Chapter 58

by Charles Dickens

　　In which one Scene of this History is closedDividing the distance into two days' journey, in order that hischarge might sustain the less exhaustion and fatigue from travellingso far, Nicholas, at the end of the second day from their leavinghome, found himself within a very few miles of the spot where thehappiest years of his life had been passed, and which, while itfilled his mind with pleasant and peaceful thoughts, brought backmany painful and vivid recollections of the circumstances in whichhe and his had wandered forth from their old home, cast upon therough 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 ofNicholas, and render him more than usually mindful of his droopingfriend. By night and day, at all times and seasons: alwayswatchful, attentive, and solicitous, and never varying in thedischarge of his self-imposed duty to one so friendless and helplessas he whose sands of life were now fast running out and dwindlingrapidly away: he was ever at his side. He never left him. Toencourage and animate him, administer to his wants, support andcheer him to the utmost of his power, was now his constant andunceasing occupation.They procured a humble lodging in a small farmhouse, surrounded bymeadows where Nicholas had often revelled when a child with a troopof merry schoolfellows; and here they took up their rest.At first, Smike was strong enough to walk about, for short distancesat a time, with no other support or aid than that which Nicholascould afford him. At this time, nothing appeared to interest him somuch as visiting those places which had been most familiar to hisfriend in bygone days. Yielding to this fancy, and pleased to findthat its indulgence beguiled the sick boy of many tedious hours, andnever failed to afford him matter for thought and conversationafterwards, Nicholas made such spots the scenes of their dailyrambles: driving him from place to place in a little pony-chair, andsupporting him on his arm while they walked slowly among these oldhaunts, or lingered in the sunlight to take long parting looks ofthose which were most quiet and beautiful.It was on such occasions as these, that Nicholas, yielding almostunconsciously to the interest of old associations, would point outsome tree that he had climbed, a hundred times, to peep at the youngbirds in their nest; and the branch from which he used to shout tolittle 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 streamin and wake him on the summer mornings--they were all summermornings then--and climbing up the garden-wall and looking over,Nicholas could see the very rose-bush which had come, a present toKate, from some little lover, and she had planted with her ownhands. There were the hedgerows where the brother and sister had sooften gathered wild flowers together, and the green fields and shadypaths where they had so often strayed. There was not a lane, orbrook, or copse, or cottage near, with which some childish event wasnot entwined, and back it came upon the mind--as events of childhooddo--nothing in itself: perhaps a word, a laugh, a look, some slightdistress, a passing thought or fear: and yet more strongly anddistinctly marked, and better remembered, than the hardest trials orseverest sorrows of a year ago.One of these expeditions led them through the churchyard where washis father's grave. 'Even here,' said Nicholas softly, 'we used toloiter before we knew what death was, and when we little thoughtwhose ashes would rest beneath; and, wondering at the silence, sitdown to rest and speak below our breath. Once, Kate was lost, andafter an hour of fruitless search, they found her, fast asleep,under that tree which shades my father's grave. He was very fond ofher, and said when he took her up in his arms, still sleeping, thatwhenever he died he would wish to be buried where his dear littlechild had laid her head. You see his wish was not forgotten.'Nothing more passed at the time, but that night, as Nicholas satbeside his bed, Smike started from what had seemed to be a slumber,and laying his hand in his, prayed, as the tears coursed down hisface, that he would make him one solemn promise.'What is that?' said Nicholas, kindly. 'If I can redeem it, or hopeto do so, you know I will.''I am sure you will,' was the reply. 'Promise me that when I die, Ishall be buried near--as near as they can make my grave--to the treewe saw today.'Nicholas gave the promise; he had few words to give it in, but theywere solemn and earnest. His poor friend kept his hand in his, andturned as if to sleep. But there were stifled sobs; and the handwas pressed more than once, or twice, or thrice, before he sank torest, and slowly loosed his hold.In a fortnight's time, he became too ill to move about. Once ortwice, Nicholas drove him out, propped up with pillows; but themotion of the chaise was painful to him, and brought on fits offainting, which, in his weakened state, were dangerous. There wasan old couch in the house, which was his favourite resting-place byday; and when the sun shone, and the weather was warm, Nicholas hadthis wheeled into a little orchard which was close at hand, and hischarge being well wrapped up and carried out to it, they used to sitthere 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 meredelusion of an imagination affected by disease; but which he had,afterwards, too good reason to know was of real and actualoccurrence.He had brought Smike out in his arms--poor fellow! a child mighthave carried him then--to see the sunset, and, having arranged hiscouch, had taken his seat beside it. He had been watching the wholeof the night before, and being greatly fatigued both in mind andbody, gradually fell asleep.He could not have closed his eyes five minutes, when he was awakenedby a scream, and starting up in that kind of terror which affects aperson suddenly roused, saw, to his great astonishment, that hischarge had struggled into a sitting posture, and with eyes almoststarting from their sockets, cold dew standing on his forehead, andin a fit of trembling which quite convulsed his frame, was callingto him for help.'Good Heaven, what is this?' said Nicholas, bending over him. 'Becalm; you have been dreaming.''No, no, no!' cried Smike, clinging to him. 'Hold me tight. Don'tlet me go. There, there. Behind the tree!'Nicholas followed his eyes, which were directed to some distancebehind the chair from which he himself had just risen. But, therewas nothing there.'This is nothing but your fancy,' he said, as he strove to composehim; '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 aninstant!''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 glancingfearfully round, 'do you remember my telling you of the man whofirst took me to the school?''Yes, surely.''I raised my eyes, just now, towards that tree--that one with thethick trunk--and there, with his eyes fixed on me, he stood!''Only reflect for one moment,' said Nicholas; 'granting, for aninstant, that it's likely he is alive and wandering about a lonelyplace like this, so far removed from the public road, do you thinkthat at this distance of time you could possibly know that managain?''Anywhere--in any dress,' returned Smike; 'but, just now, he stoodleaning upon his stick and looking at me, exactly as I told you Iremembered him. He was dusty with walking, and poorly dressed--Ithink his clothes were ragged--but directly I saw him, the wetnight, his face when he left me, the parlour I was left in, and thepeople that were there, all seemed to come back together. When heknew I saw him, he looked frightened; for he started, and shrunkaway. I have thought of him by day, and dreamt of him by night. Helooked in my sleep, when I was quite a little child, and has lookedin my sleep ever since, as he did just now.'Nicholas endeavoured, by every persuasion and argument he couldthink of, to convince the terrified creature that his imaginationhad deceived him, and that this close resemblance between thecreation of his dreams and the man he supposed he had seen was but aproof 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 housebelonged, he instituted a strict inquiry whether any stranger hadbeen seen, and searched himself behind the tree, and through theorchard, and upon the land immediately adjoining, and in every placenear, where it was possible for a man to lie concealed; but all invain. Satisfied that he was right in his original conjecture, heapplied himself to calming the fears of Smike, which, after sometime, he partially succeeded in doing, though not in removing theimpression upon his mind; for he still declared, again and again, inthe most solemn and fervid manner, that he had positively seen whathe had described, and that nothing could ever remove his convictionof its reality.And now, Nicholas began to see that hope was gone, and that, uponthe partner of his poverty, and the sharer of his better fortune,the world was closing fast. There was little pain, littleuneasiness, but there was no rallying, no effort, no struggle forlife. He was worn and wasted to the last degree; his voice had sunkso low, that he could scarce be heard to speak. Nature wasthoroughly exhausted, and he had lain him down to die.On a fine, mild autumn day, when all was tranquil and at peace: whenthe 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 timewas nearly come. So very still it was, that, every now and then, hebent 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 hadnot fallen into that deep slumber from which on earth there is nowaking.While he was thus employed, the closed eyes opened, and on the paleface 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 hisneck, 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 almostthink that if I could rise from this bed quite well I would not wishto do so, now. You have so often told me we shall meet again--sovery 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 armwhich accompanied these latter words, showed how they filled thespeaker's heart; nor were there wanting indications of how deeplythey had touched the heart of him to whom they were addressed.'You say well,' returned Nicholas at length, 'and comfort me verymuch, 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 fromyou. 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 mightmake you happier, if I could.''I know. I felt that, at the time.' He drew his friend closer tohim. 'You will forgive me; I could not help it, but though I wouldhave died to make her happy, it broke my heart to see--I know heloves her dearly--Oh! who could find that out so soon as I?'The words which followed were feebly and faintly uttered, and brokenby long pauses; but, from them, Nicholas learnt, for the first time,that the dying boy, with all the ardour of a nature concentrated onone absorbing, hopeless, secret passion, loved his sister Kate.He had procured a lock of her hair, which hung at his breast, foldedin one or two slight ribbons she had worn. He prayed that, when hewas dead, Nicholas would take it off, so that no eyes but his mightsee it, and that when he was laid in his coffin and about to beplaced in the earth, he would hang it round his neck again, that itmight rest with him in the grave.Upon his knees Nicholas gave him this pledge, and promised againthat 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, allwith light upon their faces; then, whispered that it was Eden--andso died.