The Old Curiosity Shop

by Dickens, Charles

  '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;

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  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.

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  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

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  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

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  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, tus
h!' 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!'

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  '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