In which one scene of this history is closed
DIVIDING the distance into two days' journey, in order that his charge might
sustain the less exhaustion and fatigue from travelling so far, Nicholas, at the
end of the second day from their leaving home, found himself within a very few
miles of the spot where the happiest years of his life had been passed, and
which, while it filled his mind with pleasant and peaceful thoughts, brought
back many painful and vivid recollections of the circumstances in which he and
his had wandered forth from their old home, cast upon the rough world and the
mercy of strangers.
It needed no such reflections as those which the memory of old days, and
wanderings among scenes where our childhood has been passed, usually awaken in
the most insensible minds, to soften the heart of Nicholas, and render him more
than usually mindful of his drooping friend. By night and day, at all times and
seasons: always watchful, attentive, and solicitous, and never varying in the
discharge of his self-imposed duty to one so friendless and helpless as he whose
sands of life were now fast running out and dwindling rapidly away: he was ever
at his side. He never left him. To encourage and animate him, administer to his
wants, support and cheer him to the utmost of his power, was now his constant
and unceasing occupation.
They procured a humble lodging in a small farmhouse, surrounded by meadows
where Nicholas had often revelled when a child with a troop of merry
schoolfellows; and here they took up their rest.
At first, Smike was strong enough to walk about, for short distances at a
time, with no other support or aid than that which Nicholas could afford him. At
this time, nothing appeared to interest him so much as visiting those places
which had been most familiar to his friend in bygone days. Yielding to this
fancy, and pleased to find that its indulgence beguiled the sick boy of many
tedious hours, and never failed to afford him matter for thought and
conversation afterwards, Nicholas made such spots the scenes of their daily
rambles: driving him from place to place in a little pony-chair, and supporting
him on his arm while they walked slowly among these old haunts, or lingered in
the sun-light to take long parting looks of those which were most quiet and
beautiful.
It was on such occasions as these, that Nicholas, yielding almost
unconsciously to the interest of old associations, would point out some tree
that he had climbed, a hundred times, to peep at the young birds in their nest;
and the branch from which he used to shout to little Kate, who stood below
terrified at the height he had gained, and yet urging him higher still by the
intensity of her admiration. There was the old house too, which they would pass
every day, looking up at the tiny window through which the sun used to stream in
and wake him on the summer mornings--they were all summer mornings then--and
climbing up the garden-wall and looking over, Nicholas could see the very
rose-bush which had come, a present to Kate, from some little lover, and she had
planted with her own hands. There were the hedgerows where the brother and
sister had so often gathered wild flowers together, and the green fields and
shady paths where they had so often strayed. There was not a lane, or brook, or
copse, or cottage near, with which some childish event was not entwined, and
back it came upon the mind--as events of childhood do--nothing in itself:
perhaps a word, a laugh, a look, some slight distress, a passing thought or
fear: and yet more strongly and distinctly marked, and better remembered, than
the hardest trials or severest sorrows of a year ago.
One of these expeditions led them through the churchyard where was his
father's grave `Even here,' said Nicholas softly, `we used to loiter before we
knew what death was, and when we little thought whose ashes would rest beneath;
and, wondering at the silence, sit down to rest and speak below our breath.
Once, Kate was lost, and after an hour of fruitless search, they found her, fast
asleep, under that tree which shades my father's grave. He was very fond of her,
and said when he took her up in his arms, still sleeping, that whenever he died
he would wish to be buried where his dear little child had laid her head. You
see his wish was not forgotten.'
Nothing more passed at the time, but that night, as Nicholas sat beside his
bed, Smike started from what had seemed to be a slumber, and laying his hand in
his, prayed, as the tears coursed down his face, that he would make him one
solemn promise.
`What is that?' said Nicholas, kindly. `If I can redeem it, or hope to do so,
you know I will.'
`I am sure you will,' was the reply. `Promise me that when I die, I shall be
buried near--as near as they can make my grave--to the tree we saw today.'
Nicholas gave the promise; he had few words to give it in, but they were
solemn and earnest. His poor friend kept his hand in his, and turned as if to
sleep. But there were stifled sobs; and the hand was pressed more than once, or
twice, or thrice, before he sank to rest, and slowly loosed his hold.
In a fortnight's time, he became too ill to move about. Once or twice,
Nicholas drove him out, propped up with pillows; but the motion of the chaise
was painful to him, and brought on fits of fainting, which, in his weakened
state, were dangerous. There was an old couch in the house, which was his
favourite resting-place by day; and when the sun shone, and the weather was
warm, Nicholas had this wheeled into a little orchard which was close at hand,
and his charge being well wrapped up and carried out to it, they used to sit
there sometimes for hours together.
It was on one of these occasions that a circumstance took place, which
Nicholas, at the time, thoroughly believed to be the mere delusion of an
imagination affected by disease; but which he had, afterwards, too good reason
to know was of real and actual occurrence.
He had brought Smike out in his arms--poor fellow! a child might have carried
him then--to see the sunset, and, having arranged his couch, had taken his seat
beside it. He had been watching the whole of the night before, and being greatly
fatigued both in mind and body, gradually fell asleep.
He could not have closed his eyes five minutes, when he was awakened by a
scream, and starting up in that kind of terror which affects a person suddenly
roused, saw, to his great astonishment, that his charge had struggled into a
sitting posture, and with eyes almost starting from their sockets, cold dew
standing on his forehead, and in a fit of trembling which quite convulsed his
frame, was calling to him for help.
`Good Heaven, what is this?' said Nicholas, bending over him. `Be calm; you
have been dreaming.'
`No, no, no!' cried Smike, clinging to him. `Hold me tight. Don't let me go.
There--there--behind the tree!'
Nicholas followed his eyes, which were directed to some distance behind the
chair from which he himself had just risen. But, there was nothing there.
`This is nothing but your fancy,' he said, as he strove to compose him;
`nothing else, indeed.'
`I know better. I saw as plain as I see now,' was the answer. `Oh! say you'll
keep me with you--swear you won't leave me for an instant!'
`Do I ever leave you?' returned Nicholas. `Lie down again--there! You see I'm
here. Now, tell me--what was it?'
`Do you remember,' said Smike, in a low voice, and glancing fearfully round,
`do you remember my telling you of the man who first took me to the school?'
`Yes, surely.'
`I raised my eyes, just now, towards that tree--that one with the thick
trunk--and there, with his eyes fixed on me, he stood!'
`Only reflect for one moment,' said Nicholas; `granting, for an instant, that
it's likely he is alive and wandering about a lonely place like this, so far
removed from the public road, do you think that at this distance of time you
could possibly know that man again?'
`Anywhere--in any dress,' returned Smike; `but, just now, he stood leaning
upon his stick and looking at me, exactly as I told you I remembered him. He was
dusty with walking, and poorly dressed--I think his clothes were ragged--but
directly I saw him, the wet night, his face when he left me, the parlour I was
left in, and the people that were there, all seemed to come back together. When
he knew I saw him, he looked frightened; for he started, and shrunk away. I have
thought of him by day, and dreamt of him by night. He looked in my sleep, when I
was quite a little child, and has looked in my sleep ever since, as he did just
now.'
Nicholas endeavoured, by every persuasion and argument he could think of, to
convince the terrified creature that his imagination had deceived him, and that
this close resemblance between the creation of his dreams and the man he
supposed he had seen was but a proof of it; but all in vain. When he could
persuade him to remain, for a few moments, in the care of the people to whom the
house belonged, he instituted a strict inquiry whether any stranger had been
seen, and searched himself behind the tree, and through the orchard, and upon
the land immediately adjoining, and in every place near, where it was possible
for a man to lie concealed; but all in vain. Satisfied that he was right in his
original conjecture, he applied himself to calming the fears of Smike, which,
after some time, he partially succeeded in doing, though not in removing the
impression upon his mind; for he still declared, again and again, in the most
solemn and fervid manner, that he had positively seen what he had described, and
that nothing could ever remove his conviction of its reality.
And now, Nicholas began to see that hope was gone, and that, upon the partner
of his poverty, and the sharer of his better fortune, the world was closing
fast. There was little pain, little uneasiness, but there was no rallying, no
effort, no struggle for life. He was worn and wasted to the last degree; his
voice had sunk so low, that he could scarce be heard to speak. Nature was
thoroughly exhausted, and he had lain him down to die.
On a fine, mild autumn day, when all was tranquil and at peace: when the soft
sweet air crept in at the open window of the quiet room, and not a sound was
heard but the gentle rustling of the leaves: Nicholas sat in his old place by
the bedside, and knew that the time was nearly come. So very still it was, that,
every now and then, he bent down his ear to listen for the breathing of him who
lay asleep, as if to assure himself that life was still there, and that he had
not fallen into that deep slumber from which on earth there is no waking.
While he was thus employed, the closed eyes opened, and on the pale face
there came a placid smile.
`That's well!' said Nicholas. `The sleep has done you good.'
`I have had such pleasant dreams,' was the answer. `Such pleasant, happy
dreams!'
`Of what?' said Nicholas.
The dying boy turned towards him, and, putting his arm about his neck, made
answer, `I shall soon be there!'
After a short silence, he spoke again.
`I am not afraid to die,' he said. `I am quite contented. I almost think that
if I could rise from this bed quite well I would not wish to do so, now. You
have so often told me we shall meet again--so very often lately, and now I feel
the truth of that so strongly--that I can even bear to part from you.'
The trembling voice and tearful eye, and the closer grasp of the arm which
accompanied these latter words, showed how they filled the speaker's heart; nor
were there wanting indications of how deeply they had touched the heart of him
to whom they were addressed.
`You say well,' returned Nicholas at length, `and comfort me very much, dear
fellow. Let me hear you say you are happy, if you can.'
`I must tell you something, first. I should not have a secret from you. You
would not blame me, at a time like this, I know.'
`I blame you!' exclaimed Nicholas.
`I am sure you would not. You asked me why I was so changed, and--and sat so
much alone. Shall I tell you why?'
`Not if it pains you,' said Nicholas. `I only asked that I might make you
happier, if I could.'
`I know--I felt that, at the time.' He drew his friend closer to him. `You
will forgive me; I could not help it, but though I would have died to make her
happy, it broke my heart to see--I know he loves her dearly--Oh! who could find
that out so soon as I?'
The words which followed were feebly and faintly uttered, and broken by long
pauses; but, from them, Nicholas learnt, for the first time, that the dying boy,
with all the ardour of a nature concentrated on one absorbing, hopeless, secret
passion, loved his sister Kate.
He had procured a lock of her hair, which hung at his breast, folded in one
or two slight ribbons she had worn. He prayed that, when he was dead, Nicholas
would take it off, so that no eyes but his might see it, and that when he was
laid in his coffin and about to be placed in the earth, he would hang it round
his neck again, that it might rest with him in the grave.
Upon his knees Nicholas gave him this pledge, and promised again that he
should rest in the spot he had pointed out. They embraced, and kissed each other
on the cheek.
`Now,' he murmured, `I am happy.'
He fell into a light slumber, and waking smiled as before; then, spoke of
beautiful gardens, which he said stretched out before him, and were filled with
figures of men, women, and many children, all with light upon their faces; then,
whispered that it was Eden--and so died.
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