The Old Curiosity Shop

by Dickens, Charles

he had carried in a little parcel in his pocket all the way, and

  hurried off, full of ardour and excitement.

  The child watched him from the porch until the intervening foliage

  hid him from her view, and then stepped softly out into the old

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  churchyard--so solemn and quiet that every rustle of her dress

  upon the fallen leaves, which strewed the path and made her

  footsteps noiseless, seemed an invasion of its silence. It was a

  very aged, ghostly place; the church had been built many hundreds

  of years ago, and had once had a convent or monastery attached; for

  arches in ruins, remains of oriel windows, and fragments of

  blackened walls, were yet standing-, while other portions of the

  old building, which had crumbled away and fallen down, were mingled

  with the churchyard earth and overgrown with grass, as if they too

  claimed a burying-place and sought to mix their ashes with the dust

  of men. Hard by these gravestones of dead years, and forming a

  part of the ruin which some pains had been taken to render

  habitable in modern times, were two small dwellings with sunken

  windows and oaken doors, fast hastening to decay, empty and

  desolate.

  Upon these tenements, the attention of the child became exclusively

  riveted. She knew not why. The church, the ruin, the antiquated

  graves, had equal claims at least upon a stranger's thoughts, but

  from the moment when her eyes first rested on these two dwellings,

  she could turn to nothing else. Even when she had made the circuit

  of the enclosure, and, returning to the porch, sat pensively

  waiting for their friend, she took her station where she could

  still look upon them, and felt as if fascinated towards that spot.

  CHAPTER 47

  Kit's mother and the single gentleman--upon whose track it is

  expedient to follow with hurried steps, lest this history should be

  chargeable with inconstancy, and the offence of leaving its

  characters in situations of uncertainty and doubt--Kit's mother

  and the single gentleman, speeding onward in the post-chaiseand-

  four whose departure from the Notary's door we have already

  witnessed, soon left the town behind them, and struck fire from the

  flints of the broad highway.

  The good woman, being not a little embarrassed by the novelty of

  her situation, and certain material apprehensions that perhaps by

  this time little Jacob, or the baby, or both, had fallen into the

  fire, or tumbled down stairs, or had been squeezed behind doors, or

  had scalded their windpipes in endeavouring to allay their thirst

  at the spouts of tea-kettles, preserved an uneasy silence; and

  meeting from the window the eyes of turnpike-men, omnibus-drivers,

  and others, felt in the new dignity of her position like a mourner

  at a funeral, who, not being greatly afflicted by the loss of the

  departed, recognizes his every-day acquaintance from the window of

  the mourning coach, but is constrained to preserve a decent

  solemnity, and the appearance of being indifferent to all external

  objects.

  To have been indifferent to the companionship of the single

  gentleman would have been tantamount to being gifted with nerves of

  steel. Never did chaise inclose, or horses draw, such a restless

  gentleman as he. He never sat in the same position for two minutes

  together, but was perpetually tossing his arms and legs about,

  pulling up the sashes and letting them violently down, or thrusting

  his head out of one window to draw it in again and thrust it out of

  another. He carried in his pocket, too, a fire-box of mysterious

  and unknown construction; and as sure as ever Kit's mother closed

  her eyes, so surely--whisk, rattle, fizz--there was the single

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  gentleman consulting his watch by a flame of fire, and letting the

  sparks fall down among the straw as if there were no such thing as

  a possibility of himself and Kit's mother being roasted alive

  before the boys could stop their horses. Whenever they halted to

  change, there he was--out of the carriage without letting down the

  steps, bursting about the inn-yard like a lighted cracker, pulling

  out his watch by lamp-light and forgetting to look at it before he

  put it up again, and in short committing so many extravagances that

  Kit's mother was quite afraid of him. Then, when the horses were

  to, in he came like a Harlequin, and before they had gone a mile,

  out came the watch and the fire-box together, and Kit's mother as

  wide awake again, with no hope of a wink of sleep for that stage.

  'Are you comfortable?' the single gentleman would say after one of

  these exploits, turning sharply round.

  'Quite, Sir, thank you.'

  'Are you sure? An't you cold?'

  'It is a little chilly, Sir,' Kit's mother would reply.

  'I knew it!' cried the single gentleman, letting down one of the

  front glasses. 'She wants some brandy and water! Of course she

  does. How could I forget it? Hallo! Stop at the next inn, and

  call out for a glass of hot brandy and water.'

  It was in vain for Kit's mother to protest that she stood in need

  of nothing of the kind. The single gentleman was inexorable; and

  whenever he had exhausted all other modes and fashions of

  restlessness, it invariably occurred to him that Kit's mother

  wanted brandy and water.

  In this way they travelled on until near midnight, when they

  stopped to supper, for which meal the single gentleman ordered

  everything eatable that the house contained; and because Kit's

  mother didn't eat everything at once, and eat it all, he took it

  into his head that she must be ill.

  'You're faint,' said the single gentleman, who did nothing himself

  but walk about the room. 'I see what's the matter with you, ma'am.

  You're faint.'

  'Thank you, sir, I'm not indeed.'

  'I know you are. I'm sure of it. I drag this poor woman from the

  bosom of her family at a minute's notice, and she goes on getting

  fainter and fainter before my eyes. I'm a pretty fellow! How many

  children have you got, ma'am?'

  'Two, sir, besides Kit.'

  'Boys, ma'am?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Are they christened?'

  'Only half baptised as yet, sir.'

  'I'm godfather to both of 'em. Remember that, if you please,

  ma'am. You had better have some mulled wine.'

  'I couldn't touch a drop indeed, sir.'

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  'You must,' said the single gentleman. 'I see you want it. I

  ought to have thought of it before.'

  Immediately flying to the bell, and calling for mulled wine as

  impetuously as if it had been wanted for instant use in the

  recovery of some person apparently drowned, the single gentleman

  made Kit's mother swallow a bumper of it at such a high temperature

  that the tears ran down her face, and then hustled her off to the

  chaise again, where--not impossibly from the effects of this

  ag
reeable sedative--she soon became insensible to his

  restlessness, and fell fast asleep. Nor were the happy effects of

  this prescription of a transitory nature, as, notwithstanding that

  the distance was greater, and the journey longer, than the single

  gentleman had anticipated, she did not awake until it was broad

  day, and they were clattering over the pavement of a town.

  'This is the place!' cried her companion, letting down all the

  glasses. 'Drive to the wax-work!'

  The boy on the wheeler touched his hat, and setting spurs to his

  horse, to the end that they might go in brilliantly, all four broke

  into a smart canter, and dashed through the streets with a noise

  that brought the good folks wondering to their doors and windows,

  and drowned the sober voices of the town-clocks as they chimed out

  half-past eight. They drove up to a door round which a crowd of

  persons were collected, and there stopped.

  'What's this?' said the single gentleman thrusting out his head.

  'Is anything the matter here?'

  'A wedding Sir, a wedding!' cried several voices. 'Hurrah!'

  The single gentleman, rather bewildered by finding himself the

  centre of this noisy throng, alighted with the assistance of one of

  the postilions, and handed out Kit's mother, at sight of whom the

  populace cried out, 'Here's another wedding!' and roared and leaped

  for joy.

  'The world has gone mad, I think,' said the single gentleman,

  pressing through the concourse with his supposed bride. 'Stand

  back here, will you, and let me knock.'

  Anything that makes a noise is satisfactory to a crowd. A score of

  dirty hands were raised directly to knock for him, and seldom has

  a knocker of equal powers been made to produce more deafening

  sounds than this particular engine on the occasion in question.

  Having rendered these voluntary services, the throng modestly

  retired a little, preferring that the single gentleman should bear

  their consequences alone.

  'Now, sir, what do you want!' said a man with a large white bow at

  his button-hole, opening the door, and confronting him with a very

  stoical aspect.

  'Who has been married here, my friend?' said the single gentleman.

  'I have.'

  'You! and to whom in the devil's name?'

  'What right have you to ask?' returned the bridegroom, eyeing him

  from top to toe.

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  'What right!' cried the single gentleman, drawing the arm of Kit's

  mother more tightly through his own, for that good woman evidently

  had it in contemplation to run away. 'A right you little dream of.

  Mind, good people, if this fellow has been marrying a minor--tut,

  tut, that can't be. Where is the child you have here, my good

  fellow. You call her Nell. Where is she?'

  As he propounded this question, which Kit's mother echoed, somebody

  in a room near at hand, uttered a great shriek, and a stout lady in

  a white dress came running to the door, and supported herself upon

  the bridegroom's arm.

  'Where is she!' cried this lady. 'What news have you brought me?

  What has become of her?'

  The single gentleman started back, and gazed upon the face of the

  late Mrs Jarley (that morning wedded to the philosophic George, to

  the eternal wrath and despair of Mr Slum the poet), with looks of

  conflicting apprehension, disappointment, and incredulity. At

  length he stammered out,

  'I ask YOU where she is? What do you mean?'

  'Oh sir!' cried the bride, 'If you have come here to do her any

  good, why weren't you here a week ago?'

  'She is not--not dead?' said the person to whom she addressed

  herself, turning very pale.

  'No, not so bad as that.'

  'I thank God!' cried the single gentleman feebly. 'Let me come

  in.'

  They drew back to admit him, and when he had entered, closed the

  door.

  'You see in me, good people,' he said, turning to the newlymarried

  couple, 'one to whom life itself is not dearer than the two

  persons whom I seek. They would not know me. My features are

  strange to them, but if they or either of them are here, take this

  good woman with you, and let them see her first, for her they both

  know. If you deny them from any mistaken regard or fear for them,

  judge of my intentions by their recognition of this person as their

  old humble friend.'

  'I always said it!' cried the bride, 'I knew she was not a common

  child! Alas, sir! we have no power to help you, for all that we

  could do, has been tried in vain.'

  With that, they related to him, without disguise or concealment,

  all that they knew of Nell and her grandfather, from their first

  meeting with them, down to the time of their sudden disappearance;

  adding (which was quite true) that they had made every possible

  effort to trace them, but without success; having been at first in

  great alarm for their safety, as well as on account of the

  suspicions to which they themselves might one day be exposed in

  consequence of their abrupt departure. They dwelt upon the old

  man's imbecility of mind, upon the uneasiness the child had always

  testified when he was absent, upon the company he had been supposed

  to keep, and upon the increased depression which had gradually

  crept over her and changed her both in health and spirits. Whether

  she had missed the old man in the night, and knowing or

  conjecturing whither he had bent his steps, had gone in pursuit, or

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  whether they had left the house together, they had no means of

  determining. Certain they considered it, that there was but

  slender prospect left of hearing of them again, and that whether

  their flight originated with the old man, or with the child, there

  was now no hope of their return.

  To all this, the single gentleman listened with the air of a man

  quite borne down by grief and disappointment. He shed tears when

  they spoke of the grandfather, and appeared in deep affliction.

  Not to protract this portion of our narrative, and to make short

  work of a long story, let it be briefly written that before the

  interview came to a close, the single gentleman deemed he had

  sufficient evidence of having been told the truth, and that he

  endeavoured to force upon the bride and bridegroom an

  acknowledgment of their kindness to the unfriended child, which,

  however, they steadily declined accepting. In the end, the happy

  couple jolted away in the caravan to spend their honeymoon in a

  country excursion; and the single gentleman and Kit's mother stood

  ruefully before their carriage-door.

  'Where shall we drive you, sir?' said the post-boy.

  'You may drive me,' said the single gentleman, 'to the--' He was

  not going to add 'inn,' but he added it for the sake of Kit's

  mother; and to the inn they went.

  Rumours had already got abroad that the little girl who used to

  show the wax-work, was the child of great people who had been
>
  stolen from her parents in infancy, and had only just been traced.

  Opinion was divided whether she was the daughter of a prince, a

  duke, an earl, a viscount, or a baron, but all agreed upon the main

  fact, and that the single gentleman was her father; and all bent

  forward to catch a glimpse, though it were only of the tip of his

  noble nose, as he rode away, desponding, in his four-horse chaise.

  What would he have given to know, and what sorrow would have been

  saved if he had only known, that at that moment both child and

  grandfather were seated in the old church porch, patiently awaiting

  the schoolmaster's return!

  CHAPTER 48

  Popular rumour concerning the single gentleman and his errand,

  travelling from mouth to mouth, and waxing stronger in the

  marvellous as it was bandied about--for your popular rumour,

  unlike the rolling stone of the proverb, is one which gathers a

  deal of moss in its wanderings up and down--occasioned his

  dismounting at the inn-door to be looked upon as an exciting and

  attractive spectacle, which could scarcely be enough admired; and

  drew together a large concourse of idlers, who having recently

  been, as it were, thrown out of employment by the closing of the

  wax-work and the completion of the nuptial ceremonies, considered

  his arrival as little else than a special providence, and hailed it

  with demonstrations of the liveliest joy.

  Not at all participating in the general sensation, but wearing the

  depressed and wearied look of one who sought to meditate on his

  disappointment in silence and privacy, the single gentleman

  alighted, and handed out Kit's mother with a gloomy politeness

  which impressed the lookers-on extremely. That done, he gave her

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  his arm and escorted her into the house, while several active

  waiters ran on before as a skirmishing party, to clear the way and

  to show the room which was ready for their reception.

  'Any room will do,' said the single gentleman. 'Let it be near at

  hand, that's all.'

  'Close here, sir, if you please to walk this way.'

  'Would the gentleman like this room?' said a voice, as a little

  out-of-the-way door at the foot of the well staircase flew briskly

  open and a head popped out. 'He's quite welcome to it. He's as

  welcome as flowers in May, or coals at Christmas. Would you like

  this room, sir? Honour me by walking in. Do me the favour, pray.'