the master walked about. This was a
quieter time; for he would come and look over the writer's
shoulder, and tell him mildly to observe how such a letter was
turned in such a copy on the wall, praise such an up-stroke here
and such a down-stroke there, and bid him take it for his model.
Then he would stop and tell them what the sick child had said last
night, and how he had longed to be among them once again; and such
was the poor schoolmaster's gentle and affectionate manner, that
the boys seemed quite remorseful that they had worried him so much,
and were absolutely quiet; eating no apples, cutting no names,
inflicting no pinches, and making no grimaces, for full two minutes
afterwards.
'I think, boys,' said the schoolmaster when the clock struck
twelve, 'that I shall give an extra half-holiday this afternoon.'
At this intelligence, the boys, led on and headed by the tall boy,
raised a great shout, in the midst of which the master was seen to
speak, but could not be heard. As he held up his hand, however, in
token of his wish that they should be silent, they were considerate
enough to leave off, as soon as the longest-winded among them were
quite out of breath.
'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 and companion.'
There was a general murmur (and perhaps a very sincere one, for
they were but boys) in the negative; and the tall boy, perhaps as
sincerely as any of them, called those about him to witness that he
had only shouted in a whisper.
'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.
Be as happy as you can, and don't be unmindful that you are blessed
with health. Good-bye all!'
'Thank'ee, Sir,' and 'good-bye, Sir,' were said a good many times
in a variety of voices, 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 to all free boys to
climb and nestle among their leafy branches; the hay, entreating
them to come and scatter it to the pure air; the green corn, gently
beckoning towards wood and stream; the smooth ground, rendered
smoother still by blending lights and shadows, inviting to runs and
leaps, and long walks God knows whither. It was more than boy could
bear, and with a joyous whoop the whole cluster 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!'
It is difficult, however, to please everybody, as most of us would
have discovered, even without the fable which bears that moral, and
in the course of the afternoon several mothers and aunts of pupils
looked in to express their entire disapproval of the schoolmaster's
proceeding. A few confined themselves to hints, such as politely
inquiring what red-letter day or saint's day the almanack said it
was; a few (these were the profound village politicians) argued
that it was a slight to the throne and an affront to church and
state, and savoured of revolutionary principles, to grant a
half-holiday upon any lighter occasion than the birthday of the
Monarch; but the majority expressed their displeasure on private
grounds and in plain terms, arguing that to put the pupils on this
short allowance of learning was nothing but an act of downright
robbery and fraud: and one old lady, finding that she could not
inflame or irritate the peaceable schoolmaster by talking to him,
bounced out of his house and talked at him for half-an-hour outside
his own window, to another old lady, saying that of course he would
deduct this half-holiday from his weekly charge, or of course he
would naturally expect to have an opposition started against him;
there was no want of idle chaps in that neighbourhood (here the old
lady raised her voice), and some chaps who were too idle even to be
schoolmasters, might soon find that there were other chaps put over
their heads, and so she would have them take care, and look pretty
sharp about them. But all these taunts and vexations failed to
elicit one word from the meek schoolmaster, who sat with the child
by his side--a little more dejected perhaps, but quite silent and
uncomplaining.
Towards night an old woman came tottering up the garden as speedily
as she could, and meeting the schoolmaster at the door, said he was
to go to Dame West's directly, and had best run on before her. He
and the child were on the point of going out together for a walk,
and without relinquishing her hand, the schoolmaster hurried away,
leaving the messenger to follow as she might.
They stopped at a cottage-door, and the schoolmaster knocked softly
at it with his hand. It was opened without loss of time. They
entered a room where a little group of women were gathered about
one, older than the rest, who was crying very bitterly, and sat
wringing her hands and rocking herself to and fro.
'Oh, 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. It's
all along of you. You shouldn't see him now, but for his being so
earnest on it. This is what his learning has brought him to. Oh
dear, dear, dear, what can I do!'
'Do not say that I am in any fault,' urged the gentle school-
master. 'I am not hurt, dame. No, no. You are in great distress of
mind, and don't mean what you say. I am sure you don't.'
'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,
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.
Content of CHAPTER 25 [Charles Dickens' novel: The Old Curiosity Shop]
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