Chapter IX.
FLYING FROM TEMPTATION.
Between Nell and her grandfather there was now a feeling of restraint and separation. Every evening, and often in the daytime too, the old man was absent alone; and although she well knew where he went, he never spoke of it, and kept carefully out of her way.
One evening the child went for a walk alone. She sat down beneath a tree, thinking sorrowfully upon this change, when the distant church-clock bell struck nine. Rising at the sound she set out to return towards the town.
She was crossing a meadow, when she came upon an encampment of gipsies, who had made a fire in one corner at no great distance from the path, and were sitting or lying round it. As she was too poor to have any fear of them she did not alter her course, but kept straight on.
But as she passed the spot Nell glanced towards the fire, and saw to her surprise that her grandfather made one of the party. Her first thought was to call him; her next to wonder who his new friends could be, and for what purpose they were there together.
After a few moments she moved nearer to the group, not across the open fields, however, but creeping along towards the men by the foot of the hedge. In this way she came at length within a few feet of the fire, and standing behind a low bush could see and hear without much danger of being seen herself.
Near the fire were three men, of whom her grandfather was one; the others were the card-players at the public-house on the night of the storm—Isaac and his rough friend, whom Nell now heard spoken to as Jowl.
“I go on then,” the latter was saying to Nell’s grandfather, “where I left off when you said you were going home. If you’re sure that it’s time for you to win money, and find that you haven’t enough to try it, borrow, I say, and when you’re able pay it back again.”
“Certainly,” Isaac List struck in. “If this good lady as keeps the wax-works has money, and does keep it in a tin box when she goes to bed, and doesn’t lock her door for fear of fire, it seems an easy thing.”
“You see, Isaac,” said his friend, growing more eager, and drawing himself closer to the old man—”you see, Isaac, strangers are going in and out every hour of the day; nothing would be more likely than for one of these strangers to get under the good lady’s bed, or lock himself in the cupboard. I’d give him his revenge to the last farthing he brought, whatever the sum was.”
“Ah,” cried Isaac; “the pleasures of winning! The delight of picking up the money—the bright, shining yellow-boys—and sweeping ’em into one’s pocket! The—but you’re not going, old gentleman?”
“I’ll do it,” said the old man, who had risen and taken two or three steps away, and now quickly came back. “I’ll have it, every penny.”
“God be merciful to us!” cried the child within herself, “and help us in this trying hour. What shall I do to save him?”
She crept slowly away, keeping in the shadow of the hedges until she could come out upon the road at a point where she would not be seen. Then she fled homeward as quickly as she could, and threw herself upon her bed, almost wild with grief.
The first idea that flashed upon her was flight. She would drag the old man from that place, and rather die of want upon the roadside than let him stay near such danger. Then she was torn with a fear that he might be at that moment robbing Mrs. Jarley; with a dread of cries in the silence of the night; with fearful thoughts of what he might do if he were detected in the act. She stole to the room where the money was, opened the door, and looked in. He was not there, and Mrs. Jarley was sleeping soundly.
She went back to her own room, and tried to prepare herself for bed. But how could she hope to rest? Half undressed, she flew to the old man’s bedside, took him by the wrist, and roused him from his sleep.
“What’s this?” he cried, starting up in bed, and fixing his eyes upon her white face.
“I have had a dreadful dream,” said the child. “I have had it once before. It is a dream of gray-haired men like you robbing sleepers of their gold. Up, up!”
The old man shook in every joint, and folded his hands like one who prays.
“Not to me,” said the child, “do not pray to me—to our Father in heaven to save us from such deeds. This dream is too real. I cannot sleep, I cannot stay here, I cannot leave you alone under the roof where such dreams come. Up! We must fly.”
He looked at her as if she were a spirit—she might have been one for all the look of earth she had—and shook more and more.
“There is no time to lose; I will not lose one minute,” said the child. “Up, and away with me!”
“To-night?” cried the old man.
“Yes, to-night,” replied the child. “To-morrow night will be too late. The dream will have come again. Nothing but flight can save us. Up!”
The old man rose from his bed, his brow bedewed with the cold sweat of fear, and, bending before the child as if she had been an angel sent to lead him where she would, made ready to follow her.
She took him by the hand and led him on. As they passed the door of Mrs. Jarley’s room she shivered, and looked up into his face. What a white face was that, and with what a look did he meet hers!
She took him to her own room, and, still holding him by the hand, gathered together the little stock of clothes she had, and hung her basket on her arm. The old man took his wallet from her hands, and strapped it on his shoulders—his staff, too, she had brought away—and then she led him forth.
Through the narrow streets their feet passed quickly. Up the steep hill, too, they toiled with rapid steps, and not once did they look behind. But as they drew nearer the walls of the old castle the child looked back upon the sleeping town, and as she did so she clasped the hand she held less firmly, and then, bursting into tears, fell upon the old man’s neck. Her moment of weakness past, the child urged him onward and looked back no more.
“I have saved him,” she thought. “In all dangers and distresses I will remember that.”
They walked on all that night, and when the morning broke they laid themselves down to sleep upon a bank close to a canal. Nell was roused by a sound of voices mingling with her dreams, and when she awoke she found that a rough-looking man was standing over them, while two others were looking on from a long, heavy boat which had come close to the bank while they were sleeping.
“Halloa!” said the man roughly, “what’s the matter here?”
“We were only asleep, sir,” said Nell. “We have been walking all night.”
“A pair of queer travellers to be walking all night,” said the man. “One of you is too old for that sort of work, and the other too young. Where are you going?”
Nell pointed at hazard towards the west, upon which the man asked if she meant a certain town which he named. Nell, to avoid more questions, said, “Yes, that was the place.”
“Where have you come from?” was the next question; and Nell named the village in which their friend the schoolmaster dwelt, as being less likely to be known to the men.
“I thought somebody had been ill-using you, might be,” said the man. “That’s all. Good-day.”
“Good-day,” Nell said, and looked after him as he mounted one of the horses which were used to draw the boat. It had not gone very far when it stopped again, and she saw the men waving to her.
“Did you call me?” said Nell, running up to them.
“You may go with us if you like,” replied one of those in the boat. “We’re going to the same place.”
Thinking that if they went with the men all traces of them would be lost, Nell thanked him, and in another moment she and her grandfather were on board, gliding smoothly down the canal. After a long journey the boat floated up to the wharf of a great town, where tall chimneys sent forth a dense, black vapour, and the clang of hammers mingled with the roar of busy streets and noisy crowds.
It was raining heavily. The child and her grandfather passed through a dirty lane into a crowded street, where they stood for a few moments. The throng of people hurried by, while the two poor strangers, stunned by the bustle and noise, looked sadly on.
Evening came on; they were still wandering up and down. The lights in the streets and shops made them feel yet more lonely. Shivering with the cold and damp, and sick at heart, the child found it very hard to creep along at all.