第 32 页

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

caravan, for at the open door (graced with a bright brass knocker) sat

a Christian lady, stout and comfortable to look upon, who wore a large

bonnet trembling with bows. And that it was not an unprovided or

destitute caravan was clear from this lady's occupation, which was the

very pleasant and refreshing one of taking tea. The tea-things,

including a bottle of rather suspicious character and a cold knuckle of

ham, were set forth upon a drum, covered with a white napkin; and

there, as if at the most convenient round-table in all the world, sat

this roving lady, taking her tea and enjoying the prospect.

It happened that at that moment the lady of the caravan had her cup

(which, that everything about her might be of a stout and comfortable

kind, was a breakfast cup) to her lips, and that having her eyes lifted

to the sky in her enjoyment of the full flavour of the tea, not

unmingled possibly with just the slightest dash or gleam of something

out of the suspicious bottle--but this is mere speculation and not

distinct matter of history--it happened that being thus agreeably

engaged, she did not see the travellers when they first came up. It

was not until she was in the act of getting down the cup, and drawing a

long breath after the exertion of causing its contents to disappear,

that the lady of the caravan beheld an old man and a young child

walking slowly by, and glancing at her proceedings with eyes of modest

but hungry admiration.

'Hey!' cried the lady of the caravan, scooping the crumbs out of her

lap and swallowing the same before wiping her lips. 'Yes, to be

sure--Who won the Helter-Skelter Plate, child?'

'Won what, ma'am?' asked Nell.

'The Helter-Skelter Plate at the races, child--the plate that was run

for on the second day.'

'On the second day, ma'am?'

'Second day! Yes, second day,' repeated the lady with an air of

impatience. 'Can't you say who won the Helter-Skelter Plate when

you're asked the question civilly?'

'I don't know, ma'am.'

'Don't know!' repeated the lady of the caravan; 'why, you were there.

I saw you with my own eyes.'

Nell was not a little alarmed to hear this, supposing that the lady

might be intimately acquainted with the firm of Short and Codlin; but

what followed tended to reassure her.

'And very sorry I was,' said the lady of the caravan, 'to see you in

company with a Punch; a low, practical, wulgar wretch, that people

should scorn to look at.'

'I was not there by choice,' returned the child; 'we didn't know our

way, and the two men were very kind to us, and let us travel with them.

Do you--do you know them, ma'am?'

'Know 'em, child!' cried the lady of the caravan in a sort of shriek.

'Know them! But you're young and inexperienced, and that's your excuse

for asking sich a question. Do I look as if I know'd 'em, does the

caravan look as if it know'd 'em?'

'No, ma'am, no,' said the child, fearing she had committed some

grievous fault. 'I beg your pardon.'

It was granted immediately, though the lady still appeared much ruffled

and discomposed by the degrading supposition. The child then explained

that they had left the races on the first day, and were travelling to

the next town on that road, where they purposed to spend the night. As

the countenance of the stout lady began to clear up, she ventured to

inquire how far it was. The reply--which the stout lady did not come

to, until she had thoroughly explained that she went to the races on

the first day in a gig, and as an expedition of pleasure, and that her

presence there had no connexion with any matters of business or

profit--was, that the town was eight miles off.

This discouraging information a little dashed the child, who could

scarcely repress a tear as she glanced along the darkening road. Her

grandfather made no complaint, but he sighed heavily as he leaned upon

his staff, and vainly tried to pierce the dusty distance.

The lady of the caravan was in the act of gathering her tea equipage

together preparatory to clearing the table, but noting the child's

anxious manner she hesitated and stopped. The child curtseyed, thanked

her for her information, and giving her hand to the old man had already

got some fifty yards or so away, when the lady of the caravan called to

her to return.

'Come nearer, nearer still,' said she, beckoning to her to ascend the

steps. 'Are you hungry, child?'

'Not very, but we are tired, and it's--it IS a long way.'

'Well, hungry or not, you had better have some tea,' rejoined her new

acquaintance. 'I suppose you are agreeable to that, old gentleman?'

The grandfather humbly pulled off his hat and thanked her. The lady of

the caravan then bade him come up the steps likewise, but the drum

proving an inconvenient table for two, they descended again, and sat

upon the grass, where she handed down to them the tea-tray, the bread

and butter, the knuckle of ham, and in short everything of which she

had partaken herself, except the bottle which she had already embraced

an opportunity of slipping into her pocket.

'Set 'em out near the hind wheels, child, that's the best place,' said

their friend, superintending the arrangements from above. 'Now hand up

the teapot for a little more hot water, and a pinch of fresh tea, and

then both of you eat and drink as much as you can, and don't spare

anything; that's all I ask of you.'

They might perhaps have carried out the lady's wish, if it had been

less freely expressed, or even if it had not been expressed at all.

But as this direction relieved them from any shadow of delicacy or

uneasiness, they made a hearty meal and enjoyed it to the utmost.

While they were thus engaged, the lady of the caravan alighted on the

earth, and with her hands clasped behind her, and her large bonnet

trembling excessively, walked up and down in a measured tread and very

stately manner, surveying the caravan from time to time with an air of

calm delight, and deriving particular gratification from the red panels

and the brass knocker. When she had taken this gentle exercise for

some time, she sat down upon the steps and called 'George'; whereupon a

man in a carter's frock, who had been so shrouded in a hedge up to this

time as to see everything that passed without being seen himself,

parted the twigs that concealed him, and appeared in a sitting

attitude, supporting on his legs a baking-dish and a half-gallon stone

bottle, and bearing in his right hand a knife, and in his left a fork.

'Yes, Missus,' said George.

'How did you find the cold pie, George?'

'It warn't amiss, mum.'

'And the beer,' said the lady of the caravan, with an appearance of

being more interested in this question than the last; 'is it passable,

George?'

'It's more flatterer than it might be,' George returned, 'but it an't

so bad for all that.'

To set the mind of his mistress at rest, he took a sip (amounting in

quantity to a pint or thereabouts) from the stone bottle, and then

smacked his lips, winked his eye, and nodded his head. No doubt with

the same amiable desire, he immediately resumed his knife and fork, as

a practical assurance that the beer had wrought no bad effect upon his

appetite.

The lady of the caravan looked on approvingly for some time, and then

said,

'Have you nearly finished?'

'Wery nigh, mum.' And indeed, after scraping the dish all round with

his knife and carrying the choice brown morsels to his mouth, and after

taking such a scientific pull at the stone bottle that, by degrees

almost imperceptible to the sight, his head went further and further

back until he lay nearly at his full length upon the ground, this

gentleman declared himself quite disengaged, and came forth from his

retreat.

'I hope I haven't hurried you, George,' said his mistress, who appeared

to have a great sympathy with his late pursuit.

'If you have,' returned the follower, wisely reserving himself for any

favourable contingency that might occur, 'we must make up for it next

time, that's all.'

'We are not a heavy load, George?'

'That's always what the ladies say,' replied the man, looking a long

way round, as if he were appealing to Nature in general against such

monstrous propositions. 'If you see a woman a driving, you'll always

perceive that she never will keep her whip still; the horse can't go

fast enough for her. If cattle have got their proper load, you never

can persuade a woman that they'll not bear something more. What is the