Chapter XII.
PEACE AFTER STORM.
After a long time the schoolmaster appeared at the wicket-gate of the churchyard, and hurried towards them, jingling in his hand, as he came along, a bundle of rusty keys. He was quite breathless with pleasure.
“You see those two old houses?” he said at last.
“Yes, surely,” replied Nell. “I have been looking at them nearly all the time you have been away.”
“And you would have looked at them still more if you could have guessed what I have to tell you,” said her friend. “One of those houses is mine.”
Without saying any more, or giving the child time to reply, the schoolmaster took her hand, and his honest face shining with pleasure, led her to the place of which he spoke.
They stopped before its low, arched door. After trying several of the keys in vain, the schoolmaster found one to fit the huge lock, which turned back creaking, and they stepped within.
The room which they entered was large and lofty, with a finely decorated roof. “It is a very beautiful place!” said the child in a low voice.
“A peaceful place to live in; don’t you think so?” said her friend.
“Oh yes!” said the child, clasping her hands earnestly; “a quiet, happy place.”
“A place to live and gather health of mind and body in,” said the schoolmaster; “and this old house is yours.”
“Ours!” cried the child.
“Ay,” said the schoolmaster gaily, “for many a merry year to come, I hope. I shall be a close neighbour—only next door; but this house is yours.”
Having now told his great news, the schoolmaster sat down, and drawing Nell to his side, told her how he had learned that that house had been occupied for a very long time by an old person, who kept the keys of the church, opened and closed it for the services, and showed it to strangers; how she had died not many weeks ago, and nobody had yet been found to fill the office; how, learning all this, he had been bold enough to mention his friends to the clergyman. In a word, the result was that Nell and her grandfather were to go before the last-named gentleman next day, and if they pleased him they were to be given the charge of the church.
“There’s a small allowance of money,” said the schoolmaster. “It is not much, but still enough to live upon. By clubbing our funds together we shall do well; no fear of that.”
“Heaven bless you!” sobbed the child.
“Amen, my dear,” returned her friend cheerfully; “and all of us, as it will, and has, in leading us through sorrow and trouble to this peaceful life. But we must look at my house now. Come!”
They went to the other door, tried the rusty keys as before, and at length found the right one. Like the first house, it held such pieces of furniture as were needful, and had its stack of firewood.
To make these houses as tidy and comfortable as they could was now their pleasant care. In a short time each had its cheerful fire glowing and crackling on the hearth. Nell, busily plying her needle, mended the torn window-hangings, drew together the rents which time had worn in the scraps of carpet, and made them whole and decent.
The schoolmaster swept and smoothed the ground before the door, trimmed the long grass, trained the ivy and creeping plants, and gave to the outer walls a cheery air of home. The old man, sometimes by his side and sometimes with the child, lent his aid to both, went here and there on little, useful services, and was happy.
Neighbours, too, as they came from work, offered their help or sent their children with such small presents or loans as the strangers needed most. It was a busy day, and night came on and found them wondering that there was yet so much to do, and that it should be dark so soon.
They took their supper together in the house which may henceforth be called the child’s; and when they had finished their meal, drew round the fire, and almost in whispers—their hearts were too quiet and glad for loud talking—talked over their future plans. Before they separated the schoolmaster read some prayers aloud, and then they parted for the night.
Next day they all worked gaily in arranging their houses until noon, and then went to visit the clergyman.
He received them very kindly, and at once showed an interest in Nell, asking her name and age, her birthplace, why she left her home, and so forth. The schoolmaster had already told her story. They had no other friends or home to leave, he said, and had come to share his life. He loved the child as though she were his own.
“Well, well,” said the clergyman, “let it be as you wish. She is very young.”
“Old in troubles and trials, sir,” replied the schoolmaster.
“God help her. Let her rest and forget them,” said the old gentleman, laying his hand upon her head, and smiling at her. “Your request is granted, friend.”
After more kind words they went to the child’s house, where they were talking over their happy fortune when another friend appeared.
This was a little old gentleman who had lived in the parsonage house ever since the death of the clergyman’s wife, which had happened fifteen years before. He had been his college friend and always his close companion.
The little old gentleman was the friend of every one in the place. None of the simple villagers had cared to ask his name, or, when they knew it, to store it in their memory, and he was known simply as the Bachelor. The name pleased him, or suited him as well as any other, and the Bachelor he had ever since remained. And the Bachelor it was, it may be added, who with his own hands had laid in the stock of fuel which the wanderers had found in their new home.
The Bachelor, then, lifted the latch, showed his little, round, mild face for a moment at the door, and stepped into the room like one who was no stranger to it.
“You are Mr. Marton, the new schoolmaster?” he said, greeting Nell’s kind friend.
“I am, sir.”
“I am glad to see you. I should have come to greet you yesterday, but I rode across the country to carry a message from a sick mother to her daughter in service some miles off, and have but just now returned. This is our young church-keeper? You are not the less welcome, friend, for her sake or for this old man’s.”
“She has been ill, sir, very lately,” said the schoolmaster.
“Yes, yes; I know she has,” he said. “There have been suffering and heartache here.”
“Indeed there have, sir.”
The little old gentleman glanced at the grandfather, and back again at the child, whose hand he took tenderly in his and held.
“You will be happier here,” he said, “We will try, at least, to make you so. You have made great changes here already. Are they the work of your hands?”
“Yes, sir,” said Nell.
“We will make some others—not better in themselves, but with better means, perhaps,” said the Bachelor. “Let us see now, let us see.”
Nell went with him into the other little rooms, and over both the houses, in which he found various small comforts wanting, which he said he would supply, and then went away. After some five or ten minutes he came back laden with old shelves, rugs, and blankets, and followed by a boy bearing another load. These being cast on the floor in a heap, Nell and her new friend spent a happy time in sorting and arranging them.
When nothing more was left to be done, the Bachelor told the boy to run off and bring all his schoolmates before their new master.
“As good a set of fellows, Marton, as you’d wish to see,” he said, turning to the schoolmaster when the boy was gone; “but I don’t let ’em know I think so. That wouldn’t do at all.”
The boy soon returned at the head of a long row of others, great and small, who stood shyly before the little group of which the Bachelor was the centre.
“This first boy, schoolmaster,” said the little gentleman, “is John Owen; a lad of good parts, sir, and frank, honest temper, but too thoughtless, too playful, too light-headed by far. That boy, my good sir, would break his neck with pleasure; and between ourselves, when you come to see him at hare-and-hounds, taking the fence and ditch by the finger-post, and sliding down the face of the little quarry, you’ll never forget it. It’s beautiful!”
John Owen having been thus rebuked, the Bachelor singled out another boy.
“Now, look at that lad, sir,” said the Bachelor. “You see that fellow? Richard Evans his name is, sir. An amazing boy to learn, blessed with a good memory; and moreover, with a good voice and ear for psalm-singing, at which he is the best among us. Yet, sir, that boy will come to a bad end; he’ll never die in his bed; he’s always falling asleep in sermon time—and to tell you the truth, Mr. Marton, I always did the same at his age, and feel quite certain that I couldn’t help it.”
This hopeful pupil having been thus described, the Bachelor turned to another.
“But if,” said he, “we come to a boy that should be a warning to all his fellows, here’s the one, and I hope you won’t spare him. This is the lad, sir—this one with the blue eyes and light hair. This is a swimmer, sir—this fellow—a diver.
“This is a boy, sir,” he went on, “who had a fancy for plunging into eighteen feet of water with his clothes on, and bringing up a blind man’s dog that was being drowned by the weight of its chain and collar, while its master stood wringing his hands upon the bank. I sent the boy two guineas, sir,” added the Bachelor in a whisper, “directly I heard of it; but never mention it, for he hasn’t the least idea that it came from me.”
The Bachelor now turned to another boy, and from him to another, and so on through the whole line. Feeling quite sure in the end that he had made them miserable by his severity, he sent them away with a small present and a severe warning to walk quietly home without any leaping, scufflings, or turnings out of the way.
After a few moments the schoolmaster parted from him with a light heart and joyous spirits, and thought himself one of the happiest men on earth. The windows of the two old houses were ruddy again that night with the warm light of the cheerful fires that burnt within; and the Bachelor and his old friend, the clergyman, pausing to look upon them as they returned from their evening walk, spoke softly together of the beautiful child who had at last found a haven of rest in the village they both loved so well.