It is difficult, however, to please everybody, as most of us would have discovered, even without the fable which bears that moral, and in the course of the afternoon several mothers and aunts of pupils looked in to express their entire disapproval of the schoolmaster's proceeding.A few confined themselves to hints, such as politely inquiring what red-letter day or saint's day the almanack said it was; a few (these were the profound village politicians) argued that it was a slight to the throne and an affront to church and state, and savoured of revolutionary principles, to grant a half-holiday upon any lighter occasion than the birthday of the Monarch; but the majority expressed their displeasure on private grounds and in plain terms, arguing that to put the pupils on this short allowance of learning was nothing but an act of downright robbery and fraud: and one old lady, finding that she could not inflame or irritate the peaceable schoolmaster by talking to him, bounced out of his house and talked at him for half-an-hour outside his own window, to another old lady, saying that of course he would deduct this half-holiday from his weekly charge, or of course he would naturally expect to have an opposition started against him;there was no want of idle chaps in that neighbourhood (here the old lady raised her voice), and some chaps who were too idle even to be schoolmasters, might soon find that there were other chaps put over their heads, and so she would have them take care, and look pretty sharp about them.But all these taunts and vexations failed to elicit one word from the meek schoolmaster, who sat with the child by his side--a little more dejected perhaps, but quite silent and uncomplaining.
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 relinquishing 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 school-master.'I am not hurt, dame.No, no.You are in great distress 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't been 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 entreat 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 them.
Without saying a word in reply, or giving them a look of reproach, he followed the old woman who had summoned 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; but their light was of Heaven, not earth.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 wasted arms round his neck, crying out that he was his dear kind friend.
'I hope I always was.I meant to be, God knows,' said the poor schoolmaster.
'Who is that?' said the boy, seeing Nell.'I am afraid to kiss her, lest I should make her ill.Ask her to shake hands with me.' The sobbing child came closer up, and took the little languid hand in hers.Releasing his again after a time, the sick boy laid him gently down.
'You remember the garden, Harry,' whispered the schoolmaster, anxious to rouse him, for a dulness 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 borne upon 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 lattice.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, and asked if the little girl were there, for he could not see her.
She stepped forward, and pressed the passive hand that lay upon the coverlet.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 it.It was but the hand of a dead child.
He felt that; and yet he chafed it still, and could not lay it down.
