‘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 more curiously4 yet, 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 quite radiant with exultation5, led her to the place of which he spoke6.
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 admitted them into the house.
The room into which they entered was a vaulted8 chamber9 once nobly ornamented10 by cunning architects, and still retaining, in its beautiful groined roof and rich stone tracery, choice remnants of its ancient splendour. Foliage11 carved in the stone, and emulating12 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 hearth13, 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 niche14, 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 carving15 from old monkish16 stalls.
An open door leading to a small room or cell, dim with the light that came through leaves of ivy17, completed the interior of this portion of the ruin. It was not quite destitute18 of furniture. A few strange chairs, whose arms and legs looked as though they had dwindled19 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 scattered20 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 contemplate21 the work of ages that have become but drops of water in the great ocean of eternity22. 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 shudder23. ‘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 falter24, 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 gaily25, ‘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 tenement26 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 rheumatism27, he had been bold to make mention of his fellow-traveller, which had been so favourably28 received by that high authority, that he had taken courage, acting29 on his advice, to propound30 the matter to the clergyman. In a word, the result of his exertions31 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 retired32 spot. By clubbing our funds together, we shall do bravely; no fear of that.’
‘Heaven bless and prosper33 you!’ sobbed34 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 tranquil35 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 spacious36, 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 commodious37, 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 dwellings38 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 plying39 her needle, repaired the tattered40 window-hangings, drew together the rents that time had worn in the threadbare scraps41 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 drooping42 heads in melancholy43 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, proffered44 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 gratitude46 and happiness, they parted for 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 aged47 walls, where strange shadows came and went with every flickering48 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 bosom49 blessed thoughts and hopes, which are the portion of few but the weak and drooping. There were none to see the frail50, perishable51 figure, as it glided52 from the fire and leaned pensively53 at the open casement54; 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 rustled55; the grass stirred upon the graves; all else was still and sleeping.
Some of those dreamless sleepers56 lay close within the shadow of the church — touching57 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 imprisoned58 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 momentary59 feeling akin7 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 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 renewal60 of yesterday’s labours, the revival61 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, subdued62 spirit, accustomed to retirement63, 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 kindly64, and at once showed an interest in Nell; asking her name, and age, her birthplace, the circumstances which had led her there, and so forth45. 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 mouldering65 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 bounty66, and of no small charity of his own besides; the universal mediator67, 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 rumour68 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 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 appellation69 — lifted the latch70, 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 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 odds71 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, laden72 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 promiscuous73 heap, yielded a quantity of occupation in arranging, erecting74, and putting away; the superintendence of which task evidently afforded the old gentleman extreme delight, and engaged him for some time with great briskness75 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 urchins76, 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 little old gentleman contemplated77 with excessive satisfaction, and expressed his approval of by a great many nods and smiles. Indeed, his approbation78 of the boys was by no means so scrupulously79 disguised as he had led the schoolmaster to suppose, inasmuch as it broke out in sundry80 loud whispers and confidential81 remarks which were perfectly82 audible to them every one. ‘This first boy, schoolmaster,’ said the bachelor, ‘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 deprive his parents of their chief comfort — 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 quarry83, you’ll never forget it. It’s beautiful!’
John Owen having been thus rebuked84, and being in perfect possession of the speech aside, 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 a ready understanding, and moreover with a good voice and ear for psalm-singing, in 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 it was natural to my constitution and I couldn’t help it.’
This hopeful pupil edified85 by the above terrible reproval, the bachelor turned to another.
‘But if we talk of examples to be shunned,’ said he, ‘if we come to boys that should be a warning and a beacon86 to all their 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, Lord save us! This is a boy, sir, who had a fancy for plunging87 into eighteen feet of water, with his clothes on, and bringing up a blind man’s dog, who was being drowned by the weight of his chain and collar, while his master stood wringing88 his hands upon the bank, bewailing the loss of his guide and friend. I sent the boy two guineas anonymously89, sir,’ added the bachelor, in his peculiar90 whisper, ‘directly I heard of it; but never mention it on any account, for he hasn’t the least idea that it came from me. ’
Having disposed of this culprit, the bachelor turned to another, and from him to another, and so on through the whole array, laying, for their wholesome91 restriction92 within due bounds, the same cutting emphasis on such of their propensities93 as were dearest to his heart and were unquestionably referrable to his own precept94 and example. Thoroughly95 persuaded, in the end, that he had made them miserable96 by his severity, he dismissed them with a small present, and an admonition to walk quietly home, without any leapings, scufflings, or turnings out of the way; which injunction, he informed the schoolmaster in the same audible confidence, he did not think he could have obeyed when he was a boy, had his life depended on it.
Hailing these little tokens of the bachelor’s disposition97 as so many assurances of his own welcome course from that time, the schoolmaster parted from him with a light heart and joyous98 spirits, and deemed himself one of the happiest men on earth. The windows of the two old houses were ruddy again, that night, with the reflection of the cheerful fires that burnt within; and the bachelor and his friend, pausing to look upon them as they returned from their evening walk, spoke softly together of the beautiful child, and looked round upon the churchyard with a sigh.
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1
tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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emulating
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| v.与…竞争( emulate的现在分词 )；努力赶上；计算机程序等仿真；模仿 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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monkish
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| adj.僧侣的，修道士的，禁欲的 | |
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ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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falter
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| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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propound
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| v.提出 | |
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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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commodious
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| adj.宽敞的；使用方便的 | |
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dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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plying
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的现在分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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perishable
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| adj.（尤指食物）易腐的，易坏的 | |
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52
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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54
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sleepers
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| n.卧铺（通常以复数形式出现）；卧车( sleeper的名词复数 )；轨枕；睡觉（呈某种状态）的人；小耳环 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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mouldering
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| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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mediator
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| n.调解人，中介人 | |
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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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appellation
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| n.名称，称呼 | |
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latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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promiscuous
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| adj.杂乱的，随便的 | |
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erecting
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| v.使直立，竖起( erect的现在分词 )；建立 | |
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briskness
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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urchins
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| n.顽童( urchin的名词复数 )；淘气鬼；猬；海胆 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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edified
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| v.开导，启发( edify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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anonymously
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| ad.用匿名的方式 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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restriction
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| n.限制，约束 | |
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propensities
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| n.倾向，习性( propensity的名词复数 ) | |
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precept
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| n.戒律；格言 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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