‘No, I do not,’ said Nicholas; ‘but it is of no great consequence to me, for I intend walking.’
‘Gang awa’ to Lunnun afoot!’ cried John, in amazement.
‘Every step of the way,’ replied Nicholas. ‘I should be many steps further on by this time, and so goodbye!’
‘Nay noo,’ replied the honest countryman, reining in his impatient horse, ‘stan’ still, tellee. Hoo much cash hast thee gotten?’
‘Not much,’ said Nicholas, colouring, ‘but I can make it enough. Where there’s a will, there’s a way, you know.’
John Browdie made no verbal answer to this remark, but putting his hand in his pocket, pulled out an old purse of solid leather, and insisted that Nicholas should borrow from him whatever he required for his present necessities.
‘Dean’t be afeard, mun,’ he said; ‘tak’ eneaf to carry thee whoam. Thee’lt pay me yan day, a’ warrant.’
Nicholas could by no means be prevailed upon to borrow more than a sovereign, with which loan Mr. Browdie, after many entreaties that he would accept of more (observing, with a touch of Yorkshire caution, that if he didn’t spend it all, he could put the surplus by, till he had an opportunity of remitting it carriage free), was fain to content himself.
‘Tak’ that bit o’ timber to help thee on wi’, mun,’ he added, pressing his stick on Nicholas, and giving his hand another squeeze; ‘keep a good heart, and bless thee. Beatten the schoolmeasther! ‘Cod it’s the best thing a’ve heerd this twonty year!’
So saying, and indulging, with more delicacy than might have been expected from him, in another series of loud laughs, for the purpose of avoiding the thanks which Nicholas poured forth, John Browdie set spurs to his horse, and went off at a smart canter: looking back, from time to time, as Nicholas stood gazing after him, and waving his hand cheerily, as if to encourage him on his way. Nicholas watched the horse and rider until they disappeared over the brow of a distant hill, and then set forward on his journey.
He did not travel far that afternoon, for by this time it was nearly dark, and there had been a heavy fall of snow, which not only rendered the way toilsome, but the track uncertain and difficult to find, after daylight, save by experienced wayfarers. He lay, that night, at a cottage, where beds were let at a cheap rate to the more humble class of travellers; and, rising betimes next morning, made his way before night to Boroughbridge. Passing through that town in search of some cheap resting-place, he stumbled upon an empty barn within a couple of hundred yards of the roadside; in a warm corner of which, he stretched his weary limbs, and soon fell asleep.
When he awoke next morning, and tried to recollect his dreams, which had been all connected with his recent sojourn at Dotheboys Hall, he sat up, rubbed his eyes and stared—not with the most composed countenance possible—at some motionless object which seemed to be stationed within a few yards in front of him.
‘Strange!’ cried Nicholas; ‘can this be some lingering creation of the visions that have scarcely left me! It cannot be real—and yet I—I am awake! Smike!’
The form moved, rose, advanced, and dropped upon its knees at his feet. It was Smike indeed.
‘Why do you kneel to me?’ said Nicholas, hastily raising him.
‘To go with you—anywhere—everywhere—to the world’s end—to the churchyard grave,’ replied Smike, clinging to his hand. ‘Let me, oh do let me. You are my home—my kind friend—take me with you, pray.’
‘I am a friend who can do little for you,’ said Nicholas, kindly. ‘How came you here?’
He had followed him, it seemed; had never lost sight of him all the way; had watched while he slept, and when he halted for refreshment; and had feared to appear before, lest he should be sent back. He had not intended to appear now, but Nicholas had awakened more suddenly than he looked for, and he had had no time to conceal himself.
‘Poor fellow!’ said Nicholas, ‘your hard fate denies you any friend but one, and he is nearly as poor and helpless as yourself.’
‘May I—may I go with you?’ asked Smike, timidly. ‘I will be your faithful hard-working servant, I will, indeed. I want no clothes,’ added the poor creature, drawing his rags together; ‘these will do very well. I only want to be near you.’
‘And you shall,’ cried Nicholas. ‘And the world shall deal by you as it does by me, till one or both of us shall quit it for a better. Come!’
With these words, he strapped his burden on his shoulders, and, taking his stick in one hand, extended the other to his delighted charge; and so they passed out of the old barn, together.
Chapter 14.
Having the Misfortune to treat of none but Common People, is necessarily of a Mean and Vulgar Character
In that quarter of London in which Golden Square is situated, there is a bygone, faded, tumble-down street, with two irregular rows of tall meagre houses, which seem to have stared each other out of countenance years ago. The very chimneys appear to have grown dismal and melancholy, from having had nothing better to look at than the chimneys over the way. Their tops are battered, and broken, and blackened with smoke; and, here and there, some taller stack than the rest, inclining heavily to one side, and toppling over the roof, seems to meditate taking revenge for half a century’s neglect, by crushing the inhabitants of the garrets beneath.
The fowls who peck about the kennels, jerking their bodies hither and thither with a gait which none but town fowls are ever seen to adopt, and which any country cock or hen would be puzzled to understand, are perfectly in keeping with the crazy habitations of their owners. Dingy, ill-plumed, drowsy flutterers, sent, like many of the neighbouring children, to get a livelihood in the streets, they hop, from stone to stone, in forlorn search of some hidden eatable in the mud, and can scarcely raise a crow among them. The only one with anything approaching to a voice, is an aged bantam at the baker’s; and even he is hoarse, in consequence of bad living in his last place.
To judge from the size of the houses, they have been, at one time, tenanted by persons of better condition than their present occupants; but they are now let off, by the week, in floors or rooms, and every door has almost as many plates or bell-handles as there are apartments within. The windows are, for the same reason, sufficiently diversified in appearance, being ornamented with every variety of common blind and curtain that can easily be imagined; while every doorway is blocked up, and rendered nearly impassable, by a motley collection of children and porter pots of all sizes, from the baby in arms and the half-pint pot, to the full-grown girl and half-gallon can.
In the parlour of one of these houses, which was perhaps a thought dirtier than any of its neighbours; which exhibited more bell-handles, children, and porter pots, and caught in all its freshness the first gust of the thick black smoke that poured forth, night and day, from a large brewery hard by; hung a bill, announcing that there was yet one room to let within its walls, though on what story the vacant room could be—regard being had to the outward tokens of many lodgers which the whole front displayed, from the mangle in the kitchen window to the flower-pots on the parapet—it would have been beyond the power of a calculating boy to discover.
The common stairs of this mansion were bare and carpetless; but a curious visitor who had to climb his way to the top, might have observed that there were not wanting indications of the progressive poverty of the inmates, although their rooms were shut. Thus, the first-floor lodgers, being flush of furniture, kept an old mahogany table—real mahogany—on the landing-place outside, which was only taken in, when occasion required. On the second story, the