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Chapter LV
From that time, there sprung up in the old man's mind, a solicitude
about the child which never slept or left him. There are chords in the
human heart - strange, varying strings - which are only struck by
accident; which will remain mute and senseless to appeals the most
passionate and earnest, and respond at last to the slightest casual
touch. In the most insensible or childish minds, there is some train of
reflection which art can seldom lead, or skill assist, but which will
reveal itself, as great truths have done, by chance, and when the
discoverer has the plainest end in view. From that time, the old man
never, for a moment, forgot the weakness and devotion of the child;
from the time of that slight incident, he who had seen her toiling by
his side through so much difficulty and suffering, and had scarcely
thought of her otherwise than as the partner of miseries which he felt
severely in his own person, and deplored for his own sake at least as
much as hers, awoke to a sense of what he owed her, and what those
miseries had made her. Never, no, never once, in one unguarded
moment from that time to the end, did any care for himself, any
thought of his own comfort, any selfish consideration or regard
distract his thoughts from the gentle object of his love.
He would follow her up and down, waiting till she should tire and lean
upon his arm - he would sit opposite to her in the chimney-corner,
content to watch, and look, until she raised her head and smiled upon
him as of old - he would discharge by stealth, those household duties
which tasked her powers too heavily - he would rise, in the cold dark
nights, to listen to her breathing in her sleep, and sometimes crouch
for hours by her bedside only to touch her hand. He who knows all,
can only know what hopes, and fears, and thoughts of deep affection,
were in that one disordered brain, and what a change had fallen on
the poor old man. Sometimes - weeks had crept on, then - the child,
exhausted, though with little fatigue, would pass whole evenings on a
couch beside the fire. At such times, the schoolmaster would bring in
books, and read to her aloud; and seldom an evening passed, but the
bachelor came in, and took his turn of reading. The old man sat and
listened - with little understanding for the words, but with his eyes
fixed upon the child - and if she smiled or brightened with the story,
he would say it was a good one, and conceive a fondness for the very
book. When, in their evening talk, the bachelor told some tale that
pleased her (as his tales were sure to do), the old man would painfully
try to store it in his mind; nay, when the bachelor left them, he would
sometimes slip out after him, and humbly beg that he would tell him
such a part again, that he might learn to win a smile from Nell.
But these were rare occasions, happily; for the child yearned to be out
of doors, and walking in her solemn garden. Parties, too, would come
to see the church; and those who came, speaking to others of the
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