Dickens, Charles - The Old Curiosity Shop
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, fainly. 'Began to ---'
'To be so thoughtful and dejected, and to forget our old way ot
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 any one 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
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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 afectionate than he was the day before. You
do not know how fond he is of me!'
'I am 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 any one. He has no sleep or rest, but that which he
takes by day in his easy chair; for every night and neary 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 say, before he knew that I was there, that he could not
bear his life much longer, and if it was not for the child, would wish
to die. What shall I do! Oh! What shall I do!'
The fountains of her heart were opened; the child, overpowered by
the weight of her sorrows and anxieties, by the first confidence she
had ever shown, and the sympathy with which her little tale had been
received, hid her face in the arms of her helpless friend, and burst
into a passion of tears.
In a few minutes Mr Quilp returned, and expressed the utmost
surprise to find her in this condtiion, which he did very naturally and
with admirable effect, for that kind of acting had been rendered
familiar to him by long practice, and he was quite at home in it.
'She's tired you see, Mrs Quilp,' said the dwarf, squinting in a
hideous manner to imply that his wife was to follow his lead. 'It's a
long way from her home to the wharf, and then she was alrmed to
see a couple of young scoundrels fighting, and was timorous on the
water besides. All this together has been too much for her. Poor
Nell!'
Mr Quilp unintentionally adopted the very best means he could have
devised for the recovery of his young visitor, by patting her on the
head. Such an application from any other hand might not have
produced a remarkable effect, but the child shrank so quickly from
his touch and felt such an instinctive desire to get out of his reach,
that she rose directly and declared herself ready to return.
'But you'd better wait, and dine with Mrs Quilp and me.' said the
dwarf.
'I have been away too long, sir, already,' returned Nell, drying her
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eyes.
'Well,' said Mr Quilp, 'if you will go, you will, Nelly. Here's the
note. It's only to say that I shall see him to-morrow or maybe next
day, and that I couldn't do that little business for him this morning.
Good-bye, Nelly. Here, you sir; take care of her, d'ye hear?'
Kit, who appeared at the summons, deigned to make no reply to so
needless an injunction, and after staring at Quilp in a threatening
manner, as if he doubted whether he might not have been the cause
of Nelly shedding tears, and felt more than half disposed to revenge
the fact upon him on the mere suspicion, turned about and followed
his young mistress, who had by this time taken her leave of Mrs
Quilp and departed.
'You're a keen questioner, an't you, Mrs Quilp?' said the dwarf,
turning upon her as soon as
they were left alone.
'What more could I do?' returned his wife mildly?
'What more could you do!' sneered Quilp, 'couldn't you have done
something less? Couldn't you have done what you had to do, without
appearing in your favourite part of the crocodile, you minx?'
'I am very sorry for the child, Quilp,' said his wife. 'Surely I've
done enough. I've led her on to tell her secret she supposed we were
alone; and you were by, God forgive me.'
'You led her on! You did a great deal truly!' said Quilp. 'What did I
tell you about making me creak the door? It's lucky for you that
from what she let fall, I've got the clue I want, for if I hadn't, I'd
have visited the failure upon you, I can tell you.'
Mrs Quilp being fully persuaded of this, made no reply. Her husband
added with some exultation,
'But you may thank your fortunate stars--the same stars that made
you Mrs Quilp--you may thank them that I'm upon the old
gentleman's track, and have got a new light. So let me hear no more
about this matter now or at any other time, and don't get anything
too nice for dinner, for I shan't be home to it.'
So saying, Mr Quilp put his hat on and took himself off, and Mrs
Quilp, who was afflicted beyond measure by the recollection of the
part she had just acted, shut herself up in her chamber, and
smothering her head in the bed-clothes bemoaned her fault more
bitterly than many less tender-hearted persons would have mourned a
much greater offence; for, in the majority of cases, conscience is an
elastic and very flexible article, which will bear a deal of stretching
and adapt itself to a great variety of circumstances. Some people by
prudent management and leaving it off piece by piece like a flannel
waistcoat in warm weather, even contrive, in time, to dispense with
it altogether; but there be others who can assume the garment and
throw it off at pleasure; and this, being the greatest and most
convenient improvement, is the one most in vogue.
CHAPTER 7
'Fred,' said Mr Swiveller, 'remember the once popular melody of
Begone dull care; fan the sinking flame of hilarity with the wing of
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friendship; and pass the rosy wine.'
Mr Richard Swiveller's apartments were in the neighbourhood of
Drury Lane, and in addition to this convenience of situation had the
advantage of being over a tobacconist's shop, so that he was enabled
to procure a refreshing sneeze at any time by merely stepping out
upon the staircase, and was saved the trouble and expense of
maintaining a snuff-box. It was in these apartments that Mr Swiveller
made use of the expressions above recorded for the consolation and
encouragement of his desponding friend; and it may not be
uninteresting or improper to remark that even these brief
observations partook in a double sense of the figurative and poetical
character of Mr Swiveller's mind, as the rosy wine was in fact
represented by one glass of cold gin-and-water, which was
replenished as occasion required from a bottle and jug upon the
table, and was passed from one to another, in a scarcity of tumblers
which, as Mr Swiveller's was a bachelor's establishment, may be
acknowledged without a blush. By a like pleasant fiction his single
chamber was always mentioned in a plural number. In its disengaged
times, the tobacconist had announced it in his window as
'apartments' for a single gentleman, and Mr Swiveller, following up
the hint, never failed to speak of it as his rooms, his lodgings, or his
chambers, conveying to his hearers a notion of indefinite space, and
leaving their imaginations to wander through long suites of lofty
halls, at pleasure.
In this flight of fancy, Mr Swiveller was assisted by a deceptive
piece of furniture, in reality a bedstead, but in semblance a bookcase,
which occupied a prominent situation in his chamber and seemed to
defy suspicion and challenge inquiry. There is no doubt that by day
Mr Swiveller firmly believed this secret convenience to be a
bookcase and nothing more; that he closed his eyes to the bed,
resolutely denied the existence of the blankets, and spurned the
bolster from his thoughts. No word of its real use, no hint of its
nightly service, no allusion to its peculiar properties, had ever passed
between him and his most intimate friends. Implicit faith in the
deception was the first article of his creed. To be the friend of
Swiveller you must reject all circumstantial evidence, all reason,
observation, and experience, and repose a blind belief in the
bookcase. It was his pet weakness, and he cherished it.
'Fred!' said Mr Swiveller, finding that his former adjuration had
been productive of no effect. 'Pass the rosy.'
Young Trent with an impatient gesture pushed the glass towards him,
and fell again in the the moddy attitude from which he had been
unwillingly roused.
'I'll give you, Fred,' said his friend, stirring the mixture, 'a little
sentiment appropriate to the occasion. Here's May the ---'
'Pshaw!' interposed the other. 'You worry me to death with your
chattering. You can be merry under any circumstances.'
'Why, Mr Trent,' returned Dick, 'there is a proverb which talks
about being merry and wise. There are some people who can be
merry and can't be wise, and some who can be wise (or think they
can) and can't be merry. I'm one of the first sort. If the proverb's a
good 'un, I supose it's better to keep to half of it than none; at all
events, I'd rather be merry and not wise, than like you, neither one
nor t'other.'
'Bah!' muttered his friend, peevishly.
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'With all my heart,' said Mr Swiveller. 'In the polite circles I believe
this sort of thing isn't usually said to a gentleman in his own
apartments, but never mind that. Make yourself at home,' adding to
this retort an observation to the effect that his friend appeared to be
rather 'cranky' in point of temper, Richards Swiveller finished the
rosy and applied himself to the composition of another glassful, in
which, after tasting it with great relish, he proposed a toast to an
imaginary company.
'Gentlemen, I'll give you, if you please, Success to the ancient
family of the Swivellers, and good luck to Mr Richard in particular--Mr
Richard, gentlemen,'
said Dick with great emphasis, 'who spends
all his money on his friends and is Bah!'d for his pains. Hear, hear!'
'Dick!' said the other, returning to his seat after having paced the
room twice or thrice, 'will you talk seriously for two minutes, if I
show you a way to make your fortune with very little trouble?'
'You've shown me so many,' returned Dick; 'and nothing has come
of any one of 'em but empty pockets ---'
'You'll tell a different story of this one, before a very long time is
over,' said his companion, drawing his chair to the table. 'You saw
my sister Nell?'
'W
hat about her?' returned Dick.
'She has a pretty face, has she not?'
'Why, certainly,' replied Dick. 'I must say for her that there's not
any very strong family likeness between her and you.'
'Has she a pretty face,' repeated his friend impatiently.
'Yes,' said Dick, 'she has a pretty face, a very pretty face. What of
that?'
'I'll tell you,' returned his friend. 'It's very plain that the old man
and I will remain at daggers drawn to the end of our lives, and that I
have nothing to expect from him. You see that, I suppose?'
'A bat might see that, with the sun shining,' said Dick.
'It's equally plain that the money which the old flint--rot him--first
taught me to expect that I should share with her at his death, will all
be hers, is it not?'
'I should said it was,' replied Dick; 'unless the way in which I put
the case to him, made an impression. It may have done so. It was
powerful, Fred. 'Here is a jolly old grandfather'--that was strong, I
thought--very friendly and natural. Did it strike you in that way?'
It didn't strike him,' returned the other, 'so we needn't discuss it.
Now look here. Nell is nearly fourteen.'
'Fine girl of her age, but small,' observed Richard Swiveller
parenthetically.
'If I am to go on, be quiet for one minute,' returned Trent, fretting at
the slight interest the other appeared to take in the conversation.
'Now I'm coming to the point.'
'That's right,' said Dick.
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'The girl has strong affections, and brought up as she has been, may,
at her age, be easily influenced and persuaded. If I take her in hand,
I will be bound by a very little coaxing and threatening to bend her
to my will. Not to beat about the bush (for the advantages of the
scheme would take a week to tell) what's to prevent your marrying
her?'
Richard Swiveller, who had been looking over the rim of the tumbler
while his companion addressed the foregoing remarks to him with
great energy and earnestness of manner, no sooner heard these words
than he evinced the utmost consternation, and with difficulty
ejaculated the monosyllable:
'What!'
'I say, what's to prevent,' repeated the other with a steadiness of
manner, of the effect of which upon his companion he was well
assured by long experience, 'what's to prevent your marrying her?'
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