The Old Curiosity Shop

by Dickens, Charles

  and going to bed with a lighter heart sunk into a deep slumber.

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  Dickens, Charles - The Old Curiosity Shop

  CHAPTER 17

  Another bright day shining in through the small casement, and

  claiming fellowship with the kindred eyes of the child, awoke her.

  At sight of the strange room and its unaccustomed objects she

  started up in alarm, wondering how she had been moved from the

  familiar chamber in which she seemed to have fallen asleep last

  night, and whither she had been conveyed. But, another glance

  around called to her mind all that had lately passed, and she

  sprung from her bed, hoping and trustful.

  It was yet early, and the old man being still asleep, she walked

  out into the churchyard, brushing the dew from the long grass with

  her feet, and often turning aside into places where it grew longer

  than in others, that she might not tread upon the graves. She felt

  a curious kind of pleasure in lingering among these houses of the

  dead, and read the inscriptions on the tombs of the good people (a

  great number of good people were buried there), passing on from one

  to another with increasing interest.

  It was a very quiet place, as such a place should be, save for the

  cawing of the rooks who had built their nests among the branches of

  some tall old trees, and were calling to one another, high up in

  the air. First, one sleek bird, hovering near his ragged house as

  it swung and dangled in the wind, uttered his hoarse cry, quite by

  chance as it would seem, and in a sober tone as though he were but

  talking to himself. Another answered, and he called again, but

  louder than before; then another spoke and then another; and each

  time the first, aggravated by contradiction, insisted on his case

  more strongly. Other voices, silent till now, struck in from boughs

  lower down and higher up and midway, and to the right and left, and

  from the tree-tops; and others, arriving hastily from the grey

  church turrets and old belfry window, joined the clamour which rose

  and fell, and swelled and dropped again, and still went on; and all

  this noisy contention amidst a skimming to and fro, and lighting on

  fresh branches, and frequent change of place, which satirised the

  old restlessness of those who lay so still beneath the moss and

  turf below, and the strife in which they had worn away their lives.

  Frequently raising her eyes to the trees whence these sounds came

  down, and feeling as though they made the place more quiet than

  perfect silence would have done, the child loitered from grave to

  grave, now stopping to replace with careful hands the bramble which

  had started from some green mound it helped to keep in shape, and

  now peeping through one of the low latticed windows into the

  church, with its worm-eaten books upon the desks, and baize of

  whitened-green mouldering from the pew sides and leaving the naked

  wood to view. There were the seats where the poor old people sat,

  worn spare, and yellow like themselves; the rugged font where

  children had their names, the homely altar where they knelt in

  after life, the plain black tressels that bore their weight on

  their last visit to the cool old shady church. Everything told of

  long use and quiet slow decay; the very bell-rope in the porch was

  frayed into a fringe, and hoary with old age.

  She was looking at a humble stone which told of a young man who had

  died at twenty-three years old, fifty-five years ago, when she

  heard a faltering step approaching, and looking round saw a feeble

  woman bent with the weight of years, who tottered to the foot of

  that same grave and asked her to read the writing on the stone. The

  old woman thanked her when she had done, saying that she had had

  the words by heart for many a long, long year, but could not see

  them now.

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  'Were you his mother?' said the child.

  'I was his wife, my dear.'

  She the wife of a young man of three-and-twenty! Ah, true! It was

  fifty-five years ago.

  'You wonder to hear me say that,' remarked the old woman, shaking

  her head. 'You're not the first. Older folk than you have wondered

  at the same thing before now. Yes, I was his wife. Death doesn't

  change us more than life, my dear.'

  'Do you come here often?' asked the child.

  'I sit here very often in the summer time,' she answered, 'I used

  to come here once to cry and mourn, but that was a weary while ago,

  bless God!'

  'I pluck the daisies as they grow, and take them home,' said the

  old woman after a short silence. 'I like no flowers so well as

  these, and haven't for five-and-fifty years. It's a long time, and

  I'm getting very old.'

  Then growing garrulous upon a theme which was new to one listener

  though it were but a child, she told her how she had wept and

  moaned and prayed to die herself, when this happened; and how when

  she first came to that place, a young creature strong in love and

  grief, she had hoped that her heart was breaking as it seemed to

  be. But that time passed by, and although she continued to be sad

  when she came there, still she could bear to come, and so went on

  until it was pain no longer, but a solemn pleasure, and a duty she

  had learned to like. And now that five-and-fifty years were gone,

  she spoke of the dead man as if he had been her son or grandson,

  with a kind of pity for his youth, growing out of her own old age,

  and an exalting of his strength and manly beauty as compared with

  her own weakness and decay; and yet she spoke about him as her

  husband too, and thinking of herself in connexion with him, as she

  used to be and not as she was now, talked of their meeting in

  another world, as if he were dead but yesterday, and she, separated

  from her former self, were thinking of the happiness of that comely

  girl who seemed to have died with him.

  The child left her gathering the flowers that grew upon the grave,

  and thoughtfully retraced her steps.

  The old man was by this time up and dressed. Mr Codlin, still

  doomed to contemplate the harsh realities of existence, was packing

  among his linen the candle-ends which had been saved from the

  previous night's performance; while his companion received the

  compliments of all the loungers in the stable-yard, who, unable to

  separate him from the master-mind of Punch, set him down as next in

  importance to that merry outlaw, and loved him scarcely less. When

  he had sufficiently acknowledged his popularity he came in to

  breakfast, at which meal they all sat down together.

  'And where are you going to-day?' said the little man, addressing

  himself to Nell.

  'Indeed I hardly know--we have not determined yet,' replied the child.

  'We're going on to the races,' said the little man. 'If that's your

  way and you like to have us for company, let us travel together. If

  you prefer going alone, only say the word and you'll find that we

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he Old Curiosity Shop

  shan't trouble you.'

  'We'll go with you,' said the old man. 'Nell--with them, with them.'

  The child considered for a moment, and reflecting that she must

  shortly beg, and could scarcely hope to do so at a better place

  than where crowds of rich ladies and gentlemen were assembled

  together for purposes of enjoyment and festivity, determined to

  accompany these men so far. She therefore thanked the little man

  for his offer, and said, glancing timidly towards his friend, that

  if there was no objection to their accompanying them as far as the

  race town--

  'Objection!' said the little man. 'Now be gracious for once, Tommy,

  and say that you'd rather they went with us. I know you would. Be

  gracious, Tommy.'

  'Trotters,' said Mr Codlin, who talked very slowly and ate very

  greedily, as is not uncommon with philosophers and misanthropes;

  'you're too free.'

  'Why what harm can it do?' urged the other. 'No harm at all in this

  particular case, perhaps,' replied Mr Codlin; 'but the principle's

  a dangerous one, and you're too free I tell you.'

  'Well, are they to go with us or not?'

  'Yes, they are,' said Mr Codlin; 'but you might have made a favour

  of it, mightn't you?'

  The real name of the little man was Harris, but it had gradually

  merged into the less euphonious one of Trotters, which, with the

  prefatory adjective, Short, had been conferred upon him by reason

  of the small size of his legs. Short Trotters however, being a

  compound name, inconvenient of use in friendly dialogue, the

  gentleman on whom it had been bestowed was known among his

  intimates either as 'Short,' or 'Trotters,' and was seldom accosted

  at full length as Short Trotters, except in formal conversations

  and on occasions of ceremony.

  Short, then, or Trotters, as the reader pleases, returned unto the

  remonstrance of his friend Mr Thomas Codlin a jocose answer

  calculated to turn aside his discontent; and applying himself with

  great relish to the cold boiled beef, the tea, and bread and

  butter, strongly impressed upon his companions that they should do

  the like. Mr Codlin indeed required no such persuasion, as he had

  already eaten as much as he could possibly carry and was now

  moistening his clay with strong ale, whereof he took deep draughts

  with a silent relish and invited nobody to partake--thus again

  strongly indicating his misanthropical turn of mind.

  Breakfast being at length over, Mr Codlin called the bill, and

  charging the ale to the company generally (a practice also

  savouring of misanthropy) divided the sum-total into two fair and

  equal parts, assigning one moiety to himself and friend, and the

  other to Nelly and her grandfather. These being duly discharged and

  all things ready for their departure, they took farewell of the

  landlord and landlady and resumed their journey.

  And here Mr Codlin's false position in society and the effect it

  wrought upon his wounded spirit, were strongly illustrated; for

  whereas he had been last night accosted by Mr Punch as 'master,'

  and had by inference left the audience to understand that he

  maintained that individual for his own luxurious entertainment and

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  delight, here he was, now, painfully walking beneath the burden of

  that same Punch's temple, and bearing it bodily upon his shoulders

  on a sultry day and along a dusty road. In place of enlivening his

  patron with a constant fire of wit or the cheerful rattle of his

  quarter-staff on the heads of his relations and acquaintance, here

  was that beaming Punch utterly devoid of spine, all slack and

  drooping in a dark box, with his legs doubled up round his neck,

  and not one of his social qualities remaining.

  Mr Codlin trudged heavily on, exchanging a word or two at intervals

  with Short, and stopping to rest and growl occasionally. Short led

  the way; with the flat box, the private luggage (which was not

  extensive) tied up in a bundle, and a brazen trumpet slung from his

  shoulder-blade. Nell and her grandfather walked next him on either

  hand, and Thomas Codlin brought up the rear.

  When they came to any town or village, or even to a detached house

  of good appearance, Short blew a blast upon the brazen trumpet and

  carolled a fragment of a song in that hilarious tone common to

  Punches and their consorts. If people hurried to the windows, Mr

  Codlin pitched the temple, and hastily unfurling the drapery and

  concealing Short therewith, flourished hysterically on the pipes

  and performed an air. Then the entertainment began as soon as might

  be; Mr Codlin having the responsibility of deciding on its length

  and of protracting or expediting the time for the hero's final

  triumph over the enemy of mankind, according as he judged that the

  after-crop of half-pence would be plentiful or scant. When it had

  been gathered in to the last farthing, he resumed his load and on

  they went again.

  Sometimes they played out the toll across a bridge or ferry, and

  once exhibited by particular desire at a turnpike, where the

  collector, being drunk in his solitude, paid down a shilling to

  have it to himself. There was one small place of rich promise in

  which their hopes were blighted, for a favourite character in the

  play having gold-lace upon his coat and being a meddling

  wooden-headed fellow was held to be a libel on the beadle, for

  which reason the authorities enforced a quick retreat; but they

  were generally well received, and seldom left a town without a

  troop of ragged children shouting at their heels.

  They made a long day's journey, despite these interruptions, and

  were yet upon the road when the moon was shining in the sky. Short

  beguiled the time with songs and jests, and made the best of

  everything that happened. Mr Codlin on the other hand, cursed his

  fate, and all the hollow things of earth (but Punch especially),

  and limped along with the theatre on his back, a prey to the

  bitterest chagrin.

  They had stopped to rest beneath a finger-post where four roads

  met, and Mr Codlin in his deep misanthropy had let down the drapery

  and seated himself in the bottom of the show, invisible to mortal

  eyes and disdainful of the company of his fellow creatures, when

  two monstrous shadows were seen stalking towards them from a

  turning in the road by which they had come. The child was at first

  quite terrified by the sight of these gaunt giants--for such they

  looked as they advanced with lofty strides beneath the shadow of

  the trees--but Short, telling her there was nothing to fear, blew

  a blast upon the trumpet, which was answered by a cheerful shout.

  'It's Grinder's lot, an't it?' cried Mr Short in a loud key.

  'Yes,' replied a couple of shrill voices.

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  'Come on then,' said Short. 'Let's have a look at you. I thought it

  was you.'

  Thus invited, 'Grinder's lot'
approached with redoubled speed and

  soon came up with the little party.

  Mr Grinder's company, familiarly termed a lot, consisted of a young

  gentleman and a young lady on stilts, and Mr Grinder himself, who

  used his natural legs for pedestrian purposes and carried at his

  back a drum. The public costume of the young people was of the

  Highland kind, but the night being damp and cold, the young

  gentleman wore over his kilt a man's pea jacket reaching to his

  ankles, and a glazed hat; the young lady too was muffled in an old

  cloth pelisse and had a handkerchief tied about her head. Their

  Scotch bonnets, ornamented with plumes of jet black feathers, Mr

  Grinder carried on his instrument.

  'Bound for the races, I see,' said Mr Grinder coming up out of

  breath. 'So are we. How are you, Short?' With that they shook hands

  in a very friendly manner. The young people being too high up for

  the ordinary salutations, saluted Short after their own fashion.

  The young gentleman twisted up his right stilt and patted him on

  the shoulder, and the young lady rattled her tambourine.

  'Practice?' said Short, pointing to the stilts.

  'No,' returned Grinder. 'It comes either to walkin' in 'em or

  carryin' of 'em, and they like walkin' in 'em best. It's wery

  pleasant for the prospects. Which road are you takin'? We go the

  nighest.'

  'Why, the fact is,' said Short, 'that we are going the longest way,

  because then we could stop for the night, a mile and a half on. But

  three or four mile gained to-night is so many saved to-morrow, and

  if you keep on, I think our best way is to do the same.'

  'Where's your partner?' inquired Grinder.

  'Here he is,' cried Mr Thomas Codlin, presenting his head and face

  in the proscenium of the stage, and exhibiting an expression of

  countenance not often seen there; 'and he'll see his partner boiled

  alive before he'll go on to-night. That's what he says.'

  'Well, don't say such things as them, in a spear which is dewoted

  to something pleasanter,' urged Short. 'Respect associations,

  Tommy, even if you do cut up rough.'

  'Rough or smooth,' said Mr Codlin, beating his hand on the little

  footboard where Punch, when suddenly struck with the symmetry of

  his legs and their capacity for silk stockings, is accustomed to

  exhibit them to popular admiration, 'rough or smooth, I won't go