第 63 页

'Don't let's have any wrangling,' said Miss Sally, staying his hand.

'I've showed you that I know him, and that's enough.'

'She's always foremost!' said the dwarf, patting her on the back and

looking contemptuously at Sampson. 'I don't like Kit, Sally.'

'Nor I,' rejoined Miss Brass.

'Nor I,' said Sampson.

'Why, that's right!' cried Quilp. 'Half our work is done already.

This Kit is one of your honest people; one of your fair characters; a

prowling prying hound; a hypocrite; a double-faced, white-livered,

sneaking spy; a crouching cur to those that feed and coax him, and a

barking yelping dog to all besides.'

'Fearfully eloquent!' cried Brass with a sneeze. 'Quite appalling!'

'Come to the point,' said Miss Sally, 'and don't talk so much.'

'Right again!' exclaimed Quilp, with another contemptuous look at

Sampson, 'always foremost! I say, Sally, he is a yelping, insolent dog

to all besides, and most of all, to me. In short, I owe him a grudge.'

'That's enough, sir,' said Sampson.

'No, it's not enough, sir,' sneered Quilp; 'will you hear me out?

Besides that I owe him a grudge on that account, he thwarts me at this

minute, and stands between me and an end which might otherwise prove a

golden one to us all. Apart from that, I repeat that he crosses my

humour, and I hate him. Now, you know the lad, and can guess the rest.

Devise your own means of putting him out of my way, and execute them.

Shall it be done?'

'It shall, sir,' said Sampson.

'Then give me your hand,' retorted Quilp. 'Sally, girl, yours. I rely

as much, or more, on you than him. Tom Scott comes back. Lantern,

pipes, more grog, and a jolly night of it!'

No other word was spoken, no other look exchanged, which had the

slightest reference to this, the real occasion of their meeting. The

trio were well accustomed to act together, and were linked to each

other by ties of mutual interest and advantage, and nothing more was

needed. Resuming his boisterous manner with the same ease with which

he had thrown it off, Quilp was in an instant the same uproarious,

reckless little savage he had been a few seconds before. It was ten

o'clock at night before the amiable Sally supported her beloved and

loving brother from the Wilderness, by which time he needed the utmost

support her tender frame could render; his walk being from some unknown

reason anything but steady, and his legs constantly doubling up in

unexpected places.

Overpowered, notwithstanding his late prolonged slumbers, by the

fatigues of the last few days, the dwarf lost no time in creeping to

his dainty house, and was soon dreaming in his hammock. Leaving him to

visions, in which perhaps the quiet figures we quitted in the old

church porch were not without their share, be it our task to rejoin

them as they sat and watched.

CHAPTER 52

After a long time, the schoolmaster appeared at the wicket-gate of the

churchyard, and hurried towards them, tingling in his hand, as he came

along, a bundle of rusty keys. He was quite breathless with pleasure

and haste when he reached the porch, and at first could only point

towards the old building which the child had been contemplating so

earnestly.

'You see those two old houses,' he said at last.

'Yes, surely,' replied Nell. 'I have been looking at them nearly all

the time you have been away.'

'And you would have looked at them more curiously yet, if you could

have guessed what I have to tell you,' said her friend. 'One of those

houses is mine.'

Without saying any more, or giving the child time to reply, the

schoolmaster took her hand, and, his honest face quite radiant with

exultation, led her to the place of which he spoke.

They stopped before its low arched door. After trying several of the

keys in vain, the schoolmaster found one to fit the huge lock, which

turned back, creaking, and admitted them into the house.

The room into which they entered was a vaulted chamber once nobly

ornamented by cunning architects, and still retaining, in its beautiful

groined roof and rich stone tracery, choice remnants of its ancient

splendour. Foliage carved in the stone, and emulating the mastery of

Nature's hand, yet remained to tell how many times the leaves outside

had come and gone, while it lived on unchanged. The broken figures

supporting the burden of the chimney-piece, though mutilated, were

still distinguishable for what they had been--far different from the

dust without--and showed sadly by the empty hearth, like creatures who

had outlived their kind, and mourned their own too slow decay.

In some old time--for even change was old in that old place--a wooden

partition had been constructed in one part of the chamber to form a

sleeping-closet, into which the light was admitted at the same period

by a rude window, or rather niche, cut in the solid wall. This screen,

together with two seats in the broad chimney, had at some forgotten

date been part of the church or convent; for the oak, hastily

appropriated to its present purpose, had been little altered from its

former shape, and presented to the eye a pile of fragments of rich

carving from old monkish stalls.

An open door leading to a small room or cell, dim with the light that

came through leaves of ivy, completed the interior of this portion of

the ruin. It was not quite destitute of furniture. A few strange

chairs, whose arms and legs looked as though they had dwindled away

with age; a table, the very spectre of its race: a great old chest that

had once held records in the church, with other quaintly-fashioned

domestic necessaries, and store of fire-wood for the winter, were

scattered around, and gave evident tokens of its occupation as a

dwelling-place at no very distant time.

The child looked around her, with that solemn feeling with which we

contemplate the work of ages that have become but drops of water in the

great ocean of eternity. The old man had followed them, but they were

all three hushed for a space, and drew their breath softly, as if they

feared to break the silence even by so slight a sound.

'It is a very beautiful place!' said the child, in a low voice.

'I almost feared you thought otherwise,' returned the schoolmaster.

'You shivered when we first came in, as if you felt it cold or gloomy.'

'It was not that,' said Nell, glancing round with a slight shudder.

'Indeed I cannot tell you what it was, but when I saw the outside, from

the church porch, the same feeling came over me. It is its being so

old and grey perhaps.'

'A peaceful place to live in, don't you think so?' said her friend.

'Oh yes,' rejoined the child, clasping her hands earnestly. 'A quiet,

happy place--a place to live and learn to die in!' She would have said

more, but that the energy of her thoughts caused her voice to falter,

and come in trembling whispers from her lips.

'A place to live, and learn to live, and gather health of mind and body

in,' said the schoolmaster; 'for this old house is yours.'

'Ours!' cried the child.

'Ay,' returned the schoolmaster gaily, 'for many a merry year to come,

I hope. I shall be a close neighbour--only next door--but this house

is yours.'

Having now disburdened himself of his great surprise, the schoolmaster

sat down, and drawing Nell to his side, told her how he had learnt that

ancient tenement had been occupied for a very long time by an old

person, nearly a hundred years of age, who kept the keys of the church,

opened and closed it for the services, and showed it to strangers; how

she had died not many weeks ago, and nobody had yet been found to fill

the office; how, learning all this in an interview with the sexton, who

was confined to his bed by rheumatism, he had been bold to make mention

of his fellow-traveller, which had been so favourably received by that

high authority, that he had taken courage, acting on his advice, to

propound the matter to the clergyman. In a word, the result of his

exertions was, that Nell and her grandfather were to be carried before

the last-named gentleman next day; and, his approval of their conduct

and appearance reserved as a matter of form, that they were already

appointed to the vacant post.

'There's a small allowance of money,' said the schoolmaster. 'It is

not much, but still enough to live upon in this retired spot. By

clubbing our funds together, we shall do bravely; no fear of that.'

'Heaven bless and prosper you!' sobbed the child.

'Amen, my dear,' returned her friend cheerfully; 'and all of us, as it

will, and has, in leading us through sorrow and trouble to this

tranquil life. But we must look at MY house now. Come!'

They repaired to the other tenement; tried the rusty keys as before; at

length found the right one; and opened the worm-eaten door. It led

into a chamber, vaulted and old, like that from which they had come,

but not so spacious, and having only one other little room attached.

It was not difficult to divine that the other house was of right the

schoolmaster's, and that he had chosen for himself the least

commodious, in his care and regard for them. Like the adjoining

habitation, it held such old articles of furniture as were absolutely

necessary, and had its stack of fire-wood.

To make these dwellings as habitable and full of comfort as they could,

was now their pleasant care. In a short time, each had its cheerful

fire glowing and crackling on the hearth, and reddening the pale old

wall with a hale and healthy blush. Nell, busily plying her needle,

repaired the tattered window-hangings, drew together the rents that

time had worn in the threadbare scraps of carpet, and made them whole

and decent. The schoolmaster swept and smoothed the ground before the

door, trimmed the long grass, trained the ivy and creeping plants which

hung their drooping heads in melancholy neglect; and gave to the outer

walls a cheery air of home. The old man, sometimes by his side and

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