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Chapter 71

  • The dull, red glow of a wood fire—for no lamp or candle burnt within th_oom—showed him a figure, seated on the hearth with its back towards him, bending over the fitful light. The attitude was that of one who sought th_eat. It was, and yet was not. The stooping posture and the cowering form wer_here, but no hands were stretched out to meet the grateful warmth, no shru_r shiver compared its luxury with the piercing cold outside. With limb_uddled together, head bowed down, arms crossed upon the breast, and finger_ightly clenched, it rocked to and fro upon its seat without a moment's pause, accompanying the action with the mournful sound he had heard.
  • The heavy door had closed behind him on his entrance, with a crash that mad_im start. The figure neither spoke, nor turned to look, nor gave in any othe_ay the faintest sign of having heard the noise. The form was that of an ol_an, his white head akin in colour to the mouldering embers upon which h_azed. He, and the failing light and dying fire, the time-worn room, th_olitude, the wasted life, and gloom, were all in fellowship. Ashes, and dust, and ruin!
  • Kit tried to speak, and did pronounce some words, though what they were h_carcely knew. Still the same terrible low cry went on— still the same rockin_n the chair—the same stricken figure was there, unchanged and heedless of hi_resence.
  • He had his hand upon the latch, when something in the form— distinctly seen a_ne log broke and fell, and, as it fell, blazed up—arrested it. He returned t_here he had stood before— advanced a pace—another—another still. Another, an_e saw the face. Yes! Changed as it was, he knew it well.
  • 'Master!' he cried, stooping on one knee and catching at his hand. 'Dea_aster. Speak to me!'
  • The old man turned slowly towards him; and muttered in a hollow voice,
  • 'This is another!—How many of these spirits there have been to-night!'
  • 'No spirit, master. No one but your old servant. You know me now, I am sure?
  • Miss Nell—where is she—where is she?'
  • 'They all say that!' cried the old man. 'They all ask the same question. _pirit!'
  • 'Where is she?' demanded Kit. 'Oh tell me but that,—but that, dear master!'
  • 'She is asleep—yonder—in there.'
  • 'Thank God!'
  • 'Aye! Thank God!' returned the old man. 'I have prayed to Him, many, and many, and many a livelong night, when she has been asleep, He knows. Hark! Did sh_all?'
  • 'I heard no voice.'
  • 'You did. You hear her now. Do you tell me that you don't hear THAT?'
  • He started up, and listened again.
  • 'Nor that?' he cried, with a triumphant smile, 'Can any body know that voic_o well as I? Hush! Hush!' Motioning to him to be silent, he stole away int_nother chamber. After a short absence (during which he could be heard t_peak in a softened soothing tone) he returned, bearing in his hand a lamp.
  • 'She is still asleep,' he whispered. 'You were right. She did not call—unles_he did so in her slumber. She has called to me in her sleep before now, sir; as I have sat by, watching, I have seen her lips move, and have known, thoug_o sound came from them, that she spoke of me. I feared the light might dazzl_er eyes and wake her, so I brought it here.'
  • He spoke rather to himself than to the visitor, but when he had put the lam_pon the table, he took it up, as if impelled by some momentary recollectio_r curiosity, and held it near his face. Then, as if forgetting his motive i_he very action, he turned away and put it down again.
  • 'She is sleeping soundly,' he said; 'but no wonder. Angel hands have strew_he ground deep with snow, that the lightest footstep may be lighter yet; an_he very birds are dead, that they may not wake her. She used to feed them, Sir. Though never so cold and hungry, the timid things would fly from us. The_ever flew from her!'
  • Again he stopped to listen, and scarcely drawing breath, listened for a long, long time. That fancy past, he opened an old chest, took out some clothes a_ondly as if they had been living things, and began to smooth and brush the_ith his hand.
  • 'Why dost thou lie so idle there, dear Nell,' he murmured, 'when there ar_right red berries out of doors waiting for thee to pluck them! Why dost tho_ie so idle there, when thy little friends come creeping to the door, crying
  • "where is Nell—sweet Nell?"— and sob, and weep, because they do not see thee.
  • She was always gentle with children. The wildest would do her bidding—she ha_ tender way with them, indeed she had!'
  • Kit had no power to speak. His eyes were filled with tears.
  • 'Her little homely dress,—her favourite!' cried the old man, pressing it t_is breast, and patting it with his shrivelled hand. 'She will miss it whe_he wakes. They have hid it here in sport, but she shall have it—she shal_ave it. I would not vex my darling, for the wide world's riches. Se_ere—these shoes—how worn they are—she kept them to remind her of our las_ong journey. You see where the little feet went bare upon the ground. The_old me, afterwards, that the stones had cut and bruised them. She never tol_e that. No, no, God bless her! and, I have remembered since, she walke_ehind me, sir, that I might not see how lame she was—but yet she had my han_n hers, and seemed to lead me still.'
  • He pressed them to his lips, and having carefully put them back again, went o_ommuning with himself—looking wistfully from time to time towards the chambe_e had lately visited.
  • 'She was not wont to be a lie-abed; but she was well then. We must hav_atience. When she is well again, she will rise early, as she used to do, an_amble abroad in the healthy morning time. I often tried to track the way sh_ad gone, but her small footstep left no print upon the dewy ground, to guid_e. Who is that? Shut the door. Quick!—Have we not enough to do to drive awa_hat marble cold, and keep her warm!'
  • The door was indeed opened, for the entrance of Mr Garland and his friend, accompanied by two other persons. These were the schoolmaster, and th_achelor. The former held a light in his hand. He had, it seemed, but gone t_is own cottage to replenish the exhausted lamp, at the moment when Kit cam_p and found the old man alone.
  • He softened again at sight of these two friends, and, laying aside the angr_anner—if to anything so feeble and so sad the term can be applied—in which h_ad spoken when the door opened, resumed his former seat, and subsided, b_ittle and little into the old action, and the old, dull, wandering sound.
  • Of the strangers, he took no heed whatever. He had seen them, but appeare_uite incapable of interest or curiosity. The younger brother stood apart. Th_achelor drew a chair towards the old man, and sat down close beside him.
  • After a long silence, he ventured to speak.
  • 'Another night, and not in bed!' he said softly; 'I hoped you would be mor_indful of your promise to me. Why do you not take some rest?'
  • 'Sleep has left me,' returned the old man. 'It is all with her!'
  • 'It would pain her very much to know that you were watching thus,' said th_achelor. 'You would not give her pain?'
  • 'I am not so sure of that, if it would only rouse her. She has slept so ver_ong. And yet I am rash to say so. It is a good and happy sleep—eh?'
  • 'Indeed it is,' returned the bachelor. 'Indeed, indeed, it is!'
  • 'That's well!—and the waking—' faltered the old man.
  • 'Happy too. Happier than tongue can tell, or heart of man conceive.'
  • They watched him as he rose and stole on tiptoe to the other chamber where th_amp had been replaced. They listened as he spoke again within its silen_alls. They looked into the faces of each other, and no man's cheek was fre_rom tears. He came back, whispering that she was still asleep, but that h_hought she had moved. It was her hand, he said—a little—a very, very little— but he was pretty sure she had moved it—perhaps in seeking his. He had know_er do that, before now, though in the deepest sleep the while. And when h_ad said this, he dropped into his chair again, and clasping his hands abov_is head, uttered a cry never to be forgotten.
  • The poor schoolmaster motioned to the bachelor that he would come on the othe_ide, and speak to him. They gently unlocked his fingers, which he had twiste_n his grey hair, and pressed them in their own.
  • 'He will hear me,' said the schoolmaster, 'I am sure. He will hear either m_r you if we beseech him. She would, at all times.'
  • 'I will hear any voice she liked to hear,' cried the old man. 'I love all sh_oved!'
  • 'I know you do,' returned the schoolmaster. 'I am certain of it. Think of her; think of all the sorrows and afflictions you have shared together; of all th_rials, and all the peaceful pleasures, you have jointly known.'
  • 'I do. I do. I think of nothing else.'
  • 'I would have you think of nothing else to-night—of nothing but those thing_hich will soften your heart, dear friend, and open it to old affections an_ld times. It is so that she would speak to you herself, and in her name it i_hat I speak now.'
  • 'You do well to speak softly,' said the old man. 'We will not wake her. _hould be glad to see her eyes again, and to see her smile. There is a smil_pon her young face now, but it is fixed and changeless. I would have it com_nd go. That shall be in Heaven's good time. We will not wake her.'
  • 'Let us not talk of her in her sleep, but as she used to be when you wer_ourneying together, far away—as she was at home, in the old house from whic_ou fled together—as she was, in the old cheerful time,' said th_choolmaster.
  • 'She was always cheerful—very cheerful,' cried the old man, lookin_teadfastly at him. 'There was ever something mild and quiet about her, _emember, from the first; but she was of a happy nature.'
  • 'We have heard you say,' pursued the schoolmaster, 'that in this and in al_oodness, she was like her mother. You can think of, and remember her?'
  • He maintained his steadfast look, but gave no answer.
  • 'Or even one before her,' said the bachelor. 'it is many years ago, an_ffliction makes the time longer, but you have not forgotten her whose deat_ontributed to make this child so dear to you, even before you knew her wort_r could read her heart? Say, that you could carry back your thoughts to ver_istant days—to the time of your early life—when, unlike this fair flower, yo_id not pass your youth alone. Say, that you could remember, long ago, anothe_hild who loved you dearly, you being but a child yourself. Say, that you ha_ brother, long forgotten, long unseen, long separated from you, who now, a_ast, in your utmost need came back to comfort and console you—'
  • 'To be to you what you were once to him,' cried the younger, falling on hi_nee before him; 'to repay your old affection, brother dear, by constant care, solicitude, and love; to be, at your right hand, what he has never ceased t_e when oceans rolled between us; to call to witness his unchanging truth an_indfulness of bygone days, whole years of desolation. Give me but one word o_ecognition, brother—and never—no never, in the brightest moment of ou_oungest days, when, poor silly boys, we thought to pass our live_ogether—have we been half as dear and precious to each other as we shall b_rom this time hence!'
  • The old man looked from face to face, and his lips moved; but no sound cam_rom them in reply.
  • 'If we were knit together then,' pursued the younger brother, 'what will b_he bond between us now! Our love and fellowship began in childhood, when lif_as all before us, and will be resumed when we have proved it, and are bu_hildren at the last. As many restless spirits, who have hunted fortune, fame, or pleasure through the world, retire in their decline to where they firs_rew breath, vainly seeking to be children once again before they die, so we, less fortunate than they in early life, but happier in its closing scenes, will set up our rest again among our boyish haunts, and going home with n_ope realised, that had its growth in manhood— carrying back nothing that w_rought away, but our old yearnings to each other—saving no fragment from th_reck of life, but that which first endeared it—may be, indeed, but childre_s at first. And even,' he added in an altered voice, 'even if what I dread t_ame has come to pass—even if that be so, or is to be (which Heaven forbid an_pare us!)—still, dear brother, we are not apart, and have that comfort in ou_reat affliction.'
  • By little and little, the old man had drawn back towards the inner chamber, while these words were spoken. He pointed there, as he replied, with tremblin_ips.
  • 'You plot among you to wean my heart from her. You never will do that—neve_hile I have life. I have no relative or friend but her—I never had—I neve_ill have. She is all in all to me. It is too late to part us now.'
  • Waving them off with his hand, and calling softly to her as he went, he stol_nto the room. They who were left behind, drew close together, and after a fe_hispered words—not unbroken by emotion, or easily uttered—followed him. The_oved so gently, that their footsteps made no noise; but there were sobs fro_mong the group, and sounds of grief and mourning.
  • For she was dead. There, upon her little bed, she lay at rest. The solem_tillness was no marvel now.
  • She was dead. No sleep so beautiful and calm, so free from trace of pain, s_air to look upon. She seemed a creature fresh from the hand of God, an_aiting for the breath of life; not one who had lived and suffered death.
  • Her couch was dressed with here and there some winter berries and gree_eaves, gathered in a spot she had been used to favour. 'When I die, put nea_e something that has loved the light, and had the sky above it always.' Thos_ere her words.
  • She was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead. Her little bird—_oor slight thing the pressure of a finger would have crushed—was stirrin_imbly in its cage; and the strong heart of its child mistress was mute an_otionless for ever.
  • Where were the traces of her early cares, her sufferings, and fatigues? Al_one. Sorrow was dead indeed in her, but peace and perfect happiness wer_orn; imaged in her tranquil beauty and profound repose.
  • And still her former self lay there, unaltered in this change. Yes. The ol_ireside had smiled upon that same sweet face; it had passed, like a dream, through haunts of misery and care; at the door of the poor schoolmaster on th_ummer evening, before the furnace fire upon the cold wet night, at the stil_edside of the dying boy, there had been the same mild lovely look. So shal_e know the angels in their majesty, after death.
  • The old man held one languid arm in his, and had the small hand tight folde_o his breast, for warmth. It was the hand she had stretched out to him wit_er last smile—the hand that had led him on, through all their wanderings.
  • Ever and anon he pressed it to his lips; then hugged it to his breast again, murmuring that it was warmer now; and, as he said it, he looked, in agony, t_hose who stood around, as if imploring them to help her.
  • She was dead, and past all help, or need of it. The ancient rooms she ha_eemed to fill with life, even while her own was waning fast—the garden sh_ad tended—the eyes she had gladdened—the noiseless haunts of many _houghtful hour—the paths she had trodden as it were but yesterday—could kno_er never more.
  • 'It is not,' said the schoolmaster, as he bent down to kiss her on the cheek, and gave his tears free vent, 'it is not on earth that Heaven's justice ends.
  • Think what earth is, compared with the World to which her young spirit ha_inged its early flight; and say, if one deliberate wish expressed in solem_erms above this bed could call her back to life, which of us would utter it!'