Chapter IV.
THE VILLAGE SCHOOL.
It was not until they were quite tired out and could no longer keep up the pace at which they had fled from the race-ground that the old man and the child stopped to rest upon the borders of a little wood. Here, though the race-ground could not be seen, they could yet hear the noise of the distant shouts, the hum of the voices, and the beating of the drums.
Some time passed before Nell could bring the trembling old man to a state of quiet.
“We are quite safe now, and have nothing to fear indeed, dear grandfather,” she said.
After a while they rose up from the ground, and took the shady track which led them through the wood. Passing along it for a short distance they came to a lane, completely shaded by the trees on either hand which met together overhead. A broken finger-post told them that this lane led to a village three miles off, and thither they bent their steps.
It was a very small place. The men and boys were playing at cricket on the green; and as the other folks were looking on, they wandered up and down, uncertain where to seek a humble lodging. There was but one old man in the little garden before his cottage, and him they were too timid to approach, for he was the schoolmaster, and had “School” written up over his window in black letters on a white board. He was a pale, simple-looking man, and sat smoking his pipe in the little porch before his cottage door.
“Speak to him, dear,” the old man whispered.
“I am almost afraid to disturb him,” said the child timidly. “He does not seem to see us. Perhaps if we wait a little he may look this way.”
The slight noise they made in raising the latch caught his ear. He looked at them kindly, but gently shook his head.
Nell dropped a curtsy, and told him they were poor travellers, who sought a shelter for the night, for which they would gladly pay. The schoolmaster looked at her as she spoke, laid aside his pipe, and rose to his feet.
“If you could direct us anywhere, sir,” said the child, “we should take it very kindly.”
“You have been walking a long way,” said the schoolmaster.
“A long way, sir,” the child replied.
“You’re a young traveller, my child,” he said, laying his hand gently on her head.—”Your grandchild, friend?”
“Ay, sir,” cried the old man, “and the stay and comfort of my life.”
“Come in,” said the schoolmaster. Then he led them into his little school-room, which was parlour and kitchen also, and told them that they were welcome to stay under his roof till morning. Before they had done thanking him, he spread a coarse white cloth upon the table, with knives and plates, and bringing out some bread and cold meat besought them to eat.
The child looked round the room as she took her seat. There were a couple of forms, notched and cut and inked all over; a small deal desk perched on four legs, at which no doubt the master sat; a few dog’s-eared books upon a high shelf; and beside them a collection of peg-tops, balls, kites, fishing-lines, marbles, half-eaten apples, and other things taken from idle urchins. Hanging on hooks upon the wall were the cane and ruler; and near them, on a small shelf of its own, the dunce’s cap, made of old newspapers. But the great ornaments of the wall were certain sentences fairly copied in good round text, and well-worked sums in simple addition and multiplication, which were pasted all round the room.
“Yes,” said the old schoolmaster, following Nell’s eyes with his own; “that’s beautiful writing, my dear.”
“Very, sir,” replied the child modestly; “is it yours?”
“Mine!” he returned, taking out his spectacles and putting them on; “I couldn’t write like that nowadays. No, they’re all done by one hand; a little hand it is, not so old as yours, but a very clever one.”
As the schoolmaster said this he saw that a small blot of ink had been thrown on one of the copies; so he took a penknife from his pocket, and going up to the wall carefully scraped it out.
“A little hand, indeed,” said the poor schoolmaster. “Far beyond all his mates in his learning and his sports too, how did he ever come to be so fond of me? That I should love him is no wonder, but that he should love me!” And here the schoolmaster stopped, and took off his spectacles to wipe them, as though they had grown dim.
“I hope there is nothing the matter, sir,” said Nell anxiously.
“Not much, my dear,” said the schoolmaster. “I hoped to have seen him on the green to-night. But he’ll be there to-morrow.”
Then after a pause he turned to her, and speaking very gently, hoped she would say a prayer that night for a sick child.
After a sound night’s rest the child rose early in the morning and went down to the room where she had supped last night. As the schoolmaster had already left his bed and gone out, she began herself to make the room neat and tidy, and had just finished when her kind host returned.
He thanked her many times, and said that the old dame who did such work for him had gone out to nurse the little scholar of whom he had told her. The child asked how he was, and hoped he was better.
“No,” said the schoolmaster, shaking his head sorrowfully. “No better. They even say he is worse.”
“I am very sorry for that, sir,” said the child.
She then asked his leave to prepare breakfast; and her grandfather coming downstairs after a while, they all three sat down together. While they were eating, their host said that the old man seemed much tired, and stood in need of rest.
“If the journey you have before you is a long one,” he said, “you are very welcome to pass another night here. I should really be glad if you would, friend.”
He saw that the old man looked at Nell, and added,—
“I shall be glad to have your young companion with me for one day. If you can do a charity to a lone man, and rest yourself at the same time, do so. But if you must go again upon your journey, I wish you well through it, and will walk a little way with you before school begins.”
“What are we to do, Nell?” said the old man in great doubt. “Say what we’re to do, dear.”
Nell was only too glad to stay. She was happy to show how thankful she was to the kind schoolmaster by doing such household duties as his little cottage stood in need of. When these were done she took some needlework from her basket and sat down upon a stool beside the window. Her grandfather was resting in the sun outside, and idly watching the clouds as they floated on before the light summer wind.
As the schoolmaster took his seat behind his desk to begin the day’s work, the child was afraid that she might be in the way, and offered to go to her little bedroom. But this he would not allow; and as he seemed pleased to have her there, she stayed, busying herself with her work.
“Have you many scholars, sir?” she asked.
The poor schoolmaster shook his head, and said that they barely filled the two forms.
“Are the others clever, sir?” asked the child, glancing at the wall.
“Good boys,” returned the schoolmaster. “good boys enough, my dear; but they’ll never do like that.”
At the top of the first form—the post of honour in the school—was the empty place of the little sick scholar, and at the head of the row of pegs on which hats or caps were hung, one was empty.
Soon began the hum of learning lessons, the whispered jest, and all the noise and drawl of school; and in the midst of the din sat the poor schoolmaster, trying in vain to fix his mind upon the duties of the day, and to forget his little friend. But the work only reminded him more strongly of the willing scholar.
“I think, boys,” said the schoolmaster, when the clock struck twelve, “that I shall give a half-holiday this afternoon.”
Upon this the boys, led on by the tallest among them, raised a great shout.
“You must promise me first,” said the schoolmaster, “that you’ll not be noisy, or at least, if you are, that you’ll go away and be so—away out of the village, I mean. I’m sure you wouldn’t disturb your old playmate.”
“No, sir! no, sir!” said the boys in a chorus.
“Then pray don’t forget—there’s my dear scholars,” said the schoolmaster—”what I have asked you, and do it as a favour to me. Good-bye all.”
“Thank’ee, sir,” and “Good-bye, sir,” were said a great many times, and the boys went out very slowly and softly. But there was the sun shining, and there were the birds singing, as the sun only shines and the birds only sing on holidays and half-holidays; there were the trees waving for all free boys to climb and nestle among their leafy branches; the hay begging them to come and scatter it to the pure air; the smooth ground, inviting to runs and leaps and long walks. It was more than boy could bear, and with a joyous whoop the whole band took to their heels and spread themselves about, shouting and laughing as they went.
“It’s natural, thank Heaven!” said the poor schoolmaster, looking after them. “I’m very glad they didn’t mind me.”
Towards night an old woman came up the garden, and meeting the schoolmaster at the door, said he was to go to Dame West’s directly. He and Nell were at the moment on the point of going out for a walk, and they hurried away together at once.
They stopped at a cottage door, and the schoolmaster knocked softly at it with his hand. It was opened without loss of time, and they entered a room where a little group of women were gathered about one older than the rest, who was crying and rocking herself to and fro.
“O dame!” said the schoolmaster, drawing near her chair, “is it so bad as this?”
“He’s going fast,” cried the old woman; “my grandson’s dying.”
Without saying a word in reply the schoolmaster went into another room, where he found his little scholar, and stayed with him till he passed gently away.
Almost broken-hearted, Nell returned with her kind friend to his cottage. She stole away to bed as quickly as she could, and when she was alone gave free vent to her sorrow in a flood of tears. But she felt through her grief a feeling of thankfulness that she herself was spared to the one relative and friend she loved so well.
The sun darting his cheerful rays into she room awoke her next morning; and now they must take leave of the poor schoolmaster, and wander forth once more. By the time they were ready to go school had begun. But the schoolmaster rose from his desk and walked with them to the gate.
It was with a trembling hand that the child held out to him the money which a lady had given her at the race-meeting for some wild flowers, faltering in her thanks as she thought how small the sum was, and blushing as she offered it. But he bade her put it up again, and, stooping, kissed her cheek.
They bade him good-bye very many times, and turned away, walking slowly and often looking back, until they could see him no more. At length they left the village far behind, and even lost sight of the smoke above the trees. They walked onward now at a quicker pace, keeping to the main road, meaning to go wherever it might lead them.