ornamented by cunning architects, and still retaining, in its
beautiful groined roof and rich stone tracery, choice remnants of
its ancient splendour. Foliage carved in the stone, and emulating
the mastery of Nature's hand, yet remained to tell how many times
the leaves outside had come and gone, while it lived on unchanged.
The broken figures supporting the burden of the chimney-piece,
though mutilated, were still distinguishable for what they had
been--far different from the dust without--and showed sadly by the
empty hearth, like creatures who had outlived their kind, and
mourned their own too slow decay.
In some old time--for even change was old in that old place--a
wooden partition had been constructed in one part of the chamber to
form a sleeping-closet, into which the light was admitted at the
same period by a rude window, or rather niche, cut in the solid
wall. This screen, together with two seats in the broad chimney,
had at some forgotten date been part of the church or convent; for
the oak, hastily appropriated to its present purpose, had been
little altered from its former shape, and presented to the eye a
pile of fragments of rich carving from old monkish stalls.
An open door leading to a small room or cell, dim with the light
that came through leaves of ivy, completed the interior of this
portion of the ruin. It was not quite destitute of furniture. A
few strange chairs, whose arms and legs looked as though they had
dwindled away with age; a table, the very spectre of its race: a
great old chest that had once held records in the church, with
other quaintly-fashioned domestic necessaries, and store of
fire-wood for the winter, were scattered around, and gave evident
tokens of its occupation as a dwelling-place at no very distant
time.
The child looked around her, with that solemn feeling with which we
contemplate the work of ages that have become but drops of water in
the great ocean of eternity. The old man had followed them, but
they were all three hushed for a space, and drew their breath
softly, as if they feared to break the silence even by so slight a
sound.
'It is a very beautiful place!' said the child, in a low voice.
'I almost feared you thought otherwise,' returned the schoolmaster.
'You shivered when we first came in, as if you felt it cold or
gloomy.'
'It was not that,' said Nell, glancing round with a slight shudder.
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'Indeed I cannot tell you what it was, but when I saw the outside,
from the church porch, the same feeling came over me. It is its
being so old and grey perhaps.'
'A peaceful place to live in, don't you think so)' said her friend.
'Oh yes,' rejoined the child, clasping her hands earnestly. 'A
quiet, happy place--a place to live and learn to die in!' She
would have said more, but that the energy of her thoughts caused
her voice to falter, and come in trembling whispers from her lips.
'A place to live, and learn to live, and gather health of mind and
body in,' said the schoolmaster; 'for this old house is yours.'
'Ours!' cried the child.
'Ay,' returned 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 disburdened himself of his great surprise, the
schoolmaster sat down, and drawing Nell to his side, told her how
he had learnt that ancient tenement had been occupied for a very
long time by an old person, nearly a hundred years of age, 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 in an interview with the sexton, who was confined to his bed
by rheumatism, he had been bold to make mention of his
fellow-traveller, which had been so favourably received by that
high authority, that he had taken courage, acting on his advice, to
propound the matter to the clergyman. In a word, the result of his
exertions was, that Nell and her grandfather were to be carried
before the last-named gentleman next day; and, his approval of
their conduct and appearance reserved as a matter of form, that
they were already appointed to the vacant post.
'There's a small allowance of money,' said the schoolmaster. 'It
is not much, but still enough to live upon in this retired spot.
By clubbing our funds together, we shall do bravely; no fear of
that.'
'Heaven bless and prosper 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
tranquil life. But we must look at MY house now. Come!'
They repaired to the other tenement; tried the rusty keys as
before; at length found the right one; and opened the worm-eaten
door. It led into a chamber, vaulted and old, like that from which
they had come, but not so spacious, and having only one other
little room attached. It was not difficult to divine that the
other house was of right the schoolmaster's, and that he had chosen
for himself the least commodious, in his care and regard for them.
Like the adjoining habitation, it held such old articles of
furniture as were absolutely necessary, and had its stack of
fire-wood.
To make these dwellings as habitable and full of comfort as they
could, was now their pleasant care. In a short time, each had its
cheerful fire glowing and crackling on the hearth, and reddening
the pale old wall with a hale and healthy blush. Nell, busily
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plying her needle, repaired the tattered window-hangings, drew
together the rents that time had worn in the threadbare 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 which hung their drooping heads
in melancholy neglect; 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 patient
services, and was happy. Neighbours, too, as they came from work,
proffered 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 be
henceforth 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 expression--discussed their
future plans. Before they separated, the schoolmaster read some
prayers aloud; and then, full of gratitude and happiness, they
parted fo
r the night.
At that silent hour, when her grandfather was sleeping peacefully
in his bed, and every sound was hushed, the child lingered before
the dying embers, and thought of her past fortunes as if they had
been a dream And she only now awoke. The glare of the sinking
flame, reflected in the oaken panels whose carved tops were dimly
seen in the dusky roof--the aged walls, where strange shadows came
and went with every flickering of the fire--the solemn presence,
within, of that decay which falls on senseless things the most
enduring in their nature: and, without, and round about on every
side, of Death--filled her with deep and thoughtful feelings, but
with none of terror or alarm. A change had been gradually stealing
over her, in the time of her loneliness and sorrow. With failing
strength and heightening resolution, there had sprung up a purified
and altered mind; there had grown in her bosom blessed thoughts and
hopes, which are the portion of few but the weak and drooping.
There were none to see the frail, perishable figure, as it glided
from the fire and leaned pensively at the open casement; none but
the stars, to look into the upturned face and read its history.
The old church bell rang out the hour with a mournful sound, as if
it had grown sad from so much communing with the dead and unheeded
warning to the living; the fallen leaves rustled; the grass stirred
upon the graves; all else was still and sleeping.
Some of those dreamless sleepers lay close within the shadow of the
church--touching the wall, as if they clung to it for comfort and
protection. Others had chosen to lie beneath the changing shade of
trees; others by the path, that footsteps might come near them;
others, among the graves of little children. Some had desired to
rest beneath the very ground they had trodden in their daily walks;
some, where the setting sun might shine upon their beds; some,
where its light would fall upon them when it rose. Perhaps not one
of the imprisoned souls had been able quite to separate itself in
living thought from its old companion. If any had, it had still
felt for it a love like that which captives have been known to bear
towards the cell in which they have been long confined, and, even
at parting, hung upon its narrow bounds affectionately.
It was long before the child closed the window, and approached her
bed. Again something of the same sensation as before--an
involuntary chill--a momentary feeling akin to fear--but
vanishing directly, and leaving no alarm behind. Again, too,
dreams of the little scholar; of the roof opening, and a column of
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bright faces, rising far away into the sky, as she had seen in some
old scriptural picture once, and looking down on her, asleep. It
was a sweet and happy dream. The quiet spot, outside, seemed to
remain the same, saving that there was music in the air, and a
sound of angels' wings. After a time the sisters came there, hand
in hand, and stood among the graves. And then the dream grew dim,
and faded.
With the brightness and joy of morning, came the renewal of
yesterday's labours, the revival of its pleasant thoughts, the
restoration of its energies, cheerfulness, and hope. They worked
gaily in ordering and arranging their houses until noon, and then
went to visit the clergyman.
He was a simple-hearted old gentleman, of a shrinking, subdued
spirit, accustomed to retirement, and very little acquainted with
the world, which he had left many years before to come and settle
in that place. His wife had died in the house in which he still
lived, and he had long since lost sight of any earthly cares or
hopes beyond it.
He received them very kindly, and at once showed an interest in
Nell; asking her name, and age, her birthplace, the circumstances
which had led her there, 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 fortunes. He loved the
child as though she were his own.
'Well, well,' said the clergyman. 'Let it be as you desire. She
is very young.'
'Old in adversity and trial, sir,' replied the schoolmaster.
'God help her. Let her rest, and forget them,' said the old
gentleman. 'But an old church is a dull and gloomy place for one
so young as you, my child.'
'Oh no, sir,' returned Nell. 'I have no such thoughts, indeed.'
'I would rather see her dancing on the green at nights,' said the
old gentleman, laying his hand upon her head, and smiling sadly,
'than have her sitting in the shadow of our mouldering arches. You
must look to this, and see that her heart does not grow heavy among
these solemn ruins. Your request is granted, friend.'
After more kind words, they withdrew, and repaired to the child's
house; where they were yet in conversation on their happy fortune,
when another friend appeared.
This was a little old gentleman, who lived in the parsonage-house,
and had resided there (so they learnt soon afterwards) 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; in the first shock of his grief he had come to console
and comfort him; and from that time they had never parted company.
The little old gentleman was the active spirit of the place, the
adjuster of all differences, the promoter of all merry-makings, the
dispenser of his friend's bounty, and of no small charity of his
own besides; the universal mediator, comforter, and friend. None
of the simple villagers had cared to ask his name, or, when they
knew it, to store it in their memory. Perhaps from some vague
rumour of his college honours which had been whispered abroad on
his first arrival, perhaps because he was an unmarried,
unencumbered gentleman, he had been called the bachelor. The name
pleased him, or suited him as well as any other, and the Bachelor
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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 habitation.
The bachelor, then--to call him by his usual appellation--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.'
'You come well recommended, and I am glad to see you. I should
have been in the way yesterday, expecting you, 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; nor the worse teacher for having
&
nbsp; learnt humanity.'
'She has been ill, sir, very lately,' said the schoolmaster, in
answer to the look with which their visitor regarded Nell when he
had kissed her cheek.
'Yes, yes. I know she has,' he rejoined. '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 improvements here already. Are
they the work of your hands?'
'Yes, sir.'
'We may make some others--not better in themselves, but with
better means perhaps,' said the bachelor. 'Let us see now, let us
see.'
Nell accompanied him into the other little rooms, and over both the
houses, in which he found various small comforts wanting, which he
engaged to supply from a certain collection of odds and ends he had
at home, and which must have been a very miscellaneous and
extensive one, as it comprehended the most opposite articles
imaginable. They all came, however, and came without loss of time;
for the little old gentleman, disappearing for some five or ten
minutes, presently returned, laden with old shelves, rugs,
blankets, and other household gear, and followed by a boy bearing
a similar load. These being cast on the floor in a promiscuous
heap, yielded a quantity of occupation in arranging, erecting, and
putting away; the superintendence of which task evidently afforded
the old gentleman extreme delight, and engaged him for some time
with great briskness and activity. When nothing more was left to
be done, he charged the boy to run off and bring his schoolmates to
be marshalled before their new master, and solemnly reviewed.
'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 messenger soon returned at the head of a long row of urchins,
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great and small, who, being confronted by the bachelor at the house
door, fell into various convulsions of politeness; clutching their
hats and caps, squeezing them into the smallest possible
dimensions, and making all manner of bows and scrapes, which the
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