The Old Curiosity Shop

by Dickens, Charles

  again in the better thoughts of those who loved it, and will play

  its part, through them, in the redeeming actions of the world,

  though its body be burnt to ashes or drowned in the deepest sea.

  There is not an angel added to the Host of Heaven but does its

  blessed work on earth in those that loved it here. Forgotten! oh,

  if the good deeds of human creatures could be traced to their

  source, how beautiful would even death appear; for how much

  charity, mercy, and purified affection, would be seen to have their

  growth in dusty graves!'

  'Yes,' said the child, 'it is the truth; I know it is. Who should

  feel its force so much as I, in whom your little scholar lives

  again! Dear, dear, good friend, if you knew the comfort you have

  given me!'

  The poor schoolmaster made her no answer, but bent over her in

  silence; for his heart was full.

  They were yet seated in the same place, when the grandfather

  approached. Before they had spoken many words together, the church

  clock struck the hour of school, and their friend withdrew.

  'A good man,' said the grandfather, looking after him; 'a kind man.

  Surely he will never harm us, Nell. We are safe here, at last, eh?

  We will never go away from here?'

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  The child shook her head and smiled.

  'She needs rest,' said the old man, patting her cheek; 'too pale--

  too pale. She is not like what she was.'

  When?' asked the child.

  'Ha!' said the old man, 'to be sure--when? How many weeks ago?

  Could I count them on my fingers? Let them rest though; they're

  better gone.'

  'Much better, dear,' replied the child. 'We will forget them; or,

  if we ever call them to mind, it shall be only as some uneasy dream

  that has passed away.'

  'Hush!' said the old man, motioning hastily to her with his hand

  and looking over his shoulder; 'no more talk of the dream, and all

  the miseries it brought. There are no dreams here. 'Tis a quiet

  place, and they keep away. Let us never think about them, lest

  they should pursue us again. Sunken eyes and hollow cheeks--wet,

  cold, and famine--and horrors before them all, that were even

  worse--we must forget such things if we would be tranquil here.'

  'Thank Heaven!' inwardly exclaimed the child, 'for this most happy

  change!'

  'I will be patient,' said the old man, 'humble, very thankful, and

  obedient, if you will let me stay. But do not hide from me; do not

  steal away alone; let me keep beside you. Indeed, I will be very

  true and faithful, Nell.'

  'I steal away alone! why that,' replied the child, with assumed

  gaiety, 'would be a pleasant jest indeed. See here, dear

  grandfather, we'll make this place our garden--why not! It is a

  very good one--and to-morrow we'll begin, and work together, side

  by side.'

  'It is a brave thought!' cried her grandfather. 'Mind, darling--

  we begin to-morrow!'

  Who so delighted as the old man, when they next day began their

  labour! Who so unconscious of all associations connected with the

  spot, as he! They plucked the long grass and nettles from the

  tombs, thinned the poor shrubs and roots, made the turf smooth, and

  cleared it of the leaves and weeds. They were yet in the ardour of

  their work, when the child, raising her head from the ground over

  which she bent, observed that the bachelor was sitting on the stile

  close by, watching them in silence.

  'A kind office,' said the little gentleman, nodding to Nell as she

  curtseyed to him. 'Have you done all that, this morning?'

  'It is very little, sir,' returned the child, with downcast eyes,

  'to what we mean to do.'

  'Good work, good work,' said the bachelor. 'But do you only labour

  at the graves of children, and young people?'

  'We shall come to the others in good time, sir,' replied Nell,

  turning her head aside, and speaking softly.

  It was a slight incident, and might have been design or accident,

  or the child's unconscious sympathy with youth. But it seemed to

  strike upon her grandfather, though he had not noticed it before.

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  He looked in @ hurried manner at the graves, then anxiously at the

  child, then pressed her to his side, and bade her stop to rest.

  Something he had long forgotten, appeared to struggle faintly in

  his mind. It did not pass away, as weightier things had done; but

  came uppermost again, and yet again, and many times that day, and

  often afterwards. Once, while they were yet at work, the child,

  seeing that he often turned and looked uneasily at her, as though

  he were trying to resolve some painful doubts or collect some

  scattered thoughts, urged him to tell the reason. But he said it

  was nothing--nothing--and, laying her head upon his arm, patted

  her fair cheek with his hand, and muttered that she grew stronger

  every day, and would be a woman, soon.

  CHAPTER 55

  From that time, there sprung up in the old man's mind, a solicitude

  about the child which never slept or left him. There are chords in

  the human heart--strange, varying strings--which are only struck

  by accident; which will remain mute and senseless to appeals the

  most passionate and earnest, and respond at last to the slightest

  casual touch. In the most insensible or childish minds, there is

  some train of reflection which art can seldom lead, or skill

  assist, but which will reveal itself, as great truths have done, by

  chance, and when the discoverer has the plainest end in view. From

  that time, the old man never, for a moment, forgot the weakness and

  devotion of the child; from the time of that slight incident, he

  who had seen her toiling by his side through so much difficulty and

  suffering, and had scarcely thought of her otherwise than as the

  partner of miseries which he felt severely in his own person, and

  deplored for his own sake at least as much as hers, awoke to a

  sense of what he owed her, and what those miseries had made her.

  Never, no, never once, in one unguarded moment from that time to

  the end, did any care for himself, any thought of his own comfort,

  any selfish consideration or regard distract his thoughts from the

  gentle object of his love.

  He would follow her up and down, waiting till she should tire and

  lean upon his arm--he would sit opposite to her in the

  chimney-corner, content to watch, and look, until she raised her

  head and smiled upon him as of old--he would discharge by stealth,

  those household duties which tasked her powers too heavily--he

  would rise, in the cold dark nights, to listen to her breathing in

  her sleep, and sometimes crouch for hours by her bedside only to

  touch her hand. He who knows all, can only know what hopes, and

  fears, and thoughts of deep affection, were in that one disordered

  brain, and what a change had fallen on the poor old man.

  Sometimes--weeks had crept on, then--the child, exhausted, though

 
; with little fatigue, would pass whole evenings on a couch beside the

  fire. At such times, the schoolmaster would bring in books, and

  read to her aloud; and seldom an evening passed, but the bachelor

  came in, and took his turn of reading. The old man sat and

  listened--with little understanding for the words, but with his

  eyes fixed upon the child--and if she smiled or brightened with

  the story, he would say it was a good one, and conceive a fondness

  for the very book. When, in their evening talk, the bachelor told

  some tale that pleased her (as his tales were sure to do), the old

  man would painfully try to store it in his mind; nay, when the

  bachelor left them, he would sometimes slip out after him, and

  humbly beg that he would tell him such a part again, that he might

  learn to win a smile from Nell.

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  But these were rare occasions, happily; for the child yearned to be

  out of doors, and walking in her solemn garden. Parties, too,

  would come to see the church; and those who came, speaking to

  others of the child, sent more; so even at that season of the year

  they had visitors almost daily. The old man would follow them at

  a little distance through the building, listening to the voice he

  loved so well; and when the strangers left, and parted from Nell,

  he would mingle with them to catch up fragments of their

  conversation; or he would stand for the same purpose, with his grey

  head uncovered, at the gate as they passed through.

  They always praised the child, her sense and beauty, and he was

  proud to hear them! But what was that, so often added, which wrung

  his heart, and made him sob and weep alone, in some dull corner!

  Alas! even careless strangers--they who had no feeling for her,

  but the interest of the moment--they who would go away and forget

  next week that such a being lived--even they saw it--even they

  pitied her--even they bade him good day compassionately, and

  whispered as they passed.

  The people of the village, too, of whom there was not one but grew

  to have a fondness for poor Nell; even among them, there was the

  same feeling; a tenderness towards her--a compassionate regard for

  her, increasing every day. The very schoolboys, light-hearted and

  thoughtless as they were, even they cared for her. The roughest

  among them was sorry if he missed her in the usual place upon his

  way to school, and would turn out of the path to ask for her at the

  latticed window. If she were sitting in the church, they perhaps

  might peep in softly at the open door; but they never spoke to her,

  unless she rose and went to speak to them. Some feeling was abroad

  which raised the child above them all.

  So, when Sunday came. They were all poor country people in the

  church, for the castle in which the old family had lived, was an

  empty ruin, and there were none but humble folks for seven miles

  around. There, as elsewhere, they had an interest in Nell. They

  would gather round her in the porch, before and after service;

  young children would cluster at her skirts; and aged men and women

  forsake their gossips, to give her kindly greeting. None of them,

  young or old, thought of passing the child without a friendly

  word. Many who came from three or four miles distant, brought her

  little presents; the humblest and rudest had good wishes to bestow.

  She had sought out the young children whom she first saw playing in

  the churchyard. One of these--he who had spoken of his brother--

  was her little favourite and friend, and often sat by her side in

  the church, or climbed with her to the tower-top. It was his

  delight to help her, or to fancy that he did so, and they soon

  became close companions.

  It happened, that, as she was reading in the old spot by herself

  one day, this child came running in with his eyes full of tears,

  and after holding her from him, and looking at her eagerly for a

  moment, clasped his little arms passionately about her neck.

  'What now?' said Nell, soothing him. 'What is the matter?'

  'She is not one yet!' cried the boy, embracing her still more

  closely. 'No, no. Not yet.'

  She looked at him wonderingly, and putting his hair back from his

  face, and kissing him, asked what he meant.

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  'You must not be one, dear Nell,' cried the boy. 'We can't see

  them. They never come to play with us, or talk to us. Be what you

  are. You are better so.'

  'I do not understand you,' said the child. 'Tell me what you

  mean.'

  'Why, they say , replied the boy, looking up into her face, that

  you will be an Angel, before the birds sing again. But you won't

  be, will you? Don't leave us Nell, though the sky is bright. Do

  not leave us!'

  The child dropped her head, and put her hands before her face.

  'She cannot bear the thought!' cried the boy, exulting through his

  tears. 'You will not go. You know how sorry we should be. Dear

  Nell, tell me that you'll stay amongst us. Oh! Pray, pray, tell

  me that you will.'

  The little creature folded his hands, and knelt down at her feet.

  'Only look at me, Nell,' said the boy, 'and tell me that you'll

  stop, and then I shall know that they are wrong, and will cry no

  more. Won't you say yes, Nell?'

  Still the drooping head and hidden face, and the child quite

  silent--save for her sobs.

  'After a time,' pursued the boy, trying to draw away her hand, the

  kind angels will be glad to think that you are not among them, and

  that you stayed here to be with us. Willy went away, to join them;

  but if he had known how I should miss him in our little bed at

  night, he never would have left me, I am sure.'

  Yet the child could make him no answer, and sobbed as though her

  heart were bursting.

  'Why would you go, dear Nell? I know you would not be happy when

  you heard that we were crying for your loss. They say that Willy

  is in Heaven now, and that it's always summer there, and yet I'm

  sure he grieves when I lie down upon his garden bed, and he cannot

  turn to kiss me. But if you do go, Nell,' said the boy, caressing

  her, and pressing his face to hers, 'be fond of him for my sake.

  Tell him how I love him still, and how much I loved you; and when

  I think that you two are together, and are happy, I'll try to bear

  it, and never give you pain by doing wrong--indeed I never will!'

  The child suffered him to move her hands, and put them round his

  neck. There was a tearful silence, but it was not long before she

  looked upon him with a smile, and promised him, in a very gentle,

  quiet voice, that she would stay, and be his friend, as long as

  Heaven would let her. He clapped his hands for joy, and thanked

  her many times; and being charged to tell no person what had passed

  between them, gave her an earnest promise that he never would.

  Nor did he, so far as the child could learn; but was her quiet

  companion in all her walks and musings, and ne
ver again adverted to

  the theme, which he felt had given her pain, although he was

  unconscious of its cause. Something of distrust lingered about him

  still; for he would often come, even in the dark evenings, and call

  in a timid voice outside the door to know if she were safe within;

  and being answered yes, and bade to enter, would take his station

  on a low stool at her feet, and sit there patiently until they came

  to seek, and take him home. Sure as the morning came, it found him

  lingering near the house to ask if she were well; and, morning,

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  noon, or night, go where she would, he would forsake his playmates

  and his sports to bear her company.

  'And a good little friend he is, too,' said the old sexton to her

  once. 'When his elder brother died--elder seems a strange word,

  for he was only seven years old--I remember this one took it

  sorely to heart.'

  The child thought of what the schoolmaster had told her, and felt

  how its truth was shadowed out even in this infant.

  'It has given him something of a quiet way, I think,' said the old

  man, 'though for that he is merry enough at times. I'd wager now

  that you and he have been listening by the old well.'

  'Indeed we have not,' the child replied. 'I have been afraid to go

  near it; for I am not often down in that part of the church, and do

  not know the ground.'

  'Come down with me,' said the old man. 'I have known it from a

  boy. Come!'

  They descended the narrow steps which led into the crypt, and

  paused among the gloomy arches, in a dim and murky spot.

  'This is the place,' said the old man. 'Give me your hand while

  you throw back the cover, lest you should stumble and fall in. I

  am too old--I mean rheumatic--to stoop, myself.'

  'A black and dreadful place!' exclaimed the child.

  'Look in,' said the old man, pointing downward with his finger.

  The child complied, and gazed down into the pit.

  'It looks like a grave itself,' said the old man.

  'It does,' replied the child.

  'I have often had the fancy,' said the sexton, 'that it might have

  been dug at first to make the old place more gloomy, and the old

  monks more religious. It's to be closed up, and built over.'

  The child still stood, looking thoughtfully into the vault.

  'We shall see,' said the sexton, 'on what gay heads other earth