Bab Bab 25 · 第25章

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.