towards night an old woman came tottering up the garden as speedily as she could, and meeting the schoolmaster at the door, said he was to go to dame west"s directly, and had best run on before her. he and the child were on the point of going out together for a walk, and without letting go her hand, the schoolmaster hurried away, leaving the messenger to follow as she might.
they stopped at a cottage-door, and the schoolmaster knocked softly at it with his hand. it was opened without loss of time. they entered a room where a little group of women were gathered about one older than the rest, who was crying very bitterly, and sat wringing her hands and rocking herself to and fro.
"oh, dame!" said the schoolmaster, drawing near her chair, "is it so bad as this?""he"s going fast," cried the old woman; "my grandson"s dying. it"s all along of you. you shouldn"t see him now, but for his being so earnest on it. this is what his learning has brought him to.
oh, dear, dear, dear, what can i do?"
"do not say that i am in any fault," urged the gentle schoolmaster. "i am not hurt, dame. no, no. you are in great distress1 of mind, and don"t mean what you say. i am sure you don"t.""i do," returned the old woman. "i mean it all. if he hadn"tbeen poring over his books out of fear of you, he would have been well and merry now, i know he would."the schoolmaster looked round upon the other women as if to entreat2 some one among them to say a kind word for him; but they shook their heads, and murmured to each other that they never thought there was much good in learning, and that this convinced them3. without saying a word in reply, he followed the old woman who had come for him (and who had now rejoined them) into another room, where his infant friend, half-dressed, lay stretched upon a bed.
he was a very young boy-quite a little child. his hair still hung in curls about his face, and his eyes were very bright. the schoolmaster took a seat beside him, and stooping over the pillow whispered his name. the boy sprung up, stroked his face with his hand, and threw his wasted4 arms round his neck, crying out that he was his dear, kind friend.
1distress: sorrow; grief.
2entreat: earnestly ask or beg.
3convinced them: made them certain. 4 wasted: made thin by disease.
the sick scholar
"i hope i always was. i meant to be, god knows," said the poor schoolmaster.
anxious to rouse him, for a dullness seemed gathering upon the child, "and how pleasant it used to be in the evening time? you must make haste to visit it again, for i think the very flowers have missed you,and are less gay than they used to be. you will come soon, my dear, very soon now-won"t you?"the boy smiled faintly-so very,very faintly-and put his hand upon his friend"s grey head. he moved his lips too, but no voice came from them-no, not a sound.
in the silence that ensued, the hum of distant voices borneupon the evening air came floating through the open window.
"what"s that?" said the sick child, opening his eyes. "the boys at play upon the green."he took a handkerchief from his pillow, and tried to wave it above his head. but the feeble arm dropped powerless down.
"shall i do it?" said the schoolmaster.
"please wave it at the window," was the faint reply. "tie it to the lattice1. some of them may see it there. perhaps they"ll think of me, and look this way."he raised his head, and glanced from the fluttering signal to his idle bat that lay with slate and book and other boyish property upon a table in the room. and then he laid him softly down once more.
the two old friends and companions-for such they were, though they were man and child-held each other in a long embrace, and then the little scholar turned his face towards the wall, and fell asleep.
the poor schoolmaster sat in the same place, holding the small, cold hand in his, and chafing it2. it was but the hand of a dead child. he felt that; and yet he chafed it still, and could not lay it down.
from the old curiosity shop, by charles dickens.
1lattice: a network of laths.
2chafing it: rubbing it softly to warm it.
