第 64 页

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

fellow--a diver, Lord save us! This is a boy, sir, who had a fancy for

plunging into eighteen feet of water, with his clothes on, and bringing

up a blind man's dog, who was being drowned by the weight of his chain

and collar, while his master stood wringing his hands upon the bank,

bewailing the loss of his guide and friend. I sent the boy two guineas

anonymously, sir,' added the bachelor, in his peculiar whisper,

'directly I heard of it; but never mention it on any account, for he

hasn't the least idea that it came from me.'

Having disposed of this culprit, the bachelor turned to another, and

from him to another, and so on through the whole array, laying, for

their wholesome restriction within due bounds, the same cutting

emphasis on such of their propensities as were dearest to his heart and

were unquestionably referrable to his own precept and example.

Thoroughly persuaded, in the end, that he had made them miserable by

his severity, he dismissed them with a small present, and an admonition

to walk quietly home, without any leapings, scufflings, or turnings out

of the way; which injunction, he informed the schoolmaster in the same

audible confidence, he did not think he could have obeyed when he was a

boy, had his life depended on it.

Hailing these little tokens of the bachelor's disposition as so many

assurances of his own welcome course from that time, the schoolmaster

parted from him with a light heart and joyous spirits, and deemed

himself one of the happiest men on earth. The windows of the two old

houses were ruddy again, that night, with the reflection of the

cheerful fires that burnt within; and the bachelor and his friend,

pausing to look upon them as they returned from their evening walk,

spoke softly together of the beautiful child, and looked round upon the

churchyard with a sigh.

CHAPTER 53

Nell was stirring early in the morning, and having discharged her

household tasks, and put everything in order for the good schoolmaster

(though sorely against his will, for he would have spared her the

pains), took down, from its nail by the fireside, a little bundle of

keys with which the bachelor had formally invested her on the previous

day, and went out alone to visit the old church.

The sky was serene and bright, the air clear, perfumed with the fresh

scent of newly fallen leaves, and grateful to every sense. The

neighbouring stream sparkled, and rolled onward with a tuneful sound;

the dew glistened on the green mounds, like tears shed by Good Spirits

over the dead. Some young children sported among the tombs, and hid

from each other, with laughing faces. They had an infant with them,

and had laid it down asleep upon a child's grave, in a little bed of

leaves. It was a new grave--the resting-place, perhaps, of some little

creature, who, meek and patient in its illness, had often sat and

watched them, and now seemed, to their minds, scarcely changed.

She drew near and asked one of them whose grave it was. The child

answered that that was not its name; it was a garden--his brother's.

It was greener, he said, than all the other gardens, and the birds

loved it better because he had been used to feed them. When he had

done speaking, he looked at her with a smile, and kneeling down and

nestling for a moment with his cheek against the turf, bounded merrily

away.

She passed the church, gazing upward at its old tower, went through the

wicket gate, and so into the village. The old sexton, leaning on a

crutch, was taking the air at his cottage door, and gave her good

morrow.

'You are better?' said the child, stopping to speak with him.

'Ay surely,' returned the old man. 'I'm thankful to say, much better.'

'_You_ will be quite well soon.'

'With Heaven's leave, and a little patience. But come in, come in!'

The old man limped on before, and warning her of the downward step,

which he achieved himself with no small difficulty, led the way into

his little cottage.

'It is but one room you see. There is another up above, but the stair

has got harder to climb o' late years, and I never use it. I'm

thinking of taking to it again, next summer, though.'

The child wondered how a grey-headed man like him--one of his trade

too--could talk of time so easily. He saw her eyes wandering to the

tools that hung upon the wall, and smiled.

'I warrant now,' he said, 'that you think all those are used in making

graves.'

'Indeed, I wondered that you wanted so many.'

'And well you might. I am a gardener. I dig the ground, and plant

things that are to live and grow. My works don't all moulder away, and

rot in the earth. You see that spade in the centre?'

'The very old one--so notched and worn? Yes.'

'That's the sexton's spade, and it's a well-used one, as you see.

We're healthy people here, but it has done a power of work. If it

could speak now, that spade, it would tell you of many an unexpected

job that it and I have done together; but I forget 'em, for my memory's

a poor one.--That's nothing new,' he added hastily. 'It always was.'

'There are flowers and shrubs to speak to your other work,' said the

child.

'Oh yes. And tall trees. But they are not so separate from the

sexton's labours as you think.'

'No!'

'Not in my mind, and recollection--such as it is,' said the old man.

'Indeed they often help it. For say that I planted such a tree for

such a man. There it stands, to remind me that he died. When I look

at its broad shadow, and remember what it was in his time, it helps me