It behoves us to leave Kit for a while, thoughtful and expectant, and to follow the fortunes of little Nell; resuming the thread of the narrative at the point where it was left, some chapters back.
In one of those wanderings in the evening time, when, following the two sisters at a humble distance, she felt, in her sympathy with them and her recognition in their trials of something akin to her own loneliness of spirit, a comfort and consolation which made such moments a time of deep delight, though the softened pleasure they yielded was of that kind which lives and dies in tears--in one of those wanderings at the quiet hour of twilight, when sky, and earth, and air, and rippling water, and sound of distant bells, claimed kindred with the emotions of the solitary child, and inspired her with soothing thoughts, but not of a child's world or its easy joys--in one of those rambles which had now become her only pleasure or relief from care, light had faded into darkness and evening deepened into night, and still the young creature lingered in the gloom; feeling a companionship in Nature so serene and still, when noise of tongues and glare of garish lights would have been solitude indeed.
The sisters had gone home, and she was alone.She raised her eyes to the bright stars, looking down so mildly from the wide worlds of air, and, gazing on them, found new stars burst upon her view, and more beyond, and more beyond again, until the whole great expanse sparkled with shining spheres, rising higher and higher in immeasurable space, eternal in their numbers as in their changeless and incorruptible existence.She bent over the calm river, and saw them shining in the same majestic order as when the dove beheld them gleaming through the swollen waters, upon the mountain tops down far below, and dead mankind, a million fathoms deep.
The child sat silently beneath a tree, hushed in her very breath by the stillness of the night, and all its attendant wonders.The time and place awoke reflection, and she thought with a quiet hope--less hope, perhaps, than resignation--on the past, and present, and what was yet before her.Between the old man and herself there had come a gradual separation, harder to bear than any former sorrow.Every evening, and often in the day-time too, he was absent, alone; and although she well knew where he went, and why--too well from the constant drain upon her scanty purse and from his haggard looks--he evaded all inquiry, maintained a strict reserve, and even shunned her presence.
She sat meditating sorrowfully upon this change, and mingling it, as it were, with everything about her, when the distant church-clock bell struck nine.Rising at the sound, she retraced her steps, and turned thoughtfully towards the town.
She had gained a little wooden bridge, which, thrown across the stream, led into a meadow in her way, when she came suddenly upon a ruddy light, and looking forward more attentively, discerned that it proceeded from what appeared to be 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 (which, indeed, she could not have done without going a long way round), but quickened her pace a little, and kept straight on.
A movement of timid curiosity impelled her, when she approached the spot, to glance towards the fire.There was a form between it and her, the outline strongly developed against the light, which caused her to stop abruptly.Then, as if she had reasoned with herself and were assured that it could not be, or had satisfied herself that it was not that of the person she had supposed, she went on again.
But at that instant the conversation, whatever it was, which had been carrying on near this fire was resumed, and the tones of the voice that spoke--she could not distinguish words--sounded as familiar to her as her own.
She turned, and looked back.The person had been seated before, but was now in a standing posture, and leaning forward on a stick on which he rested both hands.The attitude was no less familiar to her than the tone of voice had been.It was her grandfather.
Her first impulse was to call to him; her next to wonder who his associates could be, and for what purpose they were together.Some vague apprehension succeeded, and, yielding to the strong inclination it awakened, she drew nearer to the place; not advancing across the open field, however, but creeping towards it by the hedge.
In this way she advanced within a few feet of the fire, and standing among a few young trees, could both see and hear, without much danger of being observed.
There were no women or children, as she had seen in other gipsy camps they had passed in their wayfaring, and but one gipsy--a tall athletic man, who stood with his arms folded, leaning against a tree at a little distance off, looking now at the fire, and now, under his black eyelashes, at three other men who were there, with a watchful but half-concealed interest in their conversation.Of these, her grandfather was one; the others she recognised as the first card-players at the public-house on the eventful night of the storm--the man whom they had called Isaac List, and his gruff companion.One of the low, arched gipsy-tents, common to that people, was pitched hard by, but it either was, or appeared to be, empty.
'Well, are you going?' said the stout man, looking up from the ground where he was lying at his ease, into her grandfather's face.
'You were in a mighty hurry a minute ago.Go, if you like.You're your own master, I hope?'
'Don't vex him,' returned Isaac List, who was squatting like a frog on the other side of the fire, and had so screwed himself up that he seemed to be squinting all over; 'he didn't mean any offence.'
'You keep me poor, and plunder me, and make a sport and jest of me besides,' said the old man, turning from one to the other.'Ye'll drive me mad among ye.'