الفصل الفصل 52 · 第52章

After a long time, the schoolmaster appeared at the wicket-gate of the

churchyard, and hurried towards them, tingling in his hand, as he came

along, a bundle of rusty keys. He was quite breathless with pleasure

and haste when he reached the porch, and at first could only point

towards the old building which the child had been contemplating so

earnestly.

‘You see those two old houses,’ he said at last.

‘Yes, surely,’ replied Nell. ‘I have been looking at them nearly all

the time you have been away.’

‘And you would have looked at them more curiously yet, if you could

have guessed what I have to tell you,’ said her friend. ‘One of those

houses is mine.’

Without saying any more, or giving the child time to reply, the

schoolmaster took her hand, and, his honest face quite radiant with

exultation, led her to the place of which he spoke.

They stopped before its low arched door. After trying several of the

keys in vain, the schoolmaster found one to fit the huge lock, which

turned back, creaking, and admitted them into the house.

The room into which they entered was a vaulted chamber once nobly

ornamented by cunning architects, and still retaining, in its beautiful

groined roof and rich stone tracery, choice remnants of its ancient

splendour. Foliage carved in the stone, and emulating the mastery of

Nature’s hand, yet remained to tell how many times the leaves outside

had come and gone, while it lived on unchanged. The broken figures

supporting the burden of the chimney-piece, though mutilated, were

still distinguishable for what they had been--far different from the

dust without--and showed sadly by the empty hearth, like creatures who

had outlived their kind, and mourned their own too slow decay.

In some old time--for even change was old in that old place--a wooden

partition had been constructed in one part of the chamber to form a

sleeping-closet, into which the light was admitted at the same period

by a rude window, or rather niche, cut in the solid wall. This screen,

together with two seats in the broad chimney, had at some forgotten

date been part of the church or convent; for the oak, hastily

appropriated to its present purpose, had been little altered from its

former shape, and presented to the eye a pile of fragments of rich

carving from old monkish stalls.

An open door leading to a small room or cell, dim with the light that

came through leaves of ivy, completed the interior of this portion of

the ruin. It was not quite destitute of furniture. A few strange

chairs, whose arms and legs looked as though they had dwindled away

with age; a table, the very spectre of its race: a great old chest that

had once held records in the church, with other quaintly-fashioned

domestic necessaries, and store of fire-wood for the winter, were

scattered around, and gave evident tokens of its occupation as a

dwelling-place at no very distant time.

The child looked around her, with that solemn feeling with which we

contemplate the work of ages that have become but drops of water in the

great ocean of eternity. The old man had followed them, but they were

all three hushed for a space, and drew their breath softly, as if they

feared to break the silence even by so slight a sound.

‘It is a very beautiful place!’ said the child, in a low voice.

‘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, from

the church porch, the same feeling came over me. It is its being so

old and grey 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!’ She would have said

more, but that the energy of her thoughts caused her voice to falter,

and come in trembling whispers from her lips.

‘A place to live, and learn to live, and gather health of mind and body

in,’ said the schoolmaster; ‘for this old house is yours.’

‘Ours!’ cried the child.

‘Ay,’ returned the schoolmaster gaily, ‘for many a merry year to come,

I hope. I shall be a close neighbour--only next door--but this house

is yours.’

Having now disburdened himself of his great surprise, the schoolmaster

sat down, and drawing Nell to his side, told her how he had learnt that

ancient tenement had been occupied for a very long time by an old

person, nearly a hundred years of age, who kept the keys of the church,

opened and closed it for the services, and showed it to strangers; how

she had died not many weeks ago, and nobody had yet been found to fill

the office; how, learning all this in an interview with the sexton, who

was confined to his bed by rheumatism, he had been bold to make mention

of his fellow-traveller, which had been so favourably received by that

high authority, that he had taken courage, acting on his advice, to

propound the matter to the clergyman. In a word, the result of his

exertions was, that Nell and her grandfather were to be carried before

the last-named gentleman next day; and, his approval of their conduct

and appearance reserved as a matter of form, that they were already

appointed to the vacant post.

‘There’s a small allowance of money,’ said the schoolmaster. ‘It is

not much, but still enough to live upon in this retired spot. By

clubbing our 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 it

will, and has, in leading us through sorrow and trouble to this

tranquil life. But we must look at MY house now. Come!’

They repaired to the other tenement; tried the rusty keys as before; at

length found the right one; and opened the worm-eaten door. It led

into a chamber, vaulted and old, like that from which they had come,

but not so spacious, and having only one other little room attached.

It was not difficult to divine that the other house was of right the

schoolmaster’s, and that he had chosen for himself the least

commodious, in his care and regard for them. Like the adjoining

habitation, it held such old articles of furniture as were absolutely

necessary, and had its stack of fire-wood.

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 cheerful

fire glowing and crackling on the hearth, and reddening the pale old

wall with a hale and healthy blush. Nell, busily plying her needle,

repaired the tattered window-hangings, drew together the rents that

time had worn in the threadbare scraps of carpet, and made them whole

and decent. The schoolmaster swept and smoothed the ground before the

door, trimmed the long grass, trained the ivy and creeping plants which

hung their drooping heads in melancholy neglect; and gave to the outer

walls a cheery air of home. The old man, sometimes by his side and

sometimes with the child, lent his aid to both, went here and there on

little patient services, and was happy. Neighbours, too, as they came

from work, proffered their help; or sent their children with such small

presents or loans as the strangers needed most. It was a busy day; and

night came on, and found them wondering that there was yet so much to

do, and that it should be dark so soon.

They took their supper together, in the house which may be henceforth

called the child’s; and, when they had finished their meal, drew round

the fire, and almost in whispers--their hearts were too quiet and glad

for loud expression--discussed their future plans. Before they

separated, the schoolmaster read some prayers aloud; and then, full of

gratitude and happiness, they parted for the night.

At that silent hour, when her grandfather was sleeping peacefully in

his bed, and every sound was hushed, the child lingered before the

dying embers, and thought of her past fortunes as if they had been a

dream And she only now awoke. The glare of the sinking flame,

reflected in the oaken panels whose carved tops were dimly seen in the

dusky roof--the aged walls, where strange shadows came and went with

every flickering of the fire--the solemn presence, within, of that

decay which falls on senseless things the most enduring in their

nature: and, without, and round about on every side, of Death--filled

her with deep and thoughtful feelings, but with none of terror or

alarm. A change had been gradually stealing over her, in the time of

her loneliness and sorrow. With failing strength and heightening

resolution, there had sprung up a purified and altered mind; there had

grown in her bosom blessed thoughts and hopes, which are the portion of

few but the weak and drooping. There were none to see the frail,

perishable figure, as it glided from the fire and leaned pensively at

the open casement; none but the stars, to look into the upturned face

and read its history. The old church bell rang out the hour with a

mournful sound, as if it had grown sad from so much communing with the

dead and unheeded warning to the living; the fallen leaves rustled; the

grass stirred upon the graves; all else was still and sleeping.

Some of those dreamless sleepers lay close within the shadow of the

church--touching the wall, as if they clung to it for comfort and

protection. Others had chosen to lie beneath the changing shade of

trees; others by the path, that footsteps might come near them; others,

among the graves of little children. Some had desired to rest beneath

the very ground they had trodden in their daily walks; some, where the

setting sun might shine upon their beds; some, where its light would

fall upon them when it rose. Perhaps not one of the imprisoned souls

had been able quite to separate itself in living thought from its old

companion. If any had, it had still felt for it a love like that which

captives have been known to bear towards the cell in which they have

been long confined, and, even at parting, hung upon its narrow bounds

affectionately.

It was long before the child closed the window, and approached her bed.

Again something of the same sensation as before--an involuntary

chill--a momentary feeling akin to fear--but vanishing directly, and

leaving no alarm behind. Again, too, dreams of the little scholar; of

the roof opening, and a column of bright faces, rising far away into

the sky, as she had seen in some old scriptural picture once, and

looking down on her, asleep. It was a sweet and happy dream. The

quiet spot, outside, seemed to remain the same, saving that there was

music in the air, and a sound of angels’ wings. After a time the

sisters came there, hand in hand, and stood among the graves. And then

the dream grew dim, and faded.

With the brightness and joy of morning, came the renewal of yesterday’s

labours, the revival of its pleasant thoughts, the restoration of its

energies, cheerfulness, and hope. They worked gaily in ordering and

arranging their houses until noon, and then went to visit the clergyman.

He was a simple-hearted old gentleman, of a shrinking, subdued spirit,

accustomed to retirement, and very little acquainted with the world,

which he had left many years before to come and settle in that place.

His wife had died in the house in which he still lived, and he had long

since lost sight of any earthly cares or hopes beyond it.

He received them very kindly, and at once showed an interest in Nell;

asking her name, and age, her birthplace, the circumstances which had

led her there, and so forth. The schoolmaster had already told her

story. They had no other friends or home to leave, he said, and had

come to share his fortunes. He loved the child as though she were his

own.

‘Well, well,’ said the clergyman. ‘Let it be as you desire. She is

very young.’

‘Old in adversity and trial, sir,’ replied the schoolmaster.

‘God help her. Let her rest, and forget them,’ said the old gentleman.

‘But an old church is a dull and gloomy place for one so young as you,

my child.’

‘Oh no, sir,’ returned Nell. ‘I have no such thoughts, indeed.’

‘I would rather see her dancing on the green at nights,’ said the old

gentleman, laying his hand upon her head, and smiling sadly, ‘than have

her sitting in the shadow of our mouldering arches. You must look to

this, and see that her heart does not grow heavy among these solemn

ruins. Your request is granted, friend.’

After more kind words, they withdrew, and repaired to the child’s

house; where they were yet in conversation on their happy fortune, when

another friend appeared.

This was a little old gentleman, who lived in the parsonage-house, and

had resided there (so they learnt soon afterwards) ever since the death

of the clergyman’s wife, which had happened fifteen years before. He

had been his college friend and always his close companion; in the

first shock of his grief he had come to console and comfort him; and

from that time they had never parted company. The little old gentleman

was the active spirit of the place, the adjuster of all differences,

the promoter of all merry-makings, the dispenser of his friend’s

bounty, and of no small charity of his own besides; the universal

mediator, comforter, and friend. None of the simple villagers had

cared to ask his name, or, when they knew it, to store it in their

memory. Perhaps from some vague rumour of his college honours which

had been whispered abroad on his first arrival, perhaps because he was

an unmarried, unencumbered gentleman, he had been called the bachelor.

The name pleased him, or suited him as well as any other, and the

Bachelor he had ever since remained. And the bachelor it was, it may

be added, who with his own hands had laid in the stock of fuel which

the wanderers had found in their new habitation.

The bachelor, then--to call him by his usual appellation--lifted the

latch, showed his little round mild face for a moment at the door, and

stepped into the room like one who was no stranger to it.

‘You are Mr Marton, the new schoolmaster?’ he said, greeting Nell’s

kind friend.

‘I am, sir.’

‘You come well recommended, and I am glad to see you. I should have

been in the way yesterday, expecting you, but I rode across the country

to carry a message from a sick mother to her daughter in service some

miles off, and have but just now returned. This is our young

church-keeper? You are not the less welcome, friend, for her sake, or

for this old man’s; nor the worse teacher for having learnt humanity.’

‘She has been ill, sir, very lately,’ said the schoolmaster, in answer

to the look with which their visitor regarded Nell when he had kissed

her cheek.

‘Yes, yes. I know she has,’ he rejoined. ‘There have been suffering

and heartache here.’

‘Indeed there have, sir.’

The little old gentleman glanced at the grandfather, and back again at

the child, whose hand he took tenderly in his, and held.

‘You will be happier here,’ he said; ‘we will try, at least, to make

you so. You have made great improvements here already. Are they the

work of your hands?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘We may make some others--not better in themselves, but with better

means perhaps,’ said the bachelor. ‘Let us see now, let us see.’

Nell accompanied him into the other little rooms, and over both the

houses, in which he found various small comforts wanting, which he

engaged to supply from a certain collection of odds and ends he had at

home, and which must have been a very miscellaneous and extensive one,

as it comprehended the most opposite articles imaginable. They all

came, however, and came without loss of time; for the little old

gentleman, disappearing for some five or ten minutes, presently

returned, laden with old shelves, rugs, blankets, and other household

gear, and followed by a boy bearing a similar load. These being cast

on the floor in a promiscuous heap, yielded a quantity of occupation in

arranging, erecting, and putting away; the superintendence of which

task evidently afforded the old gentleman extreme delight, and engaged

him for some time with great briskness and activity. When nothing more

was left to be done, he charged the boy to run off and bring his

schoolmates to be marshalled before their new master, and solemnly

reviewed.

‘As good a set of fellows, Marton, as you’d wish to see,’ he said,

turning to the schoolmaster when the boy was gone; ‘but I don’t let ‘em

know I think so. That wouldn’t do, at all.’

The messenger soon returned at the head of a long row of urchins, great

and small, who, being confronted by the bachelor at the house door,

fell into various convulsions of politeness; clutching their hats and

caps, squeezing them into the smallest possible dimensions, and making

all manner of bows and scrapes, which the little old gentleman

contemplated with excessive satisfaction, and expressed his approval of

by a great many nods and smiles. Indeed, his approbation of the boys

was by no means so scrupulously disguised as he had led the

schoolmaster to suppose, inasmuch as it broke out in sundry loud

whispers and confidential remarks which were perfectly audible to them

every one.

‘This first boy, schoolmaster,’ said the bachelor, ‘is John

Owen; a lad of good parts, sir, and frank, honest temper; but too

thoughtless, too playful, too light-headed by far. That boy, my good

sir, would break his neck with pleasure, and deprive his parents of

their chief comfort--and between ourselves, when you come to see him at

hare and hounds, taking the fence and ditch by the finger-post, and

sliding down the face of the little quarry, you’ll never forget it.

It’s beautiful!’

John Owen having been thus rebuked, and being in perfect possession of

the speech aside, the bachelor singled out another boy.

‘Now, look at that lad, sir,’ said the bachelor. ‘You see that fellow?

Richard Evans his name is, sir. An amazing boy to learn, blessed with

a good memory, and a ready understanding, and moreover with a good

voice and ear for psalm-singing, in which he is the best among us.

Yet, sir, that boy will come to a bad end; he’ll never die in his bed;

he’s always falling asleep in sermon-time--and to tell you the truth,

Mr Marton, I always did the same at his age, and feel quite certain

that it was natural to my constitution and I couldn’t help it.’

This hopeful pupil edified by the above terrible reproval, the bachelor

turned to another.

‘But if we talk of examples to be shunned,’ said he, ‘if we come to

boys that should be a warning and a beacon to all their fellows, here’s

the one, and I hope you won’t spare him. This is the lad, sir; this

one with the blue eyes and light hair. This is a swimmer, sir, this

fellow--a diver, Lord save us! This is a boy, sir, who had a fancy for

plunging into eighteen feet of water, with his clothes on, and bringing

up a blind man’s dog, who was being drowned by the weight of his chain

and collar, while his master stood wringing his hands upon the bank,

bewailing the loss of his guide and friend. I sent the boy two guineas

anonymously, sir,’ added the bachelor, in his peculiar whisper,

‘directly I heard of it; but never mention it on any account, for he

hasn’t the least idea that it came from me.’

Having disposed of this culprit, the bachelor turned to another, and

from him to another, and so on through the whole array, laying, for

their wholesome restriction within due bounds, the same cutting

emphasis on such of their propensities as were dearest to his heart and

were unquestionably referrable to his own precept and example.

Thoroughly persuaded, in the end, that he had made them miserable by

his severity, he dismissed them with a small present, and an admonition

to walk quietly home, without any leapings, scufflings, or turnings out

of the way; which injunction, he informed the schoolmaster in the same

audible confidence, he did not think he could have obeyed when he was a

boy, had his life depended on it.

Hailing these little tokens of the bachelor’s disposition as so many

assurances of his own welcome course from that time, the schoolmaster

parted from him with a light heart and joyous spirits, and deemed

himself one of the happiest men on earth. The windows of the two old

houses were ruddy again, that night, with the reflection of the

cheerful fires that burnt within; and the bachelor and his friend,

pausing to look upon them as they returned from their evening walk,

spoke softly together of the beautiful child, and looked round upon the

churchyard with a sigh.