The Old Curiosity Shop
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