39

“It is a dreary way,” said grandfather, piteously. “Is there no other road? Will you not let me go some other way than this?”

“We are going to the places,” said the child, firmly, “where we may live in peace, and be tempted to do no harm. We will take this road, and we will not turn out of it, won’t we?”

“Yes,” replied the old man, “Let us go on. I am ready. I am quite ready, Nell.”

The child walked with more difficulty than she expected. The pains racked her joints, and every exertion increased them.

Advancing more and more into the shadow, the dark depressing influence filled them with a dismal gloom. On every side, tall chimneys, crowding on each other, poured out their plague of smoke, obscured the light, and made foul the melancholy air. Dismantled houses here and there appeared, tottering to the earth, propped up by fragments of others that had fallen down, unroofed, windowless, blackened, desolate, but yet inhabited.

Nell lay down, she was very weak. A penny loaf was all they had had that day. It was very little, but even hunger was forgotten in the strange tranquillity that crept over her senses. She lay down, very gently, and, with a quiet smile upon her face, fell into a slumber.

Morning came. Much weaker, diminished powers even of sight and hearing, and yet the child made no complaint. She felt a hopelessness of their life; a dull conviction that she was very ill, perhaps dying; but no fear or anxiety.

She could not eat anymore, when they expended their last penny in the purchase of another loaf. Her grandfather ate greedily, which she was glad to see.

Their way lay through the same scenes as yesterday, with no variety or improvement. There was the same thick air, difficult to breathe; the same blighted ground, the same hopeless prospect, the same misery and distress. Towards the afternoon, her grandfather complained of hunger. She approached one of the wretched hovels, and knocked with her hand upon the door.

“What do you want?” said a gaunt man, opening it.

“Charity. A morsel of bread.”

“Do you see that?” returned the man hoarsely, pointing to a bundle on the ground. “That’s a dead child. I and five hundred other men were thrown out of work, three months ago. That is my third dead child, and last. Do you think I have charity to bestow, or a morsel of bread to spare?”

The child recoiled from the door, and it closed upon her.

40

Evening was drawing on, when still travelling among the same dismal objects they came to a busy town. Faint and spiritless as they were, its streets were insupportable. After humbly asking for relief at some few doors, and being repulsed, they agreed to make their way out of it as speedily as they could.

They were dragging themselves along through the last street. There appeared before them, going in the same direction as themselves, a traveller on foot, who leaned upon a stout stick as he walked, and read from a book which he held in his other hand. He stopped, to look more attentively at some passage in his book. Animated with a ray of hope, the child went close to the stranger, clapped her hands together, uttered a wild shriek, and fell senseless at his feet,

It was a poor schoolmaster. He threw down his stick and book, and dropping on one knee beside her, endeavoured to restore her to herself; while her grandfather, standing idly by, wrung his hands.

“She is quite exhausted,” said the schoolmaster, glancing upward into his face.

“I never thought how weak and ill she was, till now,” rejoined the old man.

The schoolmaster took the child in his arms. There was a small inn within sight, to which he had been directing his steps. He deposited the child on a chair before the fire. The landlady brought vinegar, smelling-salts, and such other restoratives; which recovered the child. They straightway carried Nelly off to bed; and, having covered her up warm, bathed her cold feet, and wrapped them in flannel, they despatched a messenger for the doctor.

The doctor arrived with all speed, and taking his seat by the bedside of poor Nell, drew out his watch, and felt her pulse. Then he looked at her tongue, then he felt her pulse again.

While her supper was preparing, the child fell into a refreshing sleep.

41

The report in the morning was, that the child was better, but was extremely weak. The schoolmaster received this communication with perfect cheerfulness. As the patient sat up in the evening, he appointed to visit her in her room.

Nell was weeping all the time when they were left alone.

“How can I ever thank you for this kindness?” said the child, “If I had not met you so far from home, I must have died, and he would have been left alone.”

“We’ll not talk about dying,” said the schoolmaster; “I have been appointed clerk and schoolmaster to a village a long way from here; at five-and-thirty pounds a year. Five-and-thirty pounds!”

“I am very glad,” said the child “so very, very glad.”

“I am on my way there now,” resumed the schoolmaster. “How glad I am! But where you are going? Where are you coming from? What do you do? Now tell me.”

The plain, frank kindness of the honest schoolmaster, the affectionate earnestness of his speech and manner, the truth which was stamped upon his every word and look, gave the child a confidence in him. She told him all: that they had no friend or relative, that she had fled with the old man, to save him from a madhouse and all the miseries, that she was flying now, to save him from himself and that she wanted to find an asylum in some remote and primitive place.

The schoolmaster heard her with astonishment. It was concluded that Nell and her grandfather should accompany him to the village, and that he should endeavour to find them some humble occupation.

“We shall be sure to succeed,” said the schoolmaster, heartily.

They arranged to proceed upon their journey next evening. A wagon came; and in due time it rolled away; with the child comfortably bestowed among the packages. What a delicious journey was that journey in the wagon!

It was a fine, clear morning, when they came to the village, and stopped to contemplate its beauties.

“See here’s the church!” cried the delighted schoolmaster in a low voice; “and that old building close beside it, is the school-house. Five-and-thirty pounds a year in this beautiful place!”

They admired everything: the old grey porch, the mullioned windows, the venerable gravestones dotting the green churchyard, the ancient tower, the very weathercock; the brown thatched roofs of cottage, barn, and homestead, peeping from among the trees; the stream that rippled by the distant water-mill; the blue Welsh mountains far away.

“I must leave you somewhere for a few minutes,” said the schoolmaster at length breaking the silence into which they had fallen in their gladness. “I have a letter to present, and inquiries to make, you know. Where shall I take you? To the little inn yonder?”

“Let us wait here,” rejoined Nell. “The gate is open. We will sit in the church porch till you come back.”

“A good place too,” said the schoolmaster, leading the way towards it. “Be sure that I come back with good news!”

Both child and grandfather were seated in the old church porch, patiently awaiting the schoolmaster’s return.

42

Mr. Quilp went his way, whistling from time to time some songs; and with a face quite tranquil and composed, jogged pleasantly towards home; entertaining himself as he went with visions of the fears and terrors of Mrs. Quilp, who, having received no news of him for three whole days and two nights, was doubtless by that time in a state of distraction, anxiety and grief.

In this happy flow of spirits, Mr. Quilp reached Tower Hill and gazed up at the window of his own sitting-room. Drawing nearer, and listening attentively, he could hear several voices, among which he could distinguish, not only those of his wife and mother-in-law, but the tones of men.

“Ha!” cried the jealous dwarf. “What’s this? Do they entertain visitors while I’m away?”

He searched in his pockets for his key, but had forgotten it. He saw Mr. Brass seated at the table with pen, ink, and paper.

“Ah!” said Mr. Brass, raising his eyes to the ceiling with a sigh, “who knows but he may be looking down upon us now? Who knows but he may be watching us from Heaven? Oh Lord!”

Here Mr. Brass stopped to drink his punch, and then resumed, with a dejected smile.

“When shall we see him alive again? Never, never! One minute we are here – the next we are there, in the silent tomb. It seems like a dream.”

Mr. Brass spoke towards somebody.

“The search has been quite unsuccessful then?”

“Quite, master. If he turns up anywhere, he’ll come ashore somewhere about Greenwich tomorrow.”

“Then we have nothing for it but expectation,” said Mr. Brass; It would be a comfort to have his body; it would be a dreary comfort.”

“Oh, beyond a doubt,” assented Mrs. Quilp hastily; “if we once had that, we should be quite sure.”

“With regard to the descriptive advertisement,” said Sampson Brass, taking up his pen. “It is a melancholy pleasure to recall his traits. His legs?”

“Crooked, certainly,” said the old lady, Mrs. Quilp’s mother.

“Do you think they were crooked?” said Brass, in an insinuating tone. “I think I see them now coming up the street very wide apart. Ah! Do we say crooked?”

“I think they were a little so,” observed Mrs. Quilp with a sob.

“Legs crooked,” said Brass, writing as he spoke. “Large head, short body, legs crooked”

“Very crooked,” suggested the old lady.

“We’ll not say very crooked, ma’am,” said Brass piously. “Let us not underline the weaknesses of the deceased. He is gone, ma’am, to where his legs will never come in question. We will content ourselves with crooked.”

“I thought you wanted the truth,” said the old lady. “That’s all.”

“Oh,” said the lawyer, laying down his pen, “his coat, his waistcoat, his shoes and stockings, his trousers, his hat, his wit and humour, his pathos and his umbrella, all come before me like visions of my youth… A question now arises, his nose.”

“Flat,” said the old lady.

“Aquiline!” cried Quilp, thrusting in his head, and striking the nose with his fist. “Aquiline, you hag. Do you see it? Do you call this flat? Do you? Eh?”

“Oh excellent, excellent!” shouted Brass. “Wonderful! How very good he is! He’s a most remarkable man so extremely whimsical! Such an amazing power of taking people by surprise!”

Keeping his eye fixed on Sampson Brass, Quilp walked up to the table, and surveyed him with a most extraordinary leer.

“Not yet, Sampson,” said Quilp. “Not just yet!”

“Oh very good indeed!” cried Brass. “Ha ha ha! Oh exceedingly good! He has such a flow of good-humour, such an amazing flow!”

“Good-night,” said the dwarf, nodding expressively.

“Good-night, sir, good-night,” cried the lawyer, retreating backwards towards the door. “This is a joyful occasion indeed, extremely joyful. Ha ha ha! Oh very rich, very rich indeed, remarkably so!”

Quilp advanced towards the two men.

“Have you been dragging the river all day, gentlemen?” said the dwarf, holding the door open with great politeness.

“And yesterday too, master.”

“You’ve had a deal of trouble. Consider everything yours that you find upon the upon the body. Good-night!”

The men looked at each other and shuffled out of the room. Quilp locked the doors; and stood looking at his insensible wife like a dismounted nightmare.