第 24 页

'The older a dwarf is, the better worth he is,' returned Mr Vuffin; 'a

grey-headed dwarf, well wrinkled, is beyond all suspicion. But a giant

weak in the legs and not standing upright!--keep him in the carawan,

but never show him, never show him, for any persuasion that can be

offered.'

While Mr Vuffin and his two friends smoked their pipes and beguiled the

time with such conversation as this, the silent gentleman sat in a warm

corner, swallowing, or seeming to swallow, sixpennyworth of halfpence

for practice, balancing a feather upon his nose, and rehearsing other

feats of dexterity of that kind, without paying any regard whatever to

the company, who in their turn left him utterly unnoticed. At length

the weary child prevailed upon her grandfather to retire, and they

withdrew, leaving the company yet seated round the fire, and the dogs

fast asleep at a humble distance.

After bidding the old man good night, Nell retired to her poor garret,

but had scarcely closed the door, when it was gently tapped at. She

opened it directly, and was a little startled by the sight of Mr Thomas

Codlin, whom she had left, to all appearance, fast asleep down stairs.

'What is the matter?' said the child.

'Nothing's the matter, my dear,' returned her visitor. 'I'm your

friend. Perhaps you haven't thought so, but it's me that's your

friend--not him.'

'Not who?' the child inquired.

'Short, my dear. I tell you what,' said Codlin, 'for all his having a

kind of way with him that you'd be very apt to like, I'm the real,

open-hearted man. I mayn't look it, but I am indeed.'

The child began to be alarmed, considering that the ale had taken

effect upon Mr Codlin, and that this commendation of himself was the

consequence.

'Short's very well, and seems kind,' resumed the misanthrope, 'but he

overdoes it. Now I don't.'

Certainly if there were any fault in Mr Codlin's usual deportment, it

was that he rather underdid his kindness to those about him, than

overdid it. But the child was puzzled, and could not tell what to say.

'Take my advice,' said Codlin: 'don't ask me why, but take it. As long

as you travel with us, keep as near me as you can. Don't offer to

leave us--not on any account--but always stick to me and say that I'm

your friend. Will you bear that in mind, my dear, and always say that

it was me that was your friend?'

'Say so where--and when?' inquired the child innocently.

'O, nowhere in particular,' replied Codlin, a little put out as it

seemed by the question; 'I'm only anxious that you should think me so,

and do me justice. You can't think what an interest I have in you.

Why didn't you tell me your little history--that about you and the poor

old gentleman? I'm the best adviser that ever was, and so interested

in you--so much more interested than Short. I think they're breaking

up down stairs; you needn't tell Short, you know, that we've had this

little talk together. God bless you. Recollect the friend. Codlin's

the friend, not Short. Short's very well as far as he goes, but the

real friend is Codlin--not Short.'

Eking out these professions with a number of benevolent and protecting

looks and great fervour of manner, Thomas Codlin stole away on tiptoe,

leaving the child in a state of extreme surprise. She was still

ruminating upon his curious behaviour, when the floor of the crazy

stairs and landing cracked beneath the tread of the other travellers

who were passing to their beds. When they had all passed, and the

sound of their footsteps had died away, one of them returned, and after

a little hesitation and rustling in the passage, as if he were doubtful

what door to knock at, knocked at hers.

'Yes,' said the child from within.

'It's me--Short'--a voice called through the keyhole. 'I only wanted

to say that we must be off early to-morrow morning, my dear, because

unless we get the start of the dogs and the conjuror, the villages

won't be worth a penny. You'll be sure to be stirring early and go

with us? I'll call you.'

The child answered in the affirmative, and returning his 'good night'

heard him creep away. She felt some uneasiness at the anxiety of these

men, increased by the recollection of their whispering together down

stairs and their slight confusion when she awoke, nor was she quite

free from a misgiving that they were not the fittest companions she

could have stumbled on. Her uneasiness, however, was nothing, weighed

against her fatigue; and she soon forgot it in sleep.

Very early next morning, Short fulfilled his promise, and knocking

softly at her door, entreated that she would get up directly, as the

proprietor of the dogs was still snoring, and if they lost no time they

might get a good deal in advance both of him and the conjuror, who was

talking in his sleep, and from what he could be heard to say, appeared

to be balancing a donkey in his dreams. She started from her bed

without delay, and roused the old man with so much expedition that they

were both ready as soon as Short himself, to that gentleman's

unspeakable gratification and relief.

After a very unceremonious and scrambling breakfast, of which the

staple commodities were bacon and bread, and beer, they took leave of

the landlord and issued from the door of the jolly Sandboys. The

morning was fine and warm, the ground cool to the feet after the late

rain, the hedges gayer and more green, the air clear, and everything

fresh and healthful. Surrounded by these influences, they walked on

pleasantly enough.

They had not gone very far, when the child was again struck by the

altered behaviour of Mr Thomas Codlin, who instead of plodding on

sulkily by himself as he had heretofore done, kept close to her, and

when he had an opportunity of looking at her unseen by his companion,

warned her by certain wry faces and jerks of the head not to put any

trust in Short, but to reserve all confidences for Codlin. Neither did

he confine himself to looks and gestures, for when she and her

grandfather were walking on beside the aforesaid Short, and that little

man was talking with his accustomed cheerfulness on a variety of

indifferent subjects, Thomas Codlin testified his jealousy and distrust

by following close at her heels, and occasionally admonishing her

ankles with the legs of the theatre in a very abrupt and painful manner.

All these proceedings naturally made the child more watchful and

suspicious, and she soon observed that whenever they halted to perform

outside a village alehouse or other place, Mr Codlin while he went

through his share of the entertainments kept his eye steadily upon her

and the old man, or with a show of great friendship and consideration

invited the latter to lean upon his arm, and so held him tight until

the representation was over and they again went forward. Even Short

seemed to change in this respect, and to mingle with his good-nature

something of a desire to keep them in safe custody. This increased the

child's misgivings, and made her yet more anxious and uneasy.

Meanwhile, they were drawing near the town where the races were to

begin next day; for, from passing numerous groups of gipsies and

trampers on the road, wending their way towards it, and straggling out

from every by-way and cross-country lane, they gradually fell into a

stream of people, some walking by the side of covered carts, others

with horses, others with donkeys, others toiling on with heavy loads

upon their backs, but all tending to the same point. The public-houses

by the wayside, from being empty and noiseless as those in the remoter

parts had been, now sent out boisterous shouts and clouds of smoke;

and, from the misty windows, clusters of broad red faces looked down

upon the road. On every piece of waste or common ground, some small

gambler drove his noisy trade, and bellowed to the idle passersby to

stop and try their chance; the crowd grew thicker and more noisy; gilt

gingerbread in blanket-stalls exposed its glories to the dust; and

often a four-horse carriage, dashing by, obscured all objects in the

gritty cloud it raised, and left them, stunned and blinded, far behind.

It was dark before they reached the town itself, and long indeed the

few last miles had been. Here all was tumult and confusion; the

streets were filled with throngs of people--many strangers were there,

it seemed, by the looks they cast about--the church-bells rang out

their noisy peals, and flags streamed from windows and house-tops. In

the large inn-yards waiters flitted to and fro and ran against each

other, horses clattered on the uneven stones, carriage steps fell

rattling down, and sickening smells from many dinners came in a heavy

lukewarm breath upon the sense. In the smaller public-houses, fiddles

with all their might and main were squeaking out the tune to staggering

feet; drunken men, oblivious of the burden of their song, joined in a

senseless howl, which drowned the tinkling of the feeble bell and made

them savage for their drink; vagabond groups assembled round the doors

to see the stroller woman dance, and add their uproar to the shrill

flageolet and deafening drum.

Through this delirious scene, the child, frightened and repelled by all

she saw, led on her bewildered charge, clinging close to her conductor,

and trembling lest in the press she should be separated from him and

left to find her way alone. Quickening their steps to get clear of all

the roar and riot, they at length passed through the town and made for

the race-course, which was upon an open heath, situated on an eminence,

a full mile distant from its furthest bounds.

Although there were many people here, none of the best favoured or best

clad, busily erecting tents and driving stakes in the ground, and

hurrying to and fro with dusty feet and many a grumbled oath--although

there were tired children cradled on heaps of straw between the wheels

of carts, crying themselves to sleep--and poor lean horses and donkeys

just turned loose, grazing among the men and women, and pots and

kettles, and half-lighted fires, and ends of candles flaring and

wasting in the air--for all this, the child felt it an escape from the

town and drew her breath more freely. After a scanty supper, the

purchase of which reduced her little stock so low, that she had only a

few halfpence with which to buy a breakfast on the morrow, she and the

old man lay down to rest in a corner of a tent, and slept, despite the

busy preparations that were going on around them all night long.

And now they had come to the time when they must beg their bread. Soon

after sunrise in the morning she stole out from the tent, and rambling

into some fields at a short distance, plucked a few wild roses and such

humble flowers, purposing to make them into little nosegays and offer

them to the ladies in the carriages when the company arrived. Her

thoughts were not idle while she was thus employed; when she returned

and was seated beside the old man in one corner of the tent, tying her

flowers together, while the two men lay dozing in another corner, she

plucked him by the sleeve, and slightly glancing towards them, said, in

a low voice--

'Grandfather, don't look at those I talk of, and don't seem as if I

spoke of anything but what I am about. What was that you told me

before we left the old house? That if they knew what we were going to

do, they would say that you were mad, and part us?'

The old man turned to her with an aspect of wild terror; but she

checked him by a look, and bidding him hold some flowers while she tied

them up, and so bringing her lips closer to his ear, said--

'I know that was what you told me. You needn't speak, dear. I

recollect it very well. It was not likely that I should forget it.

Grandfather, these men suspect that we have secretly left our friends,

and mean to carry us before some gentleman and have us taken care of

and sent back. If you let your hand tremble so, we can never get away

from them, but if you're only quiet now, we shall do so, easily.'

'How?' muttered the old man. 'Dear Nelly, how? They will shut me up

in a stone room, dark and cold, and chain me up to the wall, Nell--flog

me with whips, and never let me see thee more!'

'You're trembling again,' said the child. 'Keep close to me all day.

Never mind them, don't look at them, but me. I shall find a time when

we can steal away. When I do, mind you come with me, and do not stop

or speak a word. Hush! That's all.'

'Halloa! what are you up to, my dear?' said Mr Codlin, raising his

head, and yawning. Then observing that his companion was fast asleep,

he added in an earnest whisper, 'Codlin's the friend, remember--not

Short.'

'Making some nosegays,' the child replied; 'I am going to try and sell

some, these three days of the races. Will you have one--as a present I

mean?'

Mr Codlin would have risen to receive it, but the child hurried towards

him and placed it in his hand. He stuck it in his buttonhole with an

air of ineffable complacency for a misanthrope, and leering exultingly

at the unconscious Short, muttered, as he laid himself down again, 'Tom

Codlin's the friend, by G--!'

As the morning wore on, the tents assumed a gayer and more brilliant

appearance, and long lines of carriages came rolling softly on the

turf. Men who had lounged about all night in smock-frocks and leather

leggings, came out in silken vests and hats and plumes, as jugglers or

mountebanks; or in gorgeous liveries as soft-spoken servants at

gambling booths; or in sturdy yeoman dress as decoys at unlawful games.

Black-eyed gipsy girls, hooded in showy handkerchiefs, sallied forth to

tell fortunes, and pale slender women with consumptive faces lingered