“Yes Quilp.”
“Go, then. What’s the matter now?”
“Dear Quilp,” faltered his wife, “I love the child—if you could do without making me deceive her—”
The dwarf muttering a terrible oath looked round as if for some weapon with which to inflict condign punishment upon his disobedient wife. The submissive little woman hurriedly entreated him not to be angry, and promised to do as he bade her.
“Do you hear me,” whispered Quilp, nipping and pinching her arm; “worm yourself into her secrets; I know you can. I’m listening, recollect. If you’re not sharp enough I’ll creak the door, and wo betide you if I have to creak it much. Go!”
Mrs. Quilp departed according to order, and her amiable husband, ensconcing himself behind the partly opened door, and applying his ear close to it, began to listen with a face of great craftiness and attention.
Poor Mrs. Quilp was thinking, however, in what manner to begin or what kind of inquiries she could make; and it was not until the door, creaking in a very urgent manner, warned her to proceed without further consideration, that the sound of her voice was heard.
“How very often you have come backwards and forwards lately to Mr. Quilp, my dear.”
“I have said so to grandfather, a hundred times,” returned Nell innocently.
“And what has he said to that?”
“Only sighed, and dropped his head, and seemed so sad and wretched that if you could have seen him I am sure you must have cried; you could not have helped it more than I, I know. How that door creaks!”
“It often does,” returned Mrs. Quilp with an uneasy glance towards it. “But your grandfather—he used not to be so wretched?”
“Oh no!” said the child eagerly, “so different! we were once so happy and he so cheerful and contented! You cannot think what a sad change has fallen on us since.”
“I am very, very sorry, to hear you speak like this my dear!” said Mrs. Quilp. And she spoke the truth.
“Thank you,” returned the child, kissing her cheek, “you are always kind to me, and it is a pleasure to talk to you. I can speak to no one else about him, but poor Kit. I am very happy still, I ought to feel happier perhaps than I do, but you cannot think how it grieves me sometimes to see him alter so.”
“He’ll alter again Nelly,” said Mrs. Quilp, “and be what he was before.”
“Oh if God would only let that come about!” said the child with streaming eyes; “but it is a long time now, since he first began to—I thought I saw that door moving!”
“It’s the wind,” said Mrs. Quilp faintly. “Began to—?”
“To be so thoughtful and dejected, and to forget our old way of spending the time in the long evenings,” said the child. “I used to read to him by the fireside, and he sat listening, and when I stopped and we began to talk, he told me about my mother, and how she once looked and spoke just like me when she was a little child. Then he used to take me on his knee, and try to make me understand that she was not lying in her grave, but had flown to a beautiful country beyond the sky, where nothing died or ever grew old—we were very happy once!”
“Nelly, Nelly!”—said the poor woman, “I can’t bear to see one as young as you, so sorrowful. Pray don’t cry.”
“I do so very seldom,” said Nell, “but I have kept this to myself a long time, and I am not quite well I think, for the tears come into my eyes and I cannot keep them back. I don’t mind telling you my grief, for I know you will not tell it to anyone again.”
Mrs. Quilp turned away her head and made no answer.
“Then” said the child, “we often walked in the fields and among the green trees, and when we came home at night, we liked it better for being tired, and said what a happy place it was. And if it was dark and rather dull, we used to say, what did it matter to us, for it only made us remember our last walk with greater pleasure, and look forward to our next one. But now we never have these walks, and though it is the same house it is darker and much more gloomy than it used to be, indeed.”
She paused here, but though the door creaked more than once, Mrs. Quilp said nothing.
“Mind you don’t suppose” said the child earnestly, “that grandfather is less kind to me than he was. I think he loves me better every day, and is kinder and more affectionate than he was the day before. You do not know how fond he is of me!”
“I’m sure he loves you dearly” said Mrs. Quilp.
“Indeed, indeed he does!” cried Nell, “as dearly as I love him. But I have not told you the greatest change of all, and this you must never breathe again to anyone. He has no sleep or rest, but that which he takes by day in his easy chair; for every night and nearly all night long he is away from home.”
“Nelly!”
“Hush!” said the child, laying her finger on her lip and looking round. “When he comes home in the morning, which is generally just before day, I let him in. Last night he was very late, and it was quite light. I saw that his face was deadly pale, that his eyes were bloodshot, and that his legs trembled as he walked. When I had gone to bed again, I heard him groan. I got up and ran back to him, and heard him
