第 67 页

'It is a brave thought!' cried her grandfather. 'Mind, darling--we

begin to-morrow!'

Who so delighted as the old man, when they next day began their labour!

Who so unconscious of all associations connected with the spot, as he!

They plucked the long grass and nettles from the tombs, thinned the

poor shrubs and roots, made the turf smooth, and cleared it of the

leaves and weeds. They were yet in the ardour of their work, when the

child, raising her head from the ground over which she bent, observed

that the bachelor was sitting on the stile close by, watching them in

silence.

'A kind office,' said the little gentleman, nodding to Nell as she

curtseyed to him. 'Have you done all that, this morning?'

'It is very little, sir,' returned the child, with downcast eyes, 'to

what we mean to do.'

'Good work, good work,' said the bachelor. 'But do you only labour at

the graves of children, and young people?'

'We shall come to the others in good time, sir,' replied Nell, turning

her head aside, and speaking softly.

It was a slight incident, and might have been design or accident, or

the child's unconscious sympathy with youth. But it seemed to strike

upon her grandfather, though he had not noticed it before. He looked

in a hurried manner at the graves, then anxiously at the child, then

pressed her to his side, and bade her stop to rest. Something he had

long forgotten, appeared to struggle faintly in his mind. It did not

pass away, as weightier things had done; but came uppermost again, and

yet again, and many times that day, and often afterwards. Once, while

they were yet at work, the child, seeing that he often turned and

looked uneasily at her, as though he were trying to resolve some

painful doubts or collect some scattered thoughts, urged him to tell

the reason. But he said it was nothing--nothing--and, laying her head

upon his arm, patted her fair cheek with his hand, and muttered that

she grew stronger every day, and would be a woman, soon.

CHAPTER 55

From that time, there sprung up in the old man's mind, a solicitude

about the child which never slept or left him. There are chords in the

human heart--strange, varying strings--which are only struck by

accident; which will remain mute and senseless to appeals the most

passionate and earnest, and respond at last to the slightest casual

touch. In the most insensible or childish minds, there is some train

of reflection which art can seldom lead, or skill assist, but which

will reveal itself, as great truths have done, by chance, and when the

discoverer has the plainest end in view. From that time, the old man

never, for a moment, forgot the weakness and devotion of the child;

from the time of that slight incident, he who had seen her toiling by

his side through so much difficulty and suffering, and had scarcely

thought of her otherwise than as the partner of miseries which he felt

severely in his own person, and deplored for his own sake at least as

much as hers, awoke to a sense of what he owed her, and what those

miseries had made her. Never, no, never once, in one unguarded moment

from that time to the end, did any care for himself, any thought of his

own comfort, any selfish consideration or regard distract his thoughts

from the gentle object of his love.

He would follow her up and down, waiting till she should tire and lean

upon his arm--he would sit opposite to her in the chimney-corner,

content to watch, and look, until she raised her head and smiled upon

him as of old--he would discharge by stealth, those household duties

which tasked her powers too heavily--he would rise, in the cold dark

nights, to listen to her breathing in her sleep, and sometimes crouch

for hours by her bedside only to touch her hand. He who knows all, can

only know what hopes, and fears, and thoughts of deep affection, were

in that one disordered brain, and what a change had fallen on the poor

old man. Sometimes--weeks had crept on, then--the child, exhausted,

though with little fatigue, would pass whole evenings on a couch beside

the fire. At such times, the schoolmaster would bring in books, and

read to her aloud; and seldom an evening passed, but the bachelor came

in, and took his turn of reading. The old man sat and listened--with

little understanding for the words, but with his eyes fixed upon the

child--and if she smiled or brightened with the story, he would say it

was a good one, and conceive a fondness for the very book. When, in

their evening talk, the bachelor told some tale that pleased her (as

his tales were sure to do), the old man would painfully try to store it

in his mind; nay, when the bachelor left them, he would sometimes slip

out after him, and humbly beg that he would tell him such a part again,

that he might learn to win a smile from Nell.

But these were rare occasions, happily; for the child yearned to be out

of doors, and walking in her solemn garden. Parties, too, would come

to see the church; and those who came, speaking to others of the child,

sent more; so even at that season of the year they had visitors almost

daily. The old man would follow them at a little distance through the

building, listening to the voice he loved so well; and when the

strangers left, and parted from Nell, he would mingle with them to

catch up fragments of their conversation; or he would stand for the

same purpose, with his grey head uncovered, at the gate as they passed

through.

They always praised the child, her sense and beauty, and he was proud

to hear them! But what was that, so often added, which wrung his

heart, and made him sob and weep alone, in some dull corner! Alas!

even careless strangers--they who had no feeling for her, but the

interest of the moment--they who would go away and forget next week

that such a being lived--even they saw it--even they pitied her--even

they bade him good day compassionately, and whispered as they passed.

The people of the village, too, of whom there was not one but grew to

have a fondness for poor Nell; even among them, there was the same

feeling; a tenderness towards her--a compassionate regard for her,

increasing every day. The very schoolboys, light-hearted and

thoughtless as they were, even they cared for her. The roughest among

them was sorry if he missed her in the usual place upon his way to

school, and would turn out of the path to ask for her at the latticed

window. If she were sitting in the church, they perhaps might peep in

softly at the open door; but they never spoke to her, unless she rose

and went to speak to them. Some feeling was abroad which raised the

child above them all.

So, when Sunday came. They were all poor country people in the church,

for the castle in which the old family had lived, was an empty ruin,

and there were none but humble folks for seven miles around. There, as

elsewhere, they had an interest in Nell. They would gather round her

in the porch, before and after service; young children would cluster at

her skirts; and aged men and women forsake their gossips, to give her

kindly greeting. None of them, young or old, thought of passing the

child without a friendly word. Many who came from three or four miles

distant, brought her little presents; the humblest and rudest had good

wishes to bestow.

She had sought out the young children whom she first saw playing in the

churchyard. One of these--he who had spoken of his brother--was her

little favourite and friend, and often sat by her side in the church,

or climbed with her to the tower-top. It was his delight to help her,

or to fancy that he did so, and they soon became close companions.

It happened, that, as she was reading in the old spot by herself one

day, this child came running in with his eyes full of tears, and after

holding her from him, and looking at her eagerly for a moment, clasped

his little arms passionately about her neck.

'What now?' said Nell, soothing him. 'What is the matter?'

'She is not one yet!' cried the boy, embracing her still more closely.

'No, no. Not yet.'

She looked at him wonderingly, and putting his hair back from his face,

and kissing him, asked what he meant.

'You must not be one, dear Nell,' cried the boy. 'We can't see them.

They never come to play with us, or talk to us. Be what you are. You

are better so.'

'I do not understand you,' said the child. 'Tell me what you mean.'

'Why, they say,' replied the boy, looking up into her face, that you

will be an Angel, before the birds sing again. But you won't be, will

you? Don't leave us Nell, though the sky is bright. Do not leave us!'

The child dropped her head, and put her hands before her face.

'She cannot bear the thought!' cried the boy, exulting through his

tears. 'You will not go. You know how sorry we should be. Dear Nell,

tell me that you'll stay amongst us. Oh! Pray, pray, tell me that you

will.'

The little creature folded his hands, and knelt down at her feet.

'Only look at me, Nell,' said the boy, 'and tell me that you'll stop,

and then I shall know that they are wrong, and will cry no more. Won't

you say yes, Nell?'

Still the drooping head and hidden face, and the child quite

silent--save for her sobs.

'After a time,' pursued the boy, trying to draw away her hand, 'the kind

angels will be glad to think that you are not among them, and that you

stayed here to be with us. Willy went away, to join them; but if he

had known how I should miss him in our little bed at night, he never

would have left me, I am sure.'

Yet the child could make him no answer, and sobbed as though her heart

were bursting. 'Why would you go, dear Nell? I know you would not be

happy when you heard that we were crying for your loss. They say that

Willy is in Heaven now, and that it's always summer there, and yet I'm

sure he grieves when I lie down upon his garden bed, and he cannot turn

to kiss me. But if you do go, Nell,' said the boy, caressing her, and

pressing his face to hers, 'be fond of him for my sake. Tell him how I

love him still, and how much I loved you; and when I think that you two

are together, and are happy, I'll try to bear it, and never give you

pain by doing wrong--indeed I never will!'

The child suffered him to move her hands, and put them round his neck.

There was a tearful silence, but it was not long before she looked upon

him with a smile, and promised him, in a very gentle, quiet voice, that

she would stay, and be his friend, as long as Heaven would let her. He

clapped his hands for joy, and thanked her many times; and being

charged to tell no person what had passed between them, gave her an

earnest promise that he never would.

Nor did he, so far as the child could learn; but was her quiet

companion in all her walks and musings, and never again adverted to the

theme, which he felt had given her pain, although he was unconscious of

its cause. Something of distrust lingered about him still; for he

would often come, even in the dark evenings, and call in a timid voice

outside the door to know if she were safe within; and being answered

yes, and bade to enter, would take his station on a low stool at her

feet, and sit there patiently until they came to seek, and take him

home. Sure as the morning came, it found him lingering near the house

to ask if she were well; and, morning, noon, or night, go where she

would, he would forsake his playmates and his sports to bear her

company.

'And a good little friend he is, too,' said the old sexton to her once.

'When his elder brother died--elder seems a strange word, for he was

only seven years old--I remember this one took it sorely to heart.'

The child thought of what the schoolmaster had told her, and felt how

its truth was shadowed out even in this infant.

'It has given him something of a quiet way, I think,' said the old man,

'though for that he is merry enough at times. I'd wager now that you

and he have been listening by the old well.'

'Indeed we have not,' the child replied. 'I have been afraid to go

near it; for I am not often down in that part of the church, and do not

know the ground.'

'Come down with me,' said the old man. 'I have known it from a boy.

Come!'

They descended the narrow steps which led into the crypt, and paused

among the gloomy arches, in a dim and murky spot.

'This is the place,' said the old man. 'Give me your hand while you

throw back the cover, lest you should stumble and fall in. I am too

old--I mean rheumatic--to stoop, myself.'

'A black and dreadful place!' exclaimed the child.

'Look in,' said the old man, pointing downward with his finger.

The child complied, and gazed down into the pit.

'It looks like a grave itself,' said the old man.

'It does,' replied the child.

'I have often had the fancy,' said the sexton, 'that it might have been

dug at first to make the old place more gloomy, and the old monks more

religious. It's to be closed up, and built over.'

The child still stood, looking thoughtfully into the vault.

'We shall see,' said the sexton, 'on what gay heads other earth will

have closed, when the light is shut out from here. God knows! They'll

close it up, next spring.'

'The birds sing again in spring,' thought the child, as she leaned at

her casement window, and gazed at the declining sun. 'Spring! a

beautiful and happy time!'

CHAPTER 56

A day or two after the Quilp tea-party at the Wilderness, Mr Swiveller

walked into Sampson Brass's office at the usual hour, and being alone

in that Temple of Probity, placed his hat upon the desk, and taking

from his pocket a small parcel of black crape, applied himself to