The Old Curiosity Shop

by Dickens, Charles

  inaudible groan, as if in recognition of the orator's doctrines.

  The baby in her arms was as fast asleep as she; and little Jacob,

  whose youth prevented him from recognising in this prolonged

  spiritual nourishment anything half as interesting as oysters, was

  alternately very fast asleep and very wide awake, as his

  inclination to slumber, or his terror of being personally alluded

  to in the discourse, gained the mastery over him.

  'And now I'm here,' thought Kit, gliding into the nearest empty pew

  which was opposite his mother's, and on the other side of the

  little aisle, 'how am I ever to get at her, or persuade her to come

  out! I might as well be twenty miles off. She'll never wake till

  it's all over, and there goes the clock again! If he would but

  leave off for a minute, or if they'd only sing!'

  But there was little encouragement to believe that either event

  would happen for a couple of hours to come. The preacher went on

  telling them what he meant to convince them of before he had done,

  and it was clear that if he only kept to one-half of his promises

  and forgot the other, he was good for that time at least.

  In his desperation and restlessness Kit cast his eyes about the

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  chapel, and happening to let them fall upon a little seat in front

  of the clerk's desk, could scarcely believe them when they showed

  him--Quilp!

  He rubbed them twice or thrice, but still they insisted that Quilp

  was there, and there indeed he was, sitting with his hands upon his

  knees, and his hat between them on a little wooden bracket, with

  the accustomed grin on his dirty face, and his eyes fixed upon the

  ceiling. He certainly did not glance at Kit or at his mother, and

  appeared utterly unconscious of their presence; still Kit could not

  help feeling, directly, that the attention of the sly little fiend

  was fastened upon them, and upon nothing else.

  But, astounded as he was by the apparition of the dwarf among the

  Little Bethelites, and not free from a misgiving that it was the

  forerunner of some trouble or annoyance, he was compelled to subdue

  his wonder and to take active measures for the withdrawal of his

  parent, as the evening was now creeping on, and the matter grew

  serious. Therefore, the next time little Jacob woke, Kit set

  himself to attract his wandering attention, and this not being a

  very difficult task (one sneeze effected it), he signed to him to

  rouse his mother.

  Ill-luck would have it, however, that, just then, the preacher, in

  a forcible exposition of one head of his discourse, leaned over

  upon the pulpit-desk so that very little more of him than his legs

  remained inside; and, while he made vehement gestures with his

  right hand, and held on with his left, stared, or seemed to stare,

  straight into little Jacob's eyes, threatening him by his strained

  look and attitude--so it appeared to the child--that if he so

  much as moved a muscle, he, the preacher, would be literally, and

  not figuratively, 'down upon him' that instant. In this fearful

  state of things, distracted by the sudden appearance of Kit, and

  fascinated by the eyes of the preacher, the miserable Jacob sat

  bolt upright, wholly incapable of motion, strongly disposed to cry

  but afraid to do so, and returning his pastor's gaze until his

  infant eyes seemed starting from their sockets.

  'If I must do it openly, I must,' thought Kit. With that he walked

  softly out of his pew and into his mother's, and as Mr Swiveller

  would have observed if he had been present, 'collared' the baby

  without speaking a word.

  'Hush, mother!' whispered Kit. 'Come along with me, I've got

  something to tell you.'

  'Where am I?' said Mrs Nubbles.

  'In this blessed Little Bethel,' returned her son, peevishly.

  'Blessed indeed!' cried Mrs Nubbles, catching at the word. 'Oh,

  Christopher, how have I been edified this night!'

  'Yes, yes, I know,' said Kit hastily; 'but come along, mother,

  everybody's looking at us. Don't make a noise--bring Jacob--

  that's right!'

  'Stay, Satan, stay!' cried the preacher, as Kit was moving off.

  'This gentleman says you're to stay, Christopher,' whispered his

  mother.

  'Stay, Satan, stay!' roared the preacher again. 'Tempt not the

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  woman that doth incline her ear to thee, but harken to the voice of

  him that calleth. He hath a lamb from the fold!' cried the

  preacher, raising his voice still higher and pointing to the baby.

  'He beareth off a lamb, a precious lamb! He goeth about, like a

  wolf in the night season, and inveigleth the tender lambs!'

  Kit was the best-tempered fellow in the world, but considering this

  strong language, and being somewhat excited by the circumstances in

  which he was placed, he faced round to the pulpit with the baby in

  his arms, and replied aloud, 'No, I don't. He's my brother.'

  'He's MY brother!' cried the preacher.

  'He isn't,' said Kit indignantly. 'How can you say such a thing?

  And don't call me names if you please; what harm have I done? I

  shouldn't have come to take 'em away, unless I was obliged, you may

  depend upon that. I wanted to do it very quiet, but you wouldn't

  let me. Now, you have the goodness to abuse Satan and them, as

  much as you like, Sir, and to let me alone if you please.'

  So saying, Kit marched out of the chapel, followed by his mother

  and little Jacob, and found himself in the open air, with an

  indistinct recollection of having seen the people wake up and look

  surprised, and of Quilp having remained, throughout the

  interruption, in his old attitude, without moving his eyes from the

  ceiling, or appearing to take the smallest notice of anything that

  passed.

  'Oh Kit!' said his mother, with her handkerchief to her eyes, 'what

  have you done! I never can go there again--never!'

  'I'm glad of it, mother. What was there in the little bit of

  pleasure you took last night that made it necessary for you to be

  low-spirited and sorrowful tonight? That's the way you do. If

  you're happy or merry ever, you come here to say, along with that

  chap, that you're sorry for it. More shame for you, mother, I was

  going to say.'

  'Hush, dear!' said Mrs Nubbles; 'you don't mean what you say I

  know, but you're talking sinfulness.'

  'Don't mean it? But I do mean it!' retorted Kit. 'I don't

  believe, mother, that harmless cheerfulness and good humour are

  thought greater sins in Heaven than shirt-collars are, and I

  do believe that those chaps are just about as right and sensible in

  putting down the one as in leaving off the other--that's my

  belief. But I won't say anything more about it, if you'll promise

  not to cry, that's all; and you take the baby that's a lighter

  weight, and give me little Jacob; and as we go along (which we must

  do pretty quick) I'll give you the news I bring, which will

  surprise you a li
ttle, I can tell you. There--that's right. Now

  you look as if you'd never seen Little Bethel in all your life, as

  I hope you never will again; and here's the baby; and little Jacob,

  you get atop of my back and catch hold of me tight round the neck,

  and whenever a Little Bethel parson calls you a precious lamb or

  says your brother's one, you tell him it's the truest things he's

  said for a twelvemonth, and that if he'd got a little more of the

  lamb himself, and less of the mint-sauce--not being quite so sharp

  and sour over it--I should like him all the better. That's what

  you've got to say to him, Jacob.'

  Talking on in this way, half in jest and half in earnest, and

  cheering up his mother, the children, and himself, by the one

  simple process of determining to be in a good humour, Kit led them

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  briskly forward; and on the road home, he related what had passed

  at the Notary's house, and the purpose with which he had intruded

  on the solemnities of Little Bethel.

  His mother was not a little startled on learning what service was

  required of her, and presently fell into a confusion of ideas, of

  which the most prominent were that it was a great honour and

  dignity to ride in a post-chaise, and that it was a moral

  impossibility to leave the children behind. But this objection,

  and a great many others, founded on certain articles of dress being

  at the wash, and certain other articles having no existence in the

  wardrobe of Mrs Nubbles, were overcome by Kit, who opposed to each

  and every of them, the pleasure of recovering Nell, and the delight

  it would be to bring her back in triumph.

  'There's only ten minutes now, mother,' said Kit when they reached

  home. 'There's a bandbox. Throw in what you want, and we'll be

  off directly.'

  To tell how Kit then hustled into the box all sorts of things which

  could, by no remote contingency, be wanted, and how he left out

  everything likely to be of the smallest use; how a neighbour was

  persuaded to come and stop with the children, and how the children

  at first cried dismally, and then laughed heartily on being

  promised all kinds of impossible and unheard-of toys; how Kit's

  mother wouldn't leave off kissing them, and how Kit couldn't make

  up his mind to be vexed with her for doing it; would take more time

  and room than you and I can spare. So, passing over all such

  matters, it is sufficient to say that within a few minutes after

  the two hours had expired, Kit and his mother arrived at the

  Notary's door, where a post-chaise was already waiting.

  'With four horses I declare!' said Kit, quite aghast at the

  preparations. 'Well you ARE going to do it, mother! Here she is,

  Sir. Here's my mother. She's quite ready, sir.'

  'That's well,' returned the gentleman. 'Now, don't be in a

  flutter, ma'am; you'll be taken great care of. Where's the box

  with the new clothing and necessaries for them?'

  'Here it is,' said the Notary. 'In with it, Christopher.'

  'All right, Sir,' replied Kit. 'Quite ready now, sir.'

  'Then come along,' said the single gentleman. And thereupon he

  gave his arm to Kit's mother, handed her into the carriage as

  politely as you please, and took his seat beside her.

  Up went the steps, bang went the door, round whirled the wheels,

  and off they rattled, with Kit's mother hanging out at one window

  waving a damp pocket-handkerchief and screaming out a great many

  messages to little Jacob and the baby, of which nobody heard a

  word.

  Kit stood in the middle of the road, and looked after them with

  tears in his eyes--not brought there by the departure he

  witnessed, but by the return to which he looked forward. 'They

  went away,' he thought, 'on foot with nobody to speak to them or

  say a kind word at parting, and they'll come back, drawn by four

  horses, with this rich gentleman for their friend, and all their

  troubles over! She'll forget that she taught me to write--'

  Whatever Kit thought about after this, took some time to think of,

  for he stood gazing up the lines of shining lamps, long after the

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  chaise had disappeared, and did not return into the house until the

  Notary and Mr Abel, who had themselves lingered outside till the

  sound of the wheels was no longer distinguishable, had several

  times wondered what could possibly detain him.

  CHAPTER 42

  It behoves us to leave Kit for a while, thoughtful and expectant,

  and to follow the fortunes of little Nell; resuming the thread of

  the narrative at the point where it was left, some chapters back.

  In one of those wanderings in the evening time, when, following the

  two sisters at a humble distance, she felt, in her sympathy with

  them and her recognition in their trials of something akin to her

  own loneliness of spirit, a comfort and consolation which made such

  moments a time of deep delight, though the softened pleasure they

  yielded was of that kind which lives and dies in tears--in one of

  those wanderings at the quiet hour of twilight, when sky, and

  earth, and air, and rippling water, and sound of distant bells,

  claimed kindred with the emotions of the solitary child, and

  inspired her with soothing thoughts, but not of a child's world or

  its easy joys--in one of those rambles which had now become her

  only pleasure or relief from care, light had faded into darkness

  and evening deepened into night, and still the young creature

  lingered in the gloom; feeling a companionship in Nature so serene

  and still, when noise of tongues and glare of garish lights would

  have been solitude indeed.

  The sisters had gone home, and she was alone. She raised her eyes

  to the bright stars, looking down so mildly from the wide worlds of

  air, and, gazing on them, found new stars burst upon her view, and

  more beyond, and more beyond again, until the whole great expanse

  sparkled with shining spheres, rising higher and higher in

  immeasurable space, eternal in their numbers as in their changeless

  and incorruptible existence. She bent over the calm river, and saw

  them shining in the same majestic order as when the dove beheld

  them gleaming through the swollen waters, upon the mountain tops

  down far below, and dead mankind, a million fathoms deep.

  The child sat silently beneath a tree, hushed in her very breath by

  the stillness of the night, and all its attendant wonders. The

  time and place awoke reflection, and she thought with a quiet hope--

  less hope, perhaps, than resignation--on the past, and present,

  and what was yet before her. Between the old man and herself there

  had come a gradual separation, harder to bear than any former

  sorrow. Every evening, and often in the day-time too, he was

  absent, alone; and although she well knew where he went, and why--

  too well from the constant drain upon her scanty purse and from his

  haggard looks--he evaded all inquiry, maintained a strict reserve,

>   and even shunned her presence.

  She sat meditating sorrowfully upon this change, and mingling it,

  as it were, with everything about her, when the distant

  church-clock bell struck nine. Rising at the sound, she retraced

  her steps, and turned thoughtfully towards the town.

  She had gained a little wooden bridge, which, thrown across the

  stream, led into a meadow in her way, when she came suddenly upon

  a ruddy light, and looking forward more attentively, discerned that

  it proceeded from what appeared to be an encampment of gipsies, who

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  had made a fire in one corner at no great distance from the path,

  and were sitting or lying round it. As she was too poor to have

  any fear of them, she did not alter her course (which, indeed, she

  could not have done without going a long way round), but quickened

  her pace a little, and kept straight on.

  A movement of timid curiosity impelled her, when she approached the

  spot, to glance towards the fire. There was a form between it and

  her, the outline strongly developed against the light, which caused

  her to stop abruptly. Then, as if she had reasoned with herself

  and were assured that it could not be, or had satisfied herself

  that it was not that of the person she had supposed, she went on

  again.

  But at that instant the conversation, whatever it was, which had

  been carrying on near this fire was resumed, and the tones of the

  voice that spoke--she could not distinguish words--sounded as

  familiar to her as her own.

  She turned, and looked back. The person had been seated before,

  but was now in a standing posture, and leaning forward on a stick

  on which he rested both hands. The attitude was no less familiar

  to her than the tone of voice had been. It was her grandfather.

  Her first impulse was to call to him; her next to wonder who his

  associates could be, and for what purpose they were together. Some

  vague apprehension succeeded, and, yielding to the strong

  inclination it awakened, she drew nearer to the place; not

  advancing across the open field, however, but creeping towards it

  by the hedge.

  In this way she advanced within a few feet of the fire, and

  standing among a few young trees, could both see and hear, without

  much danger of being observed.

  There were no women or children, as she had seen in other gipsy