The Old Curiosity Shop By Charles Dickens

CHAPTER 1

Night is generally my time for walking. In the summer I often leave

home early in the morning, and roam about fields and lanes all day, or

even escape for days or weeks together; but, saving in the country, I

seldom go out until after dark, though, Heaven be thanked, I love its

light and feel the cheerfulness it sheds upon the earth, as much as any

creature living.

I have fallen insensibly into this habit, both because it favours my

infirmity and because it affords me greater opportunity of speculating

on the characters and occupations of those who fill the streets. The

glare and hurry of broad noon are not adapted to idle pursuits like

mine; a glimpse of passing faces caught by the light of a street-lamp

or a shop window is often better for my purpose than their full

revelation in the daylight; and, if I must add the truth, night is

kinder in this respect than day, which too often destroys an air-built

castle at the moment of its completion, without the least ceremony or

remorse.

That constant pacing to and fro, that never-ending restlessness, that

incessant tread of feet wearing the rough stones smooth and glossy--is

it not a wonder how the dwellers in narrows ways can bear to hear it!

Think of a sick man in such a place as Saint Martin's Court, listening

to the footsteps, and in the midst of pain and weariness obliged,

despite himself (as though it were a task he must perform) to detect

the child's step from the man's, the slipshod beggar from the booted

exquisite, the lounging from the busy, the dull heel of the sauntering

outcast from the quick tread of an expectant pleasure-seeker--think of

the hum and noise always being present to his sense, and of the stream

of life that will not stop, pouring on, on, on, through all his

restless dreams, as if he were condemned to lie, dead but conscious, in

a noisy churchyard, and had no hope of rest for centuries to come.

Then, the crowds for ever passing and repassing on the bridges (on

those which are free of toil at last), where many stop on fine evenings

looking listlessly down upon the water with some vague idea that by and

by it runs between green banks which grow wider and wider until at last

it joins the broad vast sea--where some halt to rest from heavy loads

and think as they look over the parapet that to smoke and lounge away

one's life, and lie sleeping in the sun upon a hot tarpaulin, in a

dull, slow, sluggish barge, must be happiness unalloyed--and where

some, and a very different class, pause with heaver loads than they,

remembering to have heard or read in old time that drowning was not a

hard death, but of all means of suicide the easiest and best.

Covent Garden Market at sunrise too, in the spring or summer, when the

fragrance of sweet flowers is in the air, over-powering even the

unwholesome streams of last night's debauchery, and driving the dusky

thrust, whose cage has hung outside a garret window all night long,

half mad with joy! Poor bird! the only neighbouring thing at all akin

to the other little captives, some of whom, shrinking from the hot

hands of drunken purchasers, lie drooping on the path already, while

others, soddened by close contact, await the time when they shall be

watered and freshened up to please more sober company, and make old

clerks who pass them on their road to business, wonder what has filled

their breasts with visions of the country.

But my present purpose is not to expatiate upon my walks. The story I

am about to relate, and to which I shall recur at intervals, arose out

of one of these rambles; and thus I have been led to speak of them by

way of preface.

One night I had roamed into the City, and was walking slowly on in my

usual way, musing upon a great many things, when I was arrested by an

inquiry, the purport of which did not reach me, but which seemed to be

addressed to myself, and was preferred in a soft sweet voice that

struck me very pleasantly. I turned hastily round and found at my elbow

a pretty little girl, who begged to be directed to a certain street at

a considerable distance, and indeed in quite another quarter of the

town.

It is a very long way from here,' said I, 'my child.'

'I know that, sir,' she replied timidly. 'I am afraid it is a very long

way, for I came from there to-night.'

'Alone?' said I, in some surprise.

'Oh, yes, I don't mind that, but I am a little frightened now, for I

had lost my road.'

'And what made you ask it of me? Suppose I should tell you wrong?'

'I am sure you will not do that,' said the little creature,' you are

such a very old gentleman, and walk so slow yourself.'

I cannot describe how much I was impressed by this appeal and the

energy with which it was made, which brought a tear into the child's

clear eye, and made her slight figure tremble as she looked up into my

face.

'Come,' said I, 'I'll take you there.'

She put her hand in mind as confidingly as if she had known me from her

cradle, and we trudged away together; the little creature accommodating

her pace to mine, and rather seeming to lead and take care of me than I

to be protecting her. I observed that every now and then she stole a

curious look at my face, as if to make quite sure that I was not

deceiving her, and that these glances (very sharp and keen they were

too) seemed to increase her confidence at every repetition.

For my part, my curiosity and interest were at least equal to the

child's, for child she certainly was, although I thought it probably

from what I could make out, that her very small and delicate frame

imparted a peculiar youthfulness to her appearance. Though more

scantily attired than she might have been she was dressed with perfect

neatness, and betrayed no marks of poverty or neglect.

'Who has sent you so far by yourself?' said I.

'Someone who is very kind to me, sir.'

'And what have you been doing?'

'That, I must not tell,' said the child firmly.

There was something in the manner of this reply which caused me to look

at the little creature with an involuntary expression of surprise; for

I wondered what kind of errand it might be that occasioned her to be

prepared for questioning. Her quick eye seemed to read my thoughts, for

as it met mine she added that there was no harm in what she had been

doing, but it was a great secret--a secret which she did not even know

herself.

This was said with no appearance of cunning or deceit, but with an

unsuspicious frankness that bore the impress of truth. She walked on as

before, growing more familiar with me as we proceeded and talking

cheerfully by the way, but she said no more about her home, beyond

remarking that we were going quite a new road and asking if it were a

short one.

While we were thus engaged, I revolved in my mind a hundred different

explanations of the riddle and rejected them every one. I really felt

ashamed to take advantage of the ingenuousness or grateful feeling of

the child for the purpose of gratifying my curiosity. I love these

little people; and it is not a slight thing when they, who are so fresh

from God, love us. As I had felt pleased at first by her confidence I

determined to deserve it, and to do credit to the nature which had

prompted her to repose it in me.

There was no reason, however, why I should refrain from seeing the

person who had inconsiderately sent her to so great a distance by night

and alone, and as it was not improbable that if she found herself near

home she might take farewell of me and deprive me of the opportunity, I

avoided the most frequented ways and took the most intricate, and thus

it was not until we arrived in the street itself that she knew where we

were. Clapping her hands with pleasure and running on before me for a

short distance, my little acquaintance stopped at a door and remaining

on the step till I came up knocked at it when I joined her.

A part of this door was of glass unprotected by any shutter, which I

did not observe at first, for all was very dark and silent within, and

I was anxious (as indeed the child was also) for an answer to our

summons. When she had knocked twice or thrice there was a noise as if

some person were moving inside, and at length a faint light appeared

through the glass which, as it approached very slowly, the bearer

having to make his way through a great many scattered articles, enabled

me to see both what kind of person it was who advanced and what kind of

place it was through which he came.

It was an old man with long grey hair, whose face and figure as he held

the light above his head and looked before him as he approached, I

could plainly see. Though much altered by age, I fancied I could

recognize in his spare and slender form something of that delicate

mould which I had noticed in a child. Their bright blue eyes were

certainly alike, but his face was so deeply furrowed and so very full

of care, that here all resemblance ceased.

The place through which he made his way at leisure was one of those

receptacles for old and curious things which seem to crouch in odd

corners of this town and to hide their musty treasures from the public

eye in jealousy and distrust. There were suits of mail standing like

ghosts in armour here and there, fantastic carvings brought from

monkish cloisters, rusty weapons of various kinds, distorted figures in

china and wood and iron and ivory: tapestry and strange furniture that

might have been designed in dreams. The haggard aspect of the little

old man was wonderfully suited to the place; he might have groped among

old churches and tombs and deserted houses and gathered all the spoils

with his own hands. There was nothing in the whole collection but was

in keeping with himself nothing that looked older or more worn than he.

As he turned the key in the lock, he surveyed me with some astonishment

which was not diminished when he looked from me to my companion. The

door being opened, the child addressed him as grandfather, and told him

the little story of our companionship.

'Why, bless thee, child,' said the old man, patting her on the head,

'how couldst thou miss thy way? What if I had lost thee, Nell!'

'I would have found my way back to YOU, grandfather,' said the child

boldly; 'never fear.'

The old man kissed her, then turning to me and begging me to walk in, I

did so. The door was closed and locked. Preceding me with the light, he

led me through the place I had already seen from without, into a small

sitting-room behind, in which was another door opening into a kind of

closet, where I saw a little bed that a fairy might have slept in, it

looked so very small and was so prettily arranged. The child took a

candle and tripped into this little room, leaving the old man and me

together.

'You must be tired, sir,' said he as he placed a chair near the fire,

'how can I thank you?'

'By taking more care of your grandchild another time, my good friend,'

I replied.

'More care!' said the old man in a shrill voice, 'more care of Nelly!

Why, who ever loved a child as I love Nell?'

He said this with such evident surprise that I was perplexed what

answer to make, and the more so because coupled with something feeble

and wandering in his manner, there were in his face marks of deep and

anxious thought which convinced me that he could not be, as I had been

at first inclined to suppose, in a state of dotage or imbecility.

'I don't think you consider--' I began.

'I don't consider!' cried the old man interrupting me, 'I don't

consider her! Ah, how little you know of the truth! Little Nelly,

little Nelly!'

It would be impossible for any man, I care not what his form of speech

might be, to express more affection than the dealer in curiosities did,

in these four words. I waited for him to speak again, but he rested his

chin upon his hand and shaking his head twice or thrice fixed his eyes

upon the fire.

While we were sitting thus in silence, the door of the closet opened,

and the child returned, her light brown hair hanging loose about her

neck, and her face flushed with the haste she had made to rejoin us.

She busied herself immediately in preparing supper, and while she was

thus engaged I remarked that the old man took an opportunity of

observing me more closely than he had done yet. I was surprised to see

that all this time everything was done by the child, and that there

appeared to be no other persons but ourselves in the house. I took

advantage of a moment when she was absent to venture a hint on this

point, to which the old man replied that there were few grown persons

as trustworthy or as careful as she.

'It always grieves me,' I observed, roused by what I took to be his

selfishness, 'it always grieves me to contemplate the initiation of

children into the ways of life, when they are scarcely more than

infants. It checks their confidence and simplicity--two of the best

qualities that Heaven gives them--and demands that they share our

sorrows before they are capable of entering into our enjoyments.'

'It will never check hers,' said the old man looking steadily at me,

'the springs are too deep. Besides, the children of the poor know but

few pleasures. Even the cheap delights of childhood must be bought and

paid for.

'But--forgive me for saying this--you are surely not so very

poor'--said I.

'She is not my child, sir,' returned the old man. 'Her mother was, and

she was poor. I save nothing--not a penny--though I live as you see,

but'--he laid his hand upon my arm and leant forward to whisper--'she

shall be rich one of these days, and a fine lady. Don't you think ill

of me because I use her help. She gives it cheerfully as you see, and

it would break her heart if she knew that I suffered anybody else to do

for me what her little hands could undertake. I don't consider!'--he

cried with sudden querulousness, 'why, God knows that this one child is

there thought and object of my life, and yet he never prospers me--no,

never!'

At this juncture, the subject of our conversation again returned, and

the old men motioning to me to approach the table, broke off, and said

no more.

We had scarcely begun our repast when there was a knock at the door by

which I had entered, and Nell bursting into a hearty laugh, which I was

rejoiced to hear, for it was childlike and full of hilarity, said it

was no doubt dear old Kit coming back at last.

'Foolish Nell!' said the old man fondling with her hair. 'She always

laughs at poor Kit.'

The child laughed again more heartily than before, I could not help

smiling from pure sympathy. The little old man took up a candle and

went to open the door. When he came back, Kit was at his heels.

Kit was a shock-headed, shambling, awkward lad with an uncommonly wide

mouth, very red cheeks, a turned-up nose, and certainly the most

comical expression of face I ever saw. He stopped short at the door on

seeing a stranger, twirled in his hand a perfectly round old hat

without any vestige of a brim, and resting himself now on one leg and

now on the other and changing them constantly, stood in the doorway,

looking into the parlour with the most extraordinary leer I ever

beheld. I entertained a grateful feeling towards the boy from that

minute, for I felt that he was the comedy of the child's life.

'A long way, wasn't it, Kit?' said the little old man.

'Why, then, it was a goodish stretch, master,' returned Kit.

'Of course you have come back hungry?'

'Why, then, I do consider myself rather so, master,' was the answer.

The lad had a remarkable manner of standing sideways as he spoke, and

thrusting his head forward over his shoulder, as if he could not get at

his voice without that accompanying action. I think he would have

amused one anywhere, but the child's exquisite enjoyment of his oddity,

and the relief it was to find that there was something she associated

with merriment in a place that appeared so unsuited to her, were quite

irresistible. It was a great point too that Kit himself was flattered

by the sensation he created, and after several efforts to preserve his

gravity, burst into a loud roar, and so stood with his mouth wide open

and his eyes nearly shut, laughing violently.

The old man had again relapsed into his former abstraction and took no

notice of what passed, but I remarked that when her laugh was over, the

child's bright eyes were dimmed with tears, called forth by the

fullness of heart with which she welcomed her uncouth favourite after

the little anxiety of the night. As for Kit himself (whose laugh had

been all the time one of that sort which very little would change into

a cry) he carried a large slice of bread and meat and a mug of beer

into a corner, and applied himself to disposing of them with great

voracity.

'Ah!' said the old man turning to me with a sigh, as if I had spoken to

him but that moment, 'you don't know what you say when you tell me that

I don't consider her.'

'You must not attach too great weight to a remark founded on first

appearances, my friend,' said I.

'No,' returned the old man thoughtfully, 'no. Come hither, Nell.'

The little girl hastened from her seat, and put her arm about his neck.

'Do I love thee, Nell?' said he. 'Say--do I love thee, Nell, or no?'

The child only answered by her caresses, and laid her head upon his

breast.

'Why dost thou sob?' said the grandfather, pressing her closer to him

and glancing towards me. 'Is it because thou know'st I love thee, and

dost not like that I should seem to doubt it by my question? Well,

well--then let us say I love thee dearly.'

'Indeed, indeed you do,' replied the child with great earnestness, 'Kit

knows you do.'

Kit, who in despatching his bread and meat had been swallowing

two-thirds of his knife at every mouthful with the coolness of a

juggler, stopped short in his operations on being thus appealed to, and

bawled 'Nobody isn't such a fool as to say he doosn't,' after which he

incapacitated himself for further conversation by taking a most

prodigious sandwich at one bite.

'She is poor now'--said the old men, patting the child's cheek, 'but I

say again that the time is coming when she shall be rich. It has been a

long time coming, but it must come at last; a very long time, but it

surely must come. It has come to other men who do nothing but waste and

riot. When WILL it come to me!'

'I am very happy as I am, grandfather,' said the child.

'Tush, tush!' returned the old man, 'thou dost not know--how should'st

thou!' then he muttered again between his teeth, 'The time must come, I

am very sure it must. It will be all the better for coming late'; and

then he sighed and fell into his former musing state, and still holding

the child between his knees appeared to be insensible to everything

around him. By this time it wanted but a few minutes of midnight and I

rose to go, which recalled him to himself.

'One moment, sir,' he said, 'Now, Kit--near midnight, boy, and you

still here! Get home, get home, and be true to your time in the

morning, for there's work to do. Good night! There, bid him good night,

Nell, and let him be gone!'

'Good night, Kit,' said the child, her eyes lighting up with merriment

and kindness.'

'Good night, Miss Nell,' returned the boy.

'And thank this gentleman,' interposed the old man, 'but for whose care

I might have lost my little girl to-night.'

'No, no, master,' said Kit, 'that won't do, that won't.'

'What do you mean?' cried the old man.

'I'd have found her, master,' said Kit, 'I'd have found her. I'll bet

that I'd find her if she was above ground, I would, as quick as

anybody, master. Ha, ha, ha!'

Once more opening his mouth and shutting his eyes, and laughing like a

stentor, Kit gradually backed to the door, and roared himself out.

Free of the room, the boy was not slow in taking his departure; when he

had gone, and the child was occupied in clearing the table, the old man

said:

'I haven't seemed to thank you, sir, for what you have done to-night,

but I do thank you humbly and heartily, and so does she, and her thanks

are better worth than mine. I should be sorry that you went away, and

thought I was unmindful of your goodness, or careless of her--I am not

indeed.'

I was sure of that, I said, from what I had seen. 'But,' I added, 'may

I ask you a question?'

'Ay, sir,' replied the old man, 'What is it?'

'This delicate child,' said I, 'with so much beauty and

intelligence--has she nobody to care for her but you? Has she no other

companion or advisor?'

'No,' he returned, looking anxiously in my face, 'no, and she wants no

other.'

'But are you not fearful,' said I, 'that you may misunderstand a charge

so tender? I am sure you mean well, but are you quite certain that you

know how to execute such a trust as this? I am an old man, like you,

and I am actuated by an old man's concern in all that is young and

promising. Do you not think that what I have seen of you and this

little creature to-night must have an interest not wholly free from

pain?'

'Sir,' rejoined the old man after a moment's silence.' I have no right

to feel hurt at what you say. It is true that in many respects I am the

child, and she the grown person--that you have seen already. But waking

or sleeping, by night or day, in sickness or health, she is the one

object of my care, and if you knew of how much care, you would look on

me with different eyes, you would indeed. Ah! It's a weary life for an

old man--a weary, weary life--but there is a great end to gain and that

I keep before me.'

Seeing that he was in a state of excitement and impatience, I turned to

put on an outer coat which I had thrown off on entering the room,

purposing to say no more. I was surprised to see the child standing

patiently by with a cloak upon her arm, and in her hand a hat, and

stick.

'Those are not mine, my dear,' said I.

'No,' returned the child, 'they are grandfather's.'

'But he is not going out to-night.'

'Oh, yes, he is,' said the child, with a smile.

'And what becomes of you, my pretty one?'

'Me! I stay here of course. I always do.'

I looked in astonishment towards the old man, but he was, or feigned to

be, busied in the arrangement of his dress. From him I looked back to

the slight gentle figure of the child. Alone! In that gloomy place all

the long, dreary night.

She evinced no consciousness of my surprise, but cheerfully helped the

old man with his cloak, and when he was ready took a candle to light us

out. Finding that we did not follow as she expected, she looked back

with a smile and waited for us. The old man showed by his face that he

plainly understood the cause of my hesitation, but he merely signed to

me with an inclination of the head to pass out of the room before him,

and remained silent. I had no resource but to comply.

When we reached the door, the child setting down the candle, turned to

say good night and raised her face to kiss me. Then she ran to the old

man, who folded her in his arms and bade God bless her.

'Sleep soundly, Nell,' he said in a low voice, 'and angels guard thy

bed! Do not forget thy prayers, my sweet.'

'No, indeed,' answered the child fervently, 'they make me feel so

happy!'

'That's well; I know they do; they should,' said the old man. 'Bless

thee a hundred times! Early in the morning I shall be home.'

'You'll not ring twice,' returned the child. 'The bell wakes me, even

in the middle of a dream.'

With this, they separated. The child opened the door (now guarded by a

shutter which I had heard the boy put up before he left the house) and

with another farewell whose clear and tender note I have recalled a

thousand times, held it until we had passed out. The old man paused a

moment while it was gently closed and fastened on the inside, and

satisfied that this was done, walked on at a slow pace. At the

street-corner he stopped, and regarding me with a troubled countenance

said that our ways were widely different and that he must take his

leave. I would have spoken, but summoning up more alacrity than might

have been expected in one of his appearance, he hurried away. I could

see that twice or thrice he looked back as if to ascertain if I were

still watching him, or perhaps to assure himself that I was not

following at a distance. The obscurity of the night favoured his

disappearance, and his figure was soon beyond my sight.

I remained standing on the spot where he had left me, unwilling to

depart, and yet unknowing why I should loiter there. I looked wistfully

into the street we had lately quitted, and after a time directed my

steps that way. I passed and repassed the house, and stopped and

listened at the door; all was dark, and silent as the grave.

Yet I lingered about, and could not tear myself away, thinking of all

possible harm that might happen to the child--of fires and robberies

and even murder--and feeling as if some evil must ensure if I turned my

back upon the place. The closing of a door or window in the street

brought me before the curiosity-dealer's once more; I crossed the road

and looked up at the house to assure myself that the noise had not come

from there. No, it was black, cold, and lifeless as before.

There were few passengers astir; the street was sad and dismal, and

pretty well my own. A few stragglers from the theatres hurried by, and

now and then I turned aside to avoid some noisy drunkard as he reeled

homewards, but these interruptions were not frequent and soon ceased.

The clocks struck one. Still I paced up and down, promising myself that

every time should be the last, and breaking faith with myself on some

new plea as often as I did so.

The more I thought of what the old man had said, and of his looks and

bearing, the less I could account for what I had seen and heard. I had

a strong misgiving that his nightly absence was for no good purpose. I

had only come to know the fact through the innocence of the child, and

though the old man was by at the time, and saw my undisguised surprise,

he had preserved a strange mystery upon the subject and offered no word

of explanation. These reflections naturally recalled again more

strongly than before his haggard face, his wandering manner, his

restless anxious looks. His affection for the child might not be

inconsistent with villany of the worst kind; even that very affection

was in itself an extraordinary contradiction, or how could he leave her

thus? Disposed as I was to think badly of him, I never doubted that his

love for her was real. I could not admit the thought, remembering what

had passed between us, and the tone of voice in which he had called her

by her name.

'Stay here of course,' the child had said in answer to my question, 'I

always do!' What could take him from home by night, and every night! I

called up all the strange tales I had ever heard of dark and secret

deeds committed in great towns and escaping detection for a long series

of years; wild as many of these stories were, I could not find one

adapted to this mystery, which only became the more impenetrable, in

proportion as I sought to solve it.

Occupied with such thoughts as these, and a crowd of others all tending

to the same point, I continued to pace the street for two long hours;

at length the rain began to descend heavily, and then over-powered by

fatigue though no less interested than I had been at first, I engaged

the nearest coach and so got home. A cheerful fire was blazing on the

hearth, the lamp burnt brightly, my clock received me with its old

familiar welcome; everything was quiet, warm and cheering, and in happy

contrast to the gloom and darkness I had quitted.

But all that night, waking or in my sleep, the same thoughts recurred

and the same images retained possession of my brain. I had ever before

me the old dark murky rooms--the gaunt suits of mail with their ghostly

silent air--the faces all awry, grinning from wood and stone--the dust

and rust and worm that lives in wood--and alone in the midst of all

this lumber and decay and ugly age, the beautiful child in her gentle

slumber, smiling through her light and sunny dreams.

CHAPTER 2

After combating, for nearly a week, the feeling which impelled me to

revisit the place I had quitted under the circumstances already

detailed, I yielded to it at length; and determining that this time I

would present myself by the light of day, bent my steps thither early

in the morning.

I walked past the house, and took several turns in the street, with

that kind of hesitation which is natural to a man who is conscious that

the visit he is about to pay is unexpected, and may not be very

acceptable. However, as the door of the shop was shut, and it did not

appear likely that I should be recognized by those within, if I

continued merely to pass up and down before it, I soon conquered this

irresolution, and found myself in the Curiosity Dealer's warehouse.

The old man and another person were together in the back part, and

there seemed to have been high words between them, for their voices

which were raised to a very high pitch suddenly stopped on my entering,

and the old man advancing hastily towards me, said in a tremulous tone

that he was very glad I had come.

'You interrupted us at a critical moment,' said he, pointing to the man

whom I had found in company with him; 'this fellow will murder me one

of these days. He would have done so, long ago, if he had dared.'

'Bah! You would swear away my life if you could,' returned the other,

after bestowing a stare and a frown on me; 'we all know that!'

'I almost think I could,' cried the old man, turning feebly upon him.

'If oaths, or prayers, or words, could rid me of you, they should. I

would be quit of you, and would be relieved if you were dead.'

'I know it,' returned the other. 'I said so, didn't I? But neither

oaths, or prayers, nor words, WILL kill me, and therefore I live, and

mean to live.'

'And his mother died!' cried the old man, passionately clasping his

hands and looking upward; 'and this is Heaven's justice!'

The other stood lunging with his foot upon a chair, and regarded him

with a contemptuous sneer. He was a young man of one-and-twenty or

thereabouts; well made, and certainly handsome, though the expression

of his face was far from prepossessing, having in common with his

manner and even his dress, a dissipated, insolent air which repelled

one.

'Justice or no justice,' said the young fellow, 'here I am and here I

shall stop till such time as I think fit to go, unless you send for

assistance to put me out--which you won't do, I know. I tell you again

that I want to see my sister.'

'YOUR sister!' said the old man bitterly.

'Ah! You can't change the relationship,' returned the other. 'If you

could, you'd have done it long ago. I want to see my sister, that you

keep cooped up here, poisoning her mind with your sly secrets and

pretending an affection for her that you may work her to death, and add

a few scraped shillings every week to the money you can hardly count. I

want to see her; and I will.'

'Here's a moralist to talk of poisoned minds! Here's a generous spirit

to scorn scraped-up shillings!' cried the old man, turning from him to

me. 'A profligate, sir, who has forfeited every claim not only upon

those who have the misfortune to be of his blood, but upon society

which knows nothing of him but his misdeeds. A liar too,' he added, in

a lower voice as he drew closer to me, 'who knows how dear she is to

me, and seeks to wound me even there, because there is a stranger

nearby.'

'Strangers are nothing to me, grandfather,' said the young fellow

catching at the word, 'nor I to them, I hope. The best they can do, is

to keep an eye to their business and leave me to mind. There's a friend

of mine waiting outside, and as it seems that I may have to wait some

time, I'll call him in, with your leave.'

Saying this, he stepped to the door, and looking down the street

beckoned several times to some unseen person, who, to judge from the

air of impatience with which these signals were accompanied, required a

great quantity of persuasion to induce him to advance. At length there

sauntered up, on the opposite side of the way--with a bad pretense of

passing by accident--a figure conspicuous for its dirty smartness,

which after a great many frowns and jerks of the head, in resistance of

the invitation, ultimately crossed the road and was brought into the

shop.

'There. It's Dick Swiveller,' said the young fellow, pushing him in.

'Sit down, Swiveller.'

'But is the old min agreeable?' said Mr Swiveller in an undertone.

Mr Swiveller complied, and looking about him with a propitiatory smile,

observed that last week was a fine week for the ducks, and this week

was a fine week for the dust; he also observed that whilst standing by

the post at the street-corner, he had observed a pig with a straw in

his mouth issuing out of the tobacco-shop, from which appearance he

augured that another fine week for the ducks was approaching, and that

rain would certainly ensue. He furthermore took occasion to apologize

for any negligence that might be perceptible in his dress, on the

ground that last night he had had 'the sun very strong in his eyes'; by

which expression he was understood to convey to his hearers in the most

delicate manner possible, the information that he had been extremely

drunk.

'But what,' said Mr Swiveller with a sigh, 'what is the odds so long as

the fire of soul is kindled at the taper of conwiviality, and the wing

of friendship never moults a feather! What is the odds so long as the

spirit is expanded by means of rosy wine, and the present moment is the

least happiest of our existence!'

'You needn't act the chairman here,' said his friend, half aside.

'Fred!' cried Mr Swiveller, tapping his nose, 'a word to the wise is

sufficient for them--we may be good and happy without riches, Fred.

Say not another syllable. I know my cue; smart is the word. Only one

little whisper, Fred--is the old min friendly?'

'Never you mind,' replied his friend.

'Right again, quite right,' said Mr Swiveller, 'caution is the word,

and caution is the act.' with that, he winked as if in preservation of

some deep secret, and folding his arms and leaning back in his chair,

looked up at the ceiling with profound gravity.

It was perhaps not very unreasonable to suspect from what had already

passed, that Mr Swiveller was not quite recovered from the effects of

the powerful sunlight to which he had made allusion; but if no such

suspicion had been awakened by his speech, his wiry hair, dull eyes,

and sallow face would still have been strong witnesses against him. His

attire was not, as he had himself hinted, remarkable for the nicest

arrangement, but was in a state of disorder which strongly induced the

idea that he had gone to bed in it. It consisted of a brown body-coat

with a great many brass buttons up the front and only one behind, a

bright check neckerchief, a plaid waistcoat, soiled white trousers, and

a very limp hat, worn with the wrong side foremost, to hide a hole in

the brim. The breast of his coat was ornamented with an outside pocket

from which there peeped forth the cleanest end of a very large and very

ill-favoured handkerchief; his dirty wristbands were pulled on as far

as possible and ostentatiously folded back over his cuffs; he displayed

no gloves, and carried a yellow cane having at the top a bone hand with

the semblance of a ring on its little finger and a black ball in its

grasp. With all these personal advantages (to which may be added a

strong savour of tobacco-smoke, and a prevailing greasiness of

appearance) Mr Swiveller leant back in his chair with his eyes fixed on

the ceiling, and occasionally pitching his voice to the needful key,

obliged the company with a few bars of an intensely dismal air, and

then, in the middle of a note, relapsed into his former silence.

The old man sat himself down in a chair, and with folded hands, looked

sometimes at his grandson and sometimes at his strange companion, as if

he were utterly powerless and had no resource but to leave them to do

as they pleased. The young man reclined against a table at no great

distance from his friend, in apparent indifference to everything that

had passed; and I--who felt the difficulty of any interference,

notwithstanding that the old man had appealed to me, both by words and

looks--made the best feint I could of being occupied in examining some

of the goods that were disposed for sale, and paying very little

attention to a person before me.

The silence was not of long duration, for Mr Swiveller, after favouring

us with several melodious assurances that his heart was in the

Highlands, and that he wanted but his Arab steed as a preliminary to

the achievement of great feats of valour and loyalty, removed his eyes

from the ceiling and subsided into prose again.

'Fred,' said Mr Swiveller stopping short, as if the idea had suddenly

occurred to him, and speaking in the same audible whisper as before,

'is the old min friendly?'

'What does it matter?' returned his friend peevishly.

'No, but IS he?' said Dick.

'Yes, of course. What do I care whether he is or not?'

Emboldened as it seemed by this reply to enter into a more general

conversation, Mr Swiveller plainly laid himself out to captivate our

attention.

He began by remarking that soda-water, though a good thing in the

abstract, was apt to lie cold upon the stomach unless qualified with

ginger, or a small infusion of brandy, which latter article he held to

be preferable in all cases, saving for the one consideration of

expense. Nobody venturing to dispute these positions, he proceeded to

observe that the human hair was a great retainer of tobacco-smoke, and

that the young gentlemen of Westminster and Eton, after eating vast

quantities of apples to conceal any scent of cigars from their anxious

friends, were usually detected in consequence of their heads possessing

this remarkable property; when he concluded that if the Royal Society

would turn their attention to the circumstance, and endeavour to find

in the resources of science a means of preventing such untoward

revelations, they might indeed be looked upon as benefactors to

mankind. These opinions being equally incontrovertible with those he

had already pronounced, he went on to inform us that Jamaica rum,

though unquestionably an agreeable spirit of great richness and

flavour, had the drawback of remaining constantly present to the taste

next day; and nobody being venturous enough to argue this point either,

he increased in confidence and became yet more companionable and

communicative.

'It's a devil of a thing, gentlemen,' said Mr Swiveller, 'when

relations fall out and disagree. If the wing of friendship should never

moult a feather, the wing of relationship should never be clipped, but

be always expanded and serene. Why should a grandson and grandfather

peg away at each other with mutual wiolence when all might be bliss and

concord. Why not jine hands and forgit it?'

'Hold your tongue,' said his friend.

'Sir,' replied Mr Swiveller, 'don't you interrupt the chair.

Gentlemen, how does the case stand, upon the present occasion? Here is

a jolly old grandfather--I say it with the utmost respect--and here is

a wild, young grandson. The jolly old grandfather says to the wild

young grandson, 'I have brought you up and educated you, Fred; I have

put you in the way of getting on in life; you have bolted a little out

of course, as young fellows often do; and you shall never have another

chance, nor the ghost of half a one.' The wild young grandson makes

answer to this and says, 'You're as rich as rich can be; you have been

at no uncommon expense on my account, you're saving up piles of money

for my little sister that lives with you in a secret, stealthy,

hugger-muggering kind of way and with no manner of enjoyment--why can't

you stand a trifle for your grown-up relation?' The jolly old

grandfather unto this, retorts, not only that he declines to fork out

with that cheerful readiness which is always so agreeable and pleasant

in a gentleman of his time of life, but that he will bow up, and call

names, and make reflections whenever they meet. Then the plain question

is, an't it a pity that this state of things should continue, and how

much better would it be for the gentleman to hand over a reasonable

amount of tin, and make it all right and comfortable?'

Having delivered this oration with a great many waves and flourishes of

the hand, Mr Swiveller abruptly thrust the head of his cane into his

mouth as if to prevent himself from impairing the effect of his speech

by adding one other word.

'Why do you hunt and persecute me, God help me!' said the old man

turning to his grandson. 'Why do you bring your prolifigate companions

here? How often am I to tell you that my life is one of care and

self-denial, and that I am poor?'

'How often am I to tell you,' returned the other, looking coldly at

him, 'that I know better?'

'You have chosen your own path,' said the old man. 'Follow it. Leave

Nell and me to toil and work.'

'Nell will be a woman soon,' returned the other, 'and, bred in your

faith, she'll forget her brother unless he shows himself sometimes.'

'Take care,' said the old man with sparkling eyes, 'that she does not

forget you when you would have her memory keenest. Take care that the

day don't come when you walk barefoot in the streets, and she rides by

in a gay carriage of her own.'

'You mean when she has your money?' retorted the other. 'How like a

poor man he talks!'

'And yet,' said the old man dropping his voice and speaking like one

who thinks aloud, 'how poor we are, and what a life it is! The cause is

a young child's guiltless of all harm or wrong, but nothing goes well

with it! Hope and patience, hope and patience!'

These words were uttered in too low a tone to reach the ears of the

young men. Mr Swiveller appeared to think the they implied some mental

struggle consequent upon the powerful effect of his address, for he

poked his friend with his cane and whispered his conviction that he had

administered 'a clincher,' and that he expected a commission on the

profits. Discovering his mistake after a while, he appeared to grow

rather sleepy and discontented, and had more than once suggested the

propriety of an immediate departure, when the door opened, and the

child herself appeared.

CHAPTER 3

The child was closely followed by an elderly man of remarkably hard

features and forbidding aspect, and so low in stature as to be quite a

dwarf, though his head and face were large enough for the body of a

giant. His black eyes were restless, sly, and cunning; his mouth and

chin, bristly with the stubble of a coarse hard beard; and his

complexion was one of that kind which never looks clean or wholesome.

But what added most to the grotesque expression of his face was a

ghastly smile, which, appearing to be the mere result of habit and to

have no connection with any mirthful or complacent feeling, constantly

revealed the few discoloured fangs that were yet scattered in his

mouth, and gave him the aspect of a panting dog. His dress consisted of

a large high-crowned hat, a worn dark suit, a pair of capacious shoes,

and a dirty white neckerchief sufficiently limp and crumpled to

disclose the greater portion of his wiry throat. Such hair as he had

was of a grizzled black, cut short and straight upon his temples, and

hanging in a frowzy fringe about his ears. His hands, which were of a

rough, coarse grain, were very dirty; his fingernails were crooked,

long, and yellow.

There was ample time to note these particulars, for besides that they

were sufficiently obvious without very close observation, some moments

elapsed before any one broke silence. The child advanced timidly

towards her brother and put her hand in his, the dwarf (if we may call

him so) glanced keenly at all present, and the curiosity-dealer, who

plainly had not expected his uncouth visitor, seemed disconcerted and

embarrassed.

'Ah!' said the dwarf, who with his hand stretched out above his eyes

had been surveying the young man attentively, 'that should be your

grandson, neighbour!'

'Say rather that he should not be,' replied the old man. 'But he is.'

'And that?' said the dwarf, pointing to Dick Swiveller.

'Some friend of his, as welcome here as he,' said the old man.

'And that?' inquired the dwarf, wheeling round and pointing straight at

me.

'A gentleman who was so good as to bring Nell home the other night when

she lost her way, coming from your house.'

The little man turned to the child as if to chide her or express his

wonder, but as she was talking to the young man, held his peace, and

bent his head to listen.

'Well, Nelly,' said the young fellow aloud. 'Do they teach you to hate

me, eh?'

'No, no. For shame. Oh, no!' cried the child.

'To love me, perhaps?' pursued her brother with a sneer.

'To do neither,' she returned. 'They never speak to me about you.

Indeed they never do.'

'I dare be bound for that,' he said, darting a bitter look at the

grandfather. 'I dare be bound for that Nell. Oh! I believe you there!'

'But I love you dearly, Fred,' said the child.

'No doubt!'

'I do indeed, and always will,' the child repeated with great emotion,

'but oh! If you would leave off vexing him and making him unhappy, then

I could love you more.'

'I see!' said the young man, as he stooped carelessly over the child,

and having kissed her, pushed her from him: 'There--get you away now

you have said your lesson. You needn't whimper. We part good friends

enough, if that's the matter.'

He remained silent, following her with his eyes, until she had gained

her little room and closed the door; and then turning to the dwarf,

said abruptly,

'Harkee, Mr--'

'Meaning me?' returned the dwarf. 'Quilp is my name. You might

remember. It's not a long one--Daniel Quilp.'

'Harkee, Mr Quilp, then,' pursued the other, 'You have some influence

with my grandfather there.'

'Some,' said Mr Quilp emphatically.

'And are in a few of his mysteries and secrets.'

'A few,' replied Quilp, with equal dryness.

'Then let me tell him once for all, through you, that I will come into

and go out of this place as often as I like, so long as he keeps Nell

here; and that if he wants to be quit of me, he must first be quit of

her. What have I done to be made a bugbear of, and to be shunned and

dreaded as if I brought the plague? He'll tell you that I have no

natural affection; and that I care no more for Nell, for her own sake,

than I do for him. Let him say so. I care for the whim, then, of coming

to and fro and reminding her of my existence. I WILL see her when I

please. That's my point. I came here to-day to maintain it, and I'll

come here again fifty times with the same object and always with the

same success. I said I would stop till I had gained it. I have done

so, and now my visit's ended. Come Dick.'

'Stop!' cried Mr Swiveller, as his companion turned toward the door.

'Sir!'

'Sir, I am your humble servant,' said Mr Quilp, to whom the

monosyllable was addressed.

'Before I leave the gay and festive scene, and halls of dazzling light,

sir,' said Mr Swiveller, 'I will with your permission, attempt a slight

remark. I came here, sir, this day, under the impression that the old

min was friendly.'

'Proceed, sir,' said Daniel Quilp; for the orator had made a sudden

stop.

'Inspired by this idea and the sentiments it awakened, sir, and feeling

as a mutual friend that badgering, baiting, and bullying, was not the

sort of thing calculated to expand the souls and promote the social

harmony of the contending parties, I took upon myself to suggest a

course which is THE course to be adopted to the present occasion. Will

you allow me to whisper half a syllable, sir?'

Without waiting for the permission he sought, Mr Swiveller stepped up

to the dwarf, and leaning on his shoulder and stooping down to get at

his ear, said in a voice which was perfectly audible to all present,

'The watch-word to the old min is--fork.'

'Is what?' demanded Quilp.

'Is fork, sir, fork,' replied Mr Swiveller slapping his picket. 'You

are awake, sir?'

The dwarf nodded. Mr Swiveller drew back and nodded likewise, then drew

a little further back and nodded again, and so on. By these means he in

time reached the door, where he gave a great cough to attract the

dwarf's attention and gain an opportunity of expressing in dumb show,

the closest confidence and most inviolable secrecy. Having performed

the serious pantomime that was necessary for the due conveyance of

these idea, he cast himself upon his friend's track, and vanished.

'Humph!' said the dwarf with a sour look and a shrug of his shoulders,

'so much for dear relations. Thank God I acknowledge none! Nor need you

either,' he added, turning to the old man, 'if you were not as weak as

a reed, and nearly as senseless.'

'What would you have me do?' he retorted in a kind of helpless

desperation. 'It is easy to talk and sneer. What would you have me do?'

'What would I do if I was in your case?' said the dwarf.

'Something violent, no doubt.'

'You're right there,' returned the little man, highly gratified by the

compliment, for such he evidently considered it; and grinning like a

devil as he rubbed his dirty hands together. 'Ask Mrs Quilp, pretty Mrs

Quilp, obedient, timid, loving Mrs Quilp. But that reminds me--I have

left her all alone, and she will be anxious and know not a moment's

peace till I return. I know she's always in that condition when I'm

away, thought she doesn't dare to say so, unless I lead her on and tell

her she may speak freely and I won't be angry with her. Oh!

well-trained Mrs Quilp.

The creature appeared quite horrible with his monstrous head and little

body, as he rubbed his hands slowly round, and round, and round

again--with something fantastic even in his manner of performing this

slight action--and, dropping his shaggy brows and cocking his chin in

the air, glanced upward with a stealthy look of exultation that an imp

might have copied and appropriated to himself.

'Here,' he said, putting his hand into his breast and sidling up to the

old man as he spoke; 'I brought it myself for fear of accidents, as,

being in gold, it was something large and heavy for Nell to carry in

her bag. She need be accustomed to such loads betimes thought,

neighbor, for she will carry weight when you are dead.'

'Heaven send she may! I hope so,' said the old man with something like

a groan.'

'Hope so!' echoed the dwarf, approaching close to his ear; 'neighbour,

I would I knew in what good investment all these supplies are sunk. But

you are a deep man, and keep your secret close.'

'My secret!' said the other with a haggard look. 'Yes, you're

right--I--I--keep it close--very close.'

He said no more, but taking the money turned away with a slow,

uncertain step, and pressed his hand upon his head like a weary and

dejected man. The dwarf watched him sharply, while he passed into the

little sitting-room and locked it in an iron safe above the

chimney-piece; and after musing for a short space, prepared to take his

leave, observing that unless he made good haste, Mrs Quilp would

certainly be in fits on his return.

'And so, neighbour,' he added, 'I'll turn my face homewards, leaving my

love for Nelly and hoping she may never lose her way again, though her

doing so HAS procured me an honour I didn't expect.' With that he bowed

and leered at me, and with a keen glance around which seemed to

comprehend every object within his range of vision, however, small or

trivial, went his way.

I had several times essayed to go myself, but the old man had always

opposed it and entreated me to remain. As he renewed his entreaties on

our being left along, and adverted with many thanks to the former

occasion of our being together, I willingly yielded to his persuasions,

and sat down, pretending to examine some curious miniatures and a few

old medals which he placed before me. It needed no great pressing to

induce me to stay, for if my curiosity has been excited on the occasion

of my first visit, it certainly was not diminished now.

Nell joined us before long, and bringing some needle-work to the table,

sat by the old man's side. It was pleasant to observe the fresh flowers

in the room, the pet bird with a green bough shading his little cage,

the breath of freshness and youth which seemed to rustle through the

old dull house and hover round the child. It was curious, but not so

pleasant, to turn from the beauty and grace of the girl, to the

stooping figure, care-worn face, and jaded aspect of the old man. As

he grew weaker and more feeble, what would become of this lonely little

creature; poor protector as he was, say that he died--what we be her

fate, then?

The old man almost answered my thoughts, as he laid his hand on hers,

and spoke aloud.

'I'll be of better cheer, Nell,' he said; 'there must be good fortune

in store for thee--I do not ask it for myself, but thee. Such miseries

must fall on thy innocent head without it, that I cannot believe but

that, being tempted, it will come at last!'

She looked cheerfully into his face, but made no answer.

'When I think,' said he, 'of the many years--many in thy short

life--that thou has lived with me; of my monotonous existence, knowing

no companions of thy own age nor any childish pleasures; of the

solitude in which thou has grown to be what thou art, and in which thou

hast lived apart from nearly all thy kind but one old man; I sometimes

fear I have dealt hardly by thee, Nell.'

'Grandfather!' cried the chil

Date: 2015-02-28; view: 562