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CHAPTER 46
It was the poor schoolmaster. No other than the poor schoolmaster.
Scarcely less moved and surprised by the sight of the child than
she had been on recognising him, he stood, for a moment, silent and
confounded by this unexpected apparition, without even the presence
of mind to raise her from the ground.
But, quickly recovering his self-possession, he threw down his
stick and book, and dropping on one knee beside her, endeavoured,
by such simple means as occurred to him, to restore her to herself;
while her grandfather, standing idly by, wrung his hands, and
implored her with many endearing expressions to speak to him, were
it only a word.
'She is quite exhausted,' said the schoolmaster, glancing upward
into his face. 'You have taxed her powers too far, friend.'
'She is perishing of want,' rejoined the old man. 'I never thought
how weak and ill she was, till now.'
Casting a look upon him, half-reproachful and half-compassionate,
the schoolmaster took the child in his arms, and, bidding the old
man gather up her little basket and follow him directly, bore her
away at his utmost speed.
There was a small inn within sight, to which, it would seem, he had
been directing his steps when so unexpectedly overtaken. Towards
this place he hurried with his unconscious burden, and rushing into
the kitchen, and calling upon the company there assembled to make
way for God's sake, deposited it on a chair before the fire.
The company, who rose in confusion on the schoolmaster's entrance,
did as people usually do under such circumstances. Everybody
called for his or her favourite remedy, which nobody brought; each
cried for more air, at the same time carefully excluding what air
there was, by closing round the object of sympathy; and all
wondered why somebody else didn't do what it never appeared to
occur to them might be done by themselves.
The landlady, however, who possessed more readiness and activity
than any of them, and who had withal a quicker perception of the
merits of the case, soon came running in, with a little hot brandy
and water, followed by her servant-girl, carrying vinegar,
hartshorn, smelling-salts, and such other restoratives; which,
being duly administered, recovered the child so far as to enable
her to thank them in a faint voice, and to extend her hand to the
poor schoolmaster, who stood, with an anxious face, hard by.
Without suffering her to speak another word, or so much as to stir
a finger any more, the women straightway carried her off to bed;
and, having covered her up warm, bathed her cold feet, and wrapped
them in flannel, they despatched a messenger for the doctor.
The doctor, who was a red-nosed gentleman with a great bunch of
seals dangling below a waistcoat of ribbed black satin, arrived
with all speed, and taking his seat by the bedside of poor Nell,
drew out his watch, and felt her pulse. Then he looked at her
tongue, then he felt her pulse again, and while he did so, he eyed
the half-emptied wine-glass as if in profound abstraction.
'I should give her,' said the doctor at length, 'a tea-spoonful,
every now and then, of hot brandy and water.'
'Why, that's exactly what we've done, sir!' said the delighted
landlady.
'I should also,' observed the doctor, who had passed the foot-bath
on the stairs, 'I should also,' said the doctor, in the voice of an
oracle, 'put her feet in hot water, and wrap them up in flannel.
I should likewise,' said the doctor with increased solemnity, 'give
her something light for supper--the wing of a roasted fowl now--'
'Why, goodness gracious me, sir, it's cooking at the kitchen fire
this instant!' cried the landlady. And so indeed it was, for the
schoolmaster had ordered it to be put down, and it was getting on
so well that the doctor might have smelt it if he had tried;
perhaps he did.
'You may then,' said the doctor, rising gravely, 'give her a glass
of hot mulled port wine, if she likes wine--'
'And a toast, Sir?' suggested the landlady.
'Ay,' said the doctor, in the tone of a man who makes a dignified
concession. 'And a toast--of bread. But be very particular to
make it of bread, if you please, ma'am.'
With which parting injunction, slowly and portentously delivered,
the doctor departed, leaving the whole house in admiration of that
wisdom which tallied so closely with their own. Everybody said he
was a very shrewd doctor indeed, and knew perfectly what people's
constitutions were; which there appears some reason to suppose he
did.
While her supper was preparing, the child fell into a refreshing
sleep, from which they were obliged to rouse her when it was ready.
As she evinced extraordinary uneasiness on learning that her
grandfather was below stairs, and as she was greatly troubled at
the thought of their being apart, he took his supper with her.
Finding her still very restless on this head, they made him up a
bed in an inner room, to which he presently retired. The key of
this chamber happened by good fortune to be on that side of the
door which was in Nell's room; she turned it on him when the
landlady had withdrawn, and crept to bed again with a thankful
heart.
The schoolmaster sat for a long time smoking his pipe by the
kitchen fire, which was now deserted, thinking, with a very happy
face, on the fortunate chance which had brought him so opportunely
to the child's assistance, and parrying, as well as in his simple
way he could, the inquisitive cross-examination of the landlady,
who had a great curiosity to be made acquainted with every
particular of Nell's life and history. The poor schoolmaster was
so open-hearted, and so little versed in the most ordinary cunning
or deceit, that she could not have failed to succeed in the first
five minutes, but that he happened to be unacquainted with what she
wished to know; and so he told her. The landlady, by no means
satisfied with this assurance, which she considered an ingenious
evasion of the question, rejoined that he had his reasons of
course. Heaven forbid that she should wish to pry into the affairs
of her customers, which indeed were no business of hers, who had so
many of her own. She had merely asked a civil question, and to be
sure she knew it would meet with a civil answer. She was quite
satisfied--quite. She had rather perhaps that he would have said
at once that he didn't choose to be communicative, because that
would have been plain and intelligible. However, she had no right
to be offended of course. He was the best judge, and had a perfect
right to say what he pleased; nobody could dispute that for a
moment. Oh dear, no!
'I assure you, my good lady,' said the mild schoolmaster, 'that I
have told you the plain truth. As I hope to be saved, I have told
you the truth.'
'Why then, I do believe you are in earnest,' rejoined the landlady,
with ready good-humour, 'and I'm very sorry I have teazed you. But
curiosity you know is the curse of our sex, and that's the fact.'
The landlord scratched his head, as if he thought the curse
sometimes involved the other sex likewise; but he was prevented
from making any remark to that effect, if he had it in
contemplation to do so, by the schoolmaster's rejoinder.
'You should question me for half-a-dozen hours at a sitting, and
welcome, and I would answer you patiently for the kindness of heart
you have shown to-night, if I could,' he said. 'As it is, please
to take care of her in the morning, and let me know early how she
is; and to understand that I am paymaster for the three.'
So, parting with them on most friendly terms (not the less cordial
perhaps for this last direction), the schoolmaster went to his bed,
and the host and hostess to theirs.
The report in the morning was, that the child was better, but was
extremely weak, and would at least require a day's rest, and
careful nursing, before she could proceed upon her journey. The
schoolmaster received this communication with perfect cheerfulness,
observing that he had a day to spare--two days for that matter--
and could very well afford to wait. As the patient was to sit up
in the evening, he appointed to visit her in her room at a certain
hour, and rambling out with his book, did not return until the hour
arrived.
Nell could not help weeping when they were left alone; whereat, and
at sight of her pale face and wasted figure, the simple
schoolmaster shed a few tears himself, at the same time showing in
very energetic language how foolish it was to do so, and how very
easily it could be avoided, if one tried.
'It makes me unhappy even in the midst of all this kindness' said
the child, 'to think that we should be a burden upon you. How can
I ever thank you? If I had not met you so far from home, I must
have died, and he would have been left alone.'
'We'll not talk about dying,' said the schoolmaster; 'and as to
burdens, I have made my fortune since you slept at my cottage.'
'Indeed!' cried the child joyfully.
'Oh yes,' returned her friend. 'I have been appointed clerk and
schoolmaster to a village a long way from here--and a long way
from the old one as you may suppose--at five-and-thirty pounds a
year. Five-and-thirty pounds!'
'I am very glad,' said the child, 'so very, very glad.'
'I am on my way there now,' resumed the schoolmaster. 'They
allowed me the stage-coach-hire--outside stage-coach-hire all the
way. Bless you, they grudge me nothing. But as the time at which
I am expected there, left me ample leisure, I determined to walk
instead. How glad I am, to think I did so!'
'How glad should we be!'
'Yes, yes,' said the schoolmaster, moving restlessly in his chair,
'certainly, that's very true. But you--where are you going, where
are you coming from, what have you been doing since you left me,
what had you been doing before? Now, tell me--do tell me. I know
very little of the world, and perhaps you are better fitted to
advise me in its affairs than I am qualified to give advice to you;
but I am very sincere, and I have a reason (you have not forgotten
it) for loving you. I have felt since that time as if my love for
him who died, had been transferred to you who stood beside his bed.
If this,' he added, looking upwards, 'is the beautiful creation
that springs from ashes, let its peace prosper with me, as I deal
tenderly and compassionately by this young child!'
The plain, frank kindness of the honest schoolmaster, the
affectionate earnestness of his speech and manner, the truth which
was stamped upon his every word and look, gave the child a
confidence in him, which the utmost arts of treachery and
dissimulation could never have awakened in her breast. She told
him all--that they had no friend or relative--that she had fled
with the old man, to save him from a madhouse and all the miseries
he dreaded--that she was flying now, to save him from himself--
and that she sought an asylum in some remote and primitive place,
where the temptation before which he fell would never enter, and
her late sorrows and distresses could have no place.
The schoolmaster heard her with astonishment. 'This child!'--he
thought--'Has this child heroically persevered under all doubts
and dangers, struggled with poverty and suffering, upheld and
sustained by strong affection and the consciousness of rectitude
alone! And yet the world is full of such heroism. Have I yet to
learn that the hardest and best-borne trials are those which are
never chronicled in any earthly record, and are suffered every day!
And should I be surprised to hear the story of this child!'
What more he thought or said, matters not. It was concluded that
Nell and her grandfather should accompany him to the village
whither he was bound, and that he should endeavour to find them
some humble occupation by which they could subsist. 'We shall be
sure to succeed,' said the schoolmaster, heartily. 'The cause is
too good a one to fail.'
They arranged to proceed upon their journey next evening, as a
stage-waggon, which travelled for some distance on the same road as
they must take, would stop at the inn to change horses, and the
driver for a small gratuity would give Nell a place inside. A
bargain was soon struck when the waggon came; and in due time it
rolled away; with the child comfortably bestowed among the softer
packages, her grandfather and the schoolmaster walking on beside
the driver, and the landlady and all the good folks of the inn
screaming out their good wishes and farewells.
What a soothing, luxurious, drowsy way of travelling, to lie inside
that slowly-moving mountain, listening to the tinkling of the
horses' bells, the occasional smacking of the carter's whip, the
smooth rolling of the great broad wheels, the rattle of the
harness, the cheery good-nights of passing travellers jogging past
on little short-stepped horses--all made pleasantly indistinct by
the thick awning, which seemed made for lazy listening under, till
one fell asleep! The very going to sleep, still with an indistinct
idea, as the head jogged to and fro upon the pillow, of moving
onward with no trouble or fatigue, and hearing all these sounds
like dreamy music, lulling to the senses--and the slow waking up,
and finding one's self staring out through the breezy curtain
half-opened in the front, far up into the cold bright sky with its
countless stars, and downward at the driver's lantern dancing on
like its namesake Jack of the swamps and marshes, and sideways at
the dark grim trees, and forward at the long bare road rising up,
up, up, until it stopped abruptly at a sharp high ridge as if there
were no more road, and all beyond was sky--and the stopping at the
inn to bait, and being helped out, and going into a room with fire
and candles, and winking very much, and being agreeably reminded
that the night was cold, and anxious for very comfort's sake to
think it colder than it was!--What a delicious journey was that
journey in the waggon.
Then the going on again--so fresh at first, and shortly afterwards
so sleepy. The waking from a sound nap as the mail came dashing
past like a highway comet, with gleaming lamps and rattling hoofs,
and visions of a guard behind, standing up to keep his feet warm,
and of a gentleman in a fur cap opening his eyes and looking wild
and stupefied--the stopping at the turnpike where the man was gone
to bed, and knocking at the door until he answered with a smothered
shout from under the bed-clothes in the little room above, where
the faint light was burning, and presently came down, night-capped
and shivering, to throw the gate wide open, and wish all waggons
off the road except by day. The cold sharp interval between night
and morning--the distant streak of light widening and spreading,
and turning from grey to white, and from white to yellow, and from
yellow to burning red--the presence of day, with all its
cheerfulness and life--men and horses at the plough--birds in the
trees and hedges, and boys in solitary fields, frightening them
away with rattles. The coming to a town--people busy in the
markets; light carts and chaises round the tavern yard; tradesmen
standing at their doors; men running horses up and down the street
for sale; pigs plunging and grunting in the dirty distance, getting
off with long strings at their legs, running into clean chemists'
shops and being dislodged with brooms by 'prentices; the night
coach changing horses--the passengers cheerless, cold, ugly, and
discontented, with three months' growth of hair in one night--the
coachman fresh as from a band-box, and exquisitely beautiful by
contrast:--so much bustle, so many things in motion, such a
variety of incidents--when was there a journey with so many
delights as that journey in the waggon!
Sometimes walking for a mile or two while her grandfather rode
inside, and sometimes even prevailing upon the schoolmaster to take
her place and lie down to rest, Nell travelled on very happily
until they came to a large town, where the waggon stopped, and
where they spent a night. They passed a large church; and in the
streets were a number of old houses, built of a kind of earth or
plaster, crossed and re-crossed in a great many directions with
black beams, which gave them a remarkable and very ancient look.
The doors, too, were arched and low, some with oaken portals and
quaint benches, where the former inhabitants had sat on summer
evenings. The windows were latticed in little diamond panes, that
seemed to wink and blink upon the passengers as if they were dim of
sight. They had long since got clear of the smoke and furnaces,
except in one or two solitary instances, where a factory planted
among fields withered the space about it, like a burning mountain.
When they had passed through this town, they entered again upon the
country, and began to draw near their place of destination.
It was not so near, however, but that they spent another night upon
the road; not that their doing so was quite an act of necessity,
but that the schoolmaster, when they approached within a few miles
of his village, had a fidgety sense of his dignity as the new
clerk, and was unwilling to make his entry in dusty shoes, and
travel-disordered dress. It was a fine, clear, autumn morning,
when they came upon the scene of his promotion, and stopped to
contemplate its beauties.
'See--here's the church!' cried the delighted schoolmaster in a
low voice; 'and that old building close beside it, is the school-
house, I'll be sworn. Five-and-thirty pounds a-year in this
beautiful place!'
They admired everything--the old grey porch, the mullioned
windows, the venerable gravestones dotting the green churchyard,
the ancient tower, the very weathercock; the brown thatched roofs
of cottage, barn, and homestead, peeping from among the trees; the
stream that rippled by the distant water-mill; the blue Welsh
mountains far away. It was for such a spot the child had wearied
in the dense, dark, miserable haunts of labour. Upon her bed of
ashes, and amidst the squalid horrors through which they had forced
their way, visions of such scenes--beautiful indeed, but not more
beautiful than this sweet reality--had been always present to her
mind. They had seemed to melt into a dim and airy distance, as the
prospect of ever beholding them again grew fainter; but, as they
receded, she had loved and panted for them more.
'I must leave you somewhere for a few minutes,' said the
schoolmaster, at length breaking the silence into which they had
fallen in their gladness. 'I have a letter to present, and
inquiries to make, you know. Where shall I take you? To the
little inn yonder?'
'Let us wait here,' rejoined Nell. 'The gate is open. We will sit
in the church porch till you come back.'
'A good place too,' said the schoolmaster, leading the way towards
it, disencumbering himself of his portmanteau, and placing it on
the stone seat. 'Be sure that I come back with good news, and am
not long gone!'
So, the happy schoolmaster put on a bran-new pair of gloves which
he had carried in a little parcel in his pocket all the way, and
hurried off, full of ardour and excitement.
The child watched him from the porch until the intervening foliage
hid him from her view, and then stepped softly out into the old
churchyard--so solemn and quiet that every rustle of her dress
upon the fallen leaves, which strewed the path and made her
footsteps noiseless, seemed an invasion of its silence. It was a
very aged, ghostly place; the church had been built many hundreds
of years ago, and had once had a convent or monastery attached; for
arches in ruins, remains of oriel windows, and fragments of
blackened walls, were yet standing-, while other portions of the
old building, which had crumbled away and fallen down, were mingled
with the churchyard earth and overgrown with grass, as if they too
claimed a burying-place and sought to mix their ashes with the dust
of men. Hard by these gravestones of dead years, and forming a
part of the ruin which some pains had been taken to render
habitable in modern times, were two small dwellings with sunken
windows and oaken doors, fast hastening to decay, empty and
desolate.
Upon these tenements, the attention of the child became exclusively
riveted. She knew not why. The church, the ruin, the antiquated
graves, had equal claims at least upon a stranger's thoughts, but
from the moment when her eyes first rested on these two dwellings,
she could turn to nothing else. Even when she had made the circuit
of the enclosure, and, returning to the porch, sat pensively
waiting for their friend, she took her station where she could
still look upon them, and felt as if fascinated towards that spot.
Content of CHAPTER 46 [Charles Dickens' novel: The Old Curiosity Shop]
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