The Old Curiosity Shop
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.
CHAPTER 26
Almost broken-hearted, Nell withdrew with the schoolmaster from the
bedside and returned to his cottage. In the midst of her grief and
tears she was yet careful to conceal their real cause from the old man,
for the dead boy had been a grandchild, and left but one aged relative
to mourn his premature decay.
She stole away to bed as quickly as she could, and when she was alone,
gave free vent to the sorrow with which her breast was overcharged.
But the sad scene she had witnessed, was not without its lesson of
content and gratitude; of content with the lot which left her health
and freedom; and gratitude that she was spared to the one relative and
friend she loved, and to live and move in a beautiful world, when so
many young creatures--as young and full of hope as she--were stricken
down and gathered to their graves. How many of the mounds in that old
churchyard where she had lately strayed, grew green above the graves of
children! And though she thought as a child herself, and did not
perhaps sufficiently consider to what a bright and happy existence
those who die young are borne, and how in death they lose the pain of
seeing others die around them, bearing to the tomb some strong
affection of their hearts (which makes the old die many times in one
long life), still she thought wisely enough, to draw a plain and easy
moral from what she had seen that night, and to store it, deep in her
mind.
Her dreams were of the little scholar: not coffined and covered up, but
mingling with angels, and smiling happily. The sun darting his
cheerful rays into the room, awoke her; and now there remained but to
take leave of the poor schoolmaster and wander forth once more.
By the time they were ready to depart, school had begun. In the
darkened room, the din of yesterday was going on again: a little
sobered and softened down, perhaps, but only a very little, if at all.
The schoolmaster rose from his desk and walked with them to the gate.
It was with a trembling and reluctant hand, that the child held out to
him the money which the lady had given her at the races for her
flowers: faltering in her thanks as she thought how small the sum was,
and blushing as she offered it. But he bade her put it up, and
stooping to kiss her cheek, turned back into his house.
They had not gone half-a-dozen paces when he was at the door again; the
old man retraced his steps to shake hands, and the child did the same.
‘Good fortune and happiness go with you!’ said the poor schoolmaster.
‘I am quite a solitary man now. If you ever pass this way again,
you’ll not forget the little village-school.’
‘We shall never forget it, sir,’ rejoined Nell; ‘nor ever forget to be
grateful to you for your kindness to us.’
‘I have heard such words from the lips of children very often,’ said
the schoolmaster, shaking his head, and smiling thoughtfully, ‘but they
were soon forgotten. I had attached one young friend to me, the better
friend for being young--but that’s over--God bless you!’
They bade him farewell very many times, and turned away, walking slowly
and often looking back, until they could see him no more. At length
they had left the village far behind, and even lost sight of the smoke
among the trees. They trudged onward now, at a quicker pace, resolving
to keep the main road, and go wherever it might lead them.
But main roads stretch a long, long way. With the exception of two or
three inconsiderable clusters of cottages which they passed, without
stopping, and one lonely road-side public-house where they had some
bread and cheese, this highway had led them to nothing--late in the
afternoon--and still lengthened out, far in the distance, the same
dull, tedious, winding course, that they had been pursuing all day. As
they had no resource, however, but to go forward, they still kept on,
though at a much slower pace, being very weary and fatigued.
The afternoon had worn away into a beautiful evening, when they arrived
at a point where the road made a sharp turn and struck across a common.
On the border of this common, and close to the hedge which divided it
from the cultivated fields, a caravan was drawn up to rest; upon which,
by reason of its situation, they came so suddenly that they could not
have avoided it if they would.
It was not a shabby, dingy, dusty cart, but a smart little house upon
wheels, with white dimity curtains festooning the windows, and
window-shutters of green picked out with panels of a staring red, in
which happily-contrasted colours the whole concern shone brilliant.
Neither was it a poor caravan drawn by a single donkey or emaciated
horse, for a pair of horses in pretty good condition were released from
the shafts and grazing on the frouzy grass. Neither was it a gipsy