Part 4

"Do you know what the time is?" said Mr. Groves, who was smoking with his friends. "Past twelve o'clock."--"And a rainy night," added the stout man.

"'The Valiant Soldier,' by James Groves. Good beds. Cheap entertainment for man and beast," said Mr. Groves, quoting from his sign-board. "Half-past twelve o'clock."

"It's very late," said the uneasy child. "I wish we had gone before. What will they think of us? It will be two o'clock by the time we get back. What would it cost, sir, if we stopped here?"

"Two good beds, one-and-sixpence; supper and beer, one shilling; total, two shillings and sixpence," replied the landlord.

Now, Nell had still a piece of gold sewn in her dress, and when she thought of the lateness of the hour she made up her mind to remain. She therefore took her grandfather aside, and telling him that she had still enough left to pay for their lodging, said that they ought to stay there for the night.

"If I had but had that money before--if I had only known of it a few minutes ago!" muttered the old man.

"We will stop here, if you please," said Nell, turning to the landlord.

"I think that's prudent," returned Mr. Groves. "You shall have your suppers directly."

Very early the next morning they set out on their return journey, as Nell wished to reach home before Mrs. Jarley was up. The child's heart was very sore when she thought of all that had happened, but she could not forget that the old man wished to win wealth only for her sake.

So she spoke to him very gently, trying to show him as clearly as she could that she had no desire to become rich, and least of all by such evil means.

"Let me persuade you--oh, do let me persuade you," said the child, "to think no more of gains or losses.

"Have we been worse off," she went on, "since you forgot these cares and we have been travelling on together? Have we not been much better and happier without a home to shelter us than ever we were in that unhappy house, when thoughts of winning wealth were on your mind?"

"She speaks the truth," murmured the old man. "It must not turn me; but it is the truth--no doubt it is."

"Only remember what we have been since that bright morning when we turned our backs upon it for the last time," said Nell; "only remember what we have been since we have been free of all those miseries--what peaceful days and quiet nights we have had--what pleasant times we have known--what happiness we have enjoyed. If we have been tired or hungry, we have been soon refreshed, and slept the sounder for it. Think what beautiful things we have seen, and how contented we have felt. And why was this change?"

The old man stopped her with a motion of his hand, and bade her talk to him no more just then, for he was busy. After a time he kissed her cheek, without a word, and walked on, looking far before him, as if he were trying to collect his thoughts. Once she saw tears in his eyes.

When they reached the wax-work show they found that Mrs. Jarley was not yet out of bed. Nell at once set herself to the work of preparing the room, and had finished her task and dressed herself neatly before her mistress came down to breakfast.

That evening, as she feared, her grandfather stole away, and did not come back until the night was far spent. Worn out as she was in mind and body, she sat up alone, counting the minutes until he returned--penniless, broken-spirited, and wretched.

"Get me more money," he said wildly, as they parted for the night. "I must have money, Nell. It shall be paid thee back with interest one day, but all the money that comes into thy hands must be mine--not for myself, but to use for thee. Remember, Nell, to use for thee!"

What could poor Nell do but give him every penny that came into her hands? If she told the truth (so thought the child) he would be treated as a madman; if she did not supply him with money he would try to steal it. Worn out by these thoughts, the colour forsook her cheek, her eye grew dim, and her heart was very heavy. All her old sorrows had come back upon her; by day they were ever present to her mind; by night they haunted her in dreams.

*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.

*Chapter X.*

*A BED OF ASHES.*

"We must sleep in the open air to-night, dear," said Nell, in a weak voice, "and to-morrow we will beg our way to some quiet part of the country and try to earn our bread in very humble work."

"Ah! poor, houseless, motherless child," cried the old man, clasping his hands, and gazing as if for the first time upon her white face, her torn dress, and swollen feet; "has all my care brought her to this at last? Was I a happy man once, and have I lost happiness and all I had for this?"

"If we were in the country now," said the child, as cheerfully as she could, "we should find some good old tree, stretching out his green arms as if he loved us, and nodding as if he would have us fall asleep; thinking of him while he watched.

"Please God," she went on, "we shall be there soon--to-morrow, or the next day at the farthest; and in the meantime let us think, dear, that it was a good thing we came here; for we are lost in the crowd and hurry of this place, and if any cruel people should pursue us, they could surely never trace us farther. There's comfort in that. And here's a deep old doorway--very dark, but quite dry, and warm too, for the wind does not blow in here. What's that?"

Uttering a half shriek, she fell back before a black figure which came out of the door-way where they were about to take refuge, and stood still, looking at them.

"Speak again," it said; "do I know that voice?"

"No," replied the child; "we are strangers, and having no money for a night's lodging, we were going to rest here."

There was a lamp at no great distance--the only one in the place, which was a kind of square yard, but sufficient to show how poor and mean it was. To this the man beckoned them, and soon they stood looking at each other in the light of its rays.

The stranger was poorly clad and very dirty. His voice was harsh, but though his face was half hidden with long, dark hair, it was neither unkind nor bad.

"How came you to think of resting here?" he said. "Or how," he added, looking closely at the child, "do you come to want a place of rest at this time of night?"

"Our misfortunes," the old man said, "are the cause."

"Do you know," said the man, looking still more closely at Nell, "how wet she is, and that the damp streets are not a place for her?"

"I know it well, God help me," he replied.

"What can I do?"

The man looked at Nell again, and gently touched her dress, from which the rain was running off in little streams.

"I can give you warmth," he said, after a pause, "nothing else. Such lodging as I have is in that house"--pointing to the doorway from which he had come--"but she is safer and better there than here. The fire is in a rough place, but you can pass the night beside it safely, if you'll trust yourselves to me. You see that red light yonder?"

They raised their eyes, and saw in the dark sky the dull light of some distant fire.

"It's not far," said the man. "Shall I take you there? You were going to sleep upon cold bricks; I can give you a bed of warm ashes, nothing better."

Without waiting for any reply he took Nell in his arms, and bade the old man follow.

"This is the place," he said, after a long walk, pausing at a door to put Nell down and take her hand. "Don't be afraid; there's nobody here will harm you."

With some fear and alarm they entered a large and lofty building, echoing to the roof with the beating of hammers and roar of furnaces, mingled with the hissing of red-hot metal plunged in water. In this gloomy place, moving like demons among the flame and smoke, a number of men worked like giants. Others, lying upon heaps of coals or ashes, slept or rested from their toil. Others again, opening the white-hot furnace doors, cast fuel on the flames, which came rushing forth to meet it, and licked it up like oil. Others drew forth, upon the ground, great sheets of glowing, red-hot steel.

Through this strange place their new friend led them to where one furnace burnt by night and day. The man who had been watching this fire, and whose task was ended for the present, gladly withdrew, and left them with their friend. He at once spread Nell's little cloak upon a heap of ashes, and showing her where she could hang her outer clothes to dry, signed to her and the old man to lie down and sleep. Then he took his station on a ragged mat before the furnace door, and resting his chin upon his hands, watched the flame as it shone through the iron chinks, and the white ashes as they fell into their bright, hot grave below.

The warmth of her bed, hard and humble as it was, soon caused the noise of the place to fall with a gentler sound upon the child's tired ears, and was not long in lulling her to sleep. The old man was stretched beside her, and with her hand upon his neck she lay and dreamed.

It was yet night when she awoke, nor did she know for how long or how short a time she had slept. But she found herself protected, both from any cold air that might find its way into the building and from the heat, by some of the workmen's clothes; and glancing at their friend, saw that he still sat looking towards the fire, and keeping so very quiet that he did not even seem to breathe.

Nell lay in the state between sleeping and waking, looking so long at him that at length she almost feared he had died as he sat there; and softly rising and drawing close to him, she whispered in his ear.

He moved at once, and looked into her face.

"I feared you were ill," she said. "The other men are all moving, and you are so very quiet."

"They leave me to myself," he replied. "They know my way. They laugh at me, but don't harm me in it. See yonder, there--that's my friend."

"The fire?" said the child.

"It has been alive for as long as I have," the man made answer. "We talk and think together all night long."

The child glanced quickly at him in her surprise, but he had turned his eyes away and was musing as before.

"It's like a book to me," he said--"the only book I ever learned to read; and many an old story it tells me. It's music; for I should know its voice among a thousand, and there are other voices in its roar. It has its pictures too. You don't know how many strange faces and different scenes I trace in the red-hot coals. But you should be sleeping now. Lie down again, poor child, lie down again!"

With that, he led her to her rude couch, and covering her with the clothes once more, returned to his seat. The child watched him for a little time, but soon gave way to the drowsiness that came upon her, and in the dark, strange place and on the heap of ashes slept as peacefully as if the room had been a palace and her resting-place a bed of down.

When she woke again, broad day was shining through the openings in the walls. The noise was still going on, and the fires were burning fiercely as before; for few changes of night and day brought rest or quiet there.

Her friend shared his breakfast--coffee, and some coarse bread--with the child and her grandfather, and asked where they were going. She told him that they sought some distant country place, and asked what road they would do best to take.

"I know little of the country," he said, shaking his head; "but there are such places yonder."

"And far from here?" said Nell.

"Ay, surely. How could they be near us, and be green and fresh? The road lies, too, through miles and miles all lighted up by fires like ours--a strange, black road, and one that would frighten you by night."

"We are here, and must go on," said the child boldly.

"Rough people--paths never made for little feet like yours--a dismal way--is there no turning back, my child?"

"There is none," cried Nell, pressing forward. "If you can direct us, do. If not, pray do not seek to stop us. Indeed, you do not know the danger that we shun, and how right and true we are in flying from it, or you would not try to stop us; I am sure you would not."

"God forbid, if it is so!" said the man, glancing from the child to her grandfather, who hung his head and bent his eyes upon the ground. "I'll show you from the door, the best I can. I wish I could do more."

He showed them, then, by which road they must leave the town, and what course they should take when they had gained it. Then the child, with heartfelt thanks, tore herself away, and stayed to hear no more.

In all their wanderings they had never longed so much as now for the pure air of the open country; no, not even on that morning when, deserting their old home, they gave themselves up to the mercies of a strange world.

"Two days and nights!" thought the child. "He said two days and nights we should have to spend among such scenes as these. Oh, if we live to reach the country once again, if we get clear of these dreadful places, though it is only to lie down and die, with what a grateful heart I shall thank God for so much mercy!"

"We shall be very slow to-day, dear," she said as they went wearily through the streets; "my feet are so sore, and I have pains in all my limbs from the wet of yesterday. I saw that our friend looked at us and thought of that when he said how long we should be upon the road."

That night she lay down with nothing between her and the sky, and, with no fear for herself, for she was past it now, put up a prayer for the poor old man.

A penny loaf was all they had eaten that day. It was very little, but even hunger was forgotten in the peaceful feeling that crept over Nell. She lay down very gently, and with a quiet smile upon her face, fell into a light slumber.

The next morning came, and with it came to Nell a dull feeling that she was very ill. She had no wish to eat. Her grandfather ate greedily, which she was glad to see.

Their way lay through the same scenes as on the previous day. There was the same thick air, the same blighted ground, the same misery and poverty.

Evening was drawing on, but had not closed in, when they came to another busy town. After humbly asking for help at some few doors, and having been refused, they agreed to make their way out of the place as speedily as they could.

They were dragging themselves along through the last street, and the child now felt that the time was close at hand when she could bear no more. There appeared before them at this moment, going in the same direction as themselves, a traveller on foot, who, with a bag on his back, leaned upon a stout stick as he walked and read from a book which he held in his other hand.

It was not an easy matter to come up with him and ask his aid, for he walked fast, and was some little distance before them. But soon he stopped to look more closely at his book. Then the child shot on before her grandfather, and, going close to the stranger, began in a few faint words to beg his help. He turned his head. The child clapped her hands together, gave a wild shriek, and fell senseless at his feet.

*Chapter XI.*

*A FRIEND IN NEED.*

It was the poor schoolmaster--no other than the poor schoolmaster. Scarcely less surprised by the sight of the child than she herself had been at the sight of him, he stood for a moment without even trying to raise her from the ground.