The Old Curiosity Shop

by Dickens, Charles

  Nell? I must ask you that--I must indeed, Quilp. You cannot

  think what days and nights of sorrow I have had through having once

  deceived that child. I don't know what harm I may have brought

  about, but, great or little, I did it for you, Quilp. My

  conscience misgave me when I did it. Do answer me this question,

  if you please?'

  The exasperated dwarf returned no answer, but turned round and

  caught up his usual weapon with such vehemence, that Tom Scott

  dragged his charge away, by main force, and as swiftly as he could.

  It was well he did so, for Quilp, who was nearly mad with rage,

  pursued them to the neighbouring lane, and might have prolonged the

  chase but for the dense mist which obscured them from his view and

  appeared to thicken every moment.

  'It will be a good night for travelling anonymously,' he said, as

  he returned slowly, being pretty well breathed with his run.

  'Stay. We may look better here. This is too hospitable and free.'

  By a great exertion of strength, he closed the two old gates, which

  were deeply sunken in the mud, and barred them with a heavy beam.

  That done, he shook his matted hair from about his eyes, and tried

  them.--Strong and fast.

  'The fence between this wharf and the next is easily climbed,' said

  the dwarf, when he had taken these precautions. 'There's a back

  lane, too, from there. That shall be my way out. A man need know

  his road well, to find it in this lovely place to-night. I need

  fear no unwelcome visitors while this lasts, I think.'

  Almost reduced to the necessity of groping his way with his hands

  (it had grown so dark and the fog had so much increased), he

  returned to his lair; and, after musing for some time over the

  fire, busied himself in preparations for a speedy departure.

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  While he was collecting a few necessaries and cramming them into

  his pockets, he never once ceased communing with himself in a low

  voice, or unclenched his teeth, which he had ground together on

  finishing Miss Brass's note.

  'Oh Sampson!' he muttered, 'good worthy creature--if I could but

  hug you! If I could only fold you in my arms, and squeeze your

  ribs, as I COULD squeeze them if I once had you tight--what a

  meeting there would be between us! If we ever do cross each other

  again, Sampson, we'll have a greeting not easily to be forgotten,

  trust me. This time, Sampson, this moment when all had gone on so

  well, was so nicely chosen! It was so thoughtful of you, so

  penitent, so good. oh, if we were face to face in this room again,

  my white-livered man of law, how well contented one of us would

  be!'

  There he stopped; and raising the bowl of punch to his lips, drank

  a long deep draught, as if it were fair water and cooling to his

  parched mouth. Setting it down abruptly, and resuming his

  preparations, he went on with his soliloquy.

  'There's Sally,' he said, with flashing eyes; 'the woman has

  spirit, determination, purpose--was she asleep, or petrified? She

  could have stabbed him--poisoned him safely. She might have seen

  this coming on. Why does she give me notice when it's too late?

  When he sat there,--yonder there, over there,--with his white

  face, and red head, and sickly smile, why didn't I know what was

  passing in his heart? It should have stopped beating, that night,

  if I had been in his secret, or there are no drugs to lull a man to

  sleep, or no fire to burn him!'

  Another draught from the bowl; and, cowering over the fire with a

  ferocious aspect, he muttered to himself again.

  'And this, like every other trouble and anxiety I have had of late

  times, springs from that old dotard and his darling child--two

  wretched feeble wanderers! I'll be their evil genius yet. And

  you, sweet Kit, honest Kit, virtuous, innocent Kit, look to

  yourself. Where I hate, I bite. I hate you, my darling fellow,

  with good cause, and proud as you are to-night, I'll have my turn.

  --What's that?'

  A knocking at the gate he had closed. A loud and violent knocking.

  Then, a pause; as if those who knocked had stopped to listen.

  Then, the noise again, more clamorous and importunate than before.

  'So soon!' said the dwarf. 'And so eager! I am afraid I shall

  disappoint you. It's well I'm quite prepared. Sally, I thank

  you!'

  As he spoke, he extinguished the candle. In his impetuous attempts

  to subdue the brightness of the fire, he overset the stove, which

  came tumbling forward, and fell with a crash upon the burning

  embers it had shot forth in its descent, leaving the room in pitchy

  darkness. The noise at the gate still continuing, he felt his way

  to the door, and stepped into the open air.

  At that moment the knocking ceased. It was about eight o'clock;

  but the dead of the darkest night would have been as noon-day in

  comparison with the thick cloud which then rested upon the earth,

  and shrouded everything from view. He darted forward for a few

  paces, as if into the mouth of some dim, yawning cavern; then,

  thinking he had gone wrong, changed the direction of his steps;

  then stood still, not knowing where to turn.

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  'If they would knock again,' said Quilp, trying to peer into the

  gloom by which he was surrounded, 'the sound might guide me! Come!

  Batter the gate once more!'

  He stood listening intently, but the noise was not renewed.

  Nothing was to be heard in that deserted place, but, at intervals,

  the distant barkings of dogs. The sound was far away--now in one

  quarter, now answered in another--nor was it any guide, for it

  often came from shipboard, as he knew.

  'If I could find a wall or fence,' said the dwarf, stretching out

  his arms, and walking slowly on, 'I should know which way to turn.

  A good, black, devil's night this, to have my dear friend here! If

  I had but that wish, it might, for anything I cared, never be day

  again.'

  As the word passed his lips, he staggered and fell--and next

  moment was fighting with the cold dark water!

  For all its bubbling up and rushing in his ears, he could hear the

  knocking at the gate again--could hear a shout that followed it--

  could recognise the voice. For all his struggling and plashing, he

  could understand that they had lost their way, and had wandered

  back to the point from which they started; that they were all but

  looking on, while he was drowned; that they were close at hand, but

  could not make an effort to save him; that he himself had shut and

  barred them out. He answered the shout--with a yell, which seemed

  to make the hundred fires that danced before his eyes tremble and

  flicker, as if a gust of wind had stirred them. It was of no

  avail. The strong tide filled his throat, and bore him on, upon

  its rapid current.

  Another mortal struggle, and he was up again, beating the water

  with his hands, and looking out, with wild and glaring eyes t
hat

  showed him some black object he was drifting close upon. The hull

  of a ship! He could touch its smooth and slippery surface with his

  hand. One loud cry, now--but the resistless water bore him down

  before he could give it utterance, and, driving him under it,

  carried away a corpse.

  It toyed and sported with its ghastly freight, now bruising it

  against the slimy piles, now hiding it in mud or long rank grass,

  now dragging it heavily over rough stones and gravel, now feigning

  to yield it to its own element, and in the same action luring it

  away, until, tired of the ugly plaything, it flung it on a swamp--

  a dismal place where pirates had swung in chains through many a

  wintry night--and left it there to bleach.

  And there it lay alone. The sky was red with flame, and the water

  that bore it there had been tinged with the sullen light as it

  flowed along. The place the deserted carcass had left so recently,

  a living man, was now a blazing ruin. There was something of the

  glare upon its face. The hair, stirred by the damp breeze, played

  in a kind of mockery of death--such a mockery as the dead man

  himself would have delighted in when alive--about its head, and

  its dress fluttered idly in the night wind.

  CHAPTER 68

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  Lighted rooms, bright fires, cheerful faces, the music of glad

  voices, words of love and welcome, warm hearts, and tears of

  happiness--what a change is this! But it is to such delights that

  Kit is hastening. They are awaiting him, he knows. He fears he

  will die of joy, before he gets among them.

  They have prepared him for this, all day. He is not to be carried

  off to-morrow with the rest, they tell him first. By degrees they

  let him know that doubts have arisen, that inquiries are to be

  made, and perhaps he may be pardoned after all. At last, the

  evening being come, they bring him to a room where some gentlemen

  are assembled. Foremost among them is his good old master, who

  comes and takes him by the hand. He hears that his innocence is

  established, and that he is pardoned. He cannot see the speaker,

  but he turns towards the voice, and in trying to answer, falls down

  insensible.

  They recover him again, and tell him he must be composed, and bear

  this like a man. Somebody says he must think of his poor mother.

  It is because he does think of her so much, that the happy news had

  overpowered him. They crowd about him, and tell him that the truth

  has gone abroad, and that all the town and country ring with

  sympathy for his misfortunes. He has no ears for this. His

  thoughts, as yet, have no wider range than home. Does she know it?

  what did she say? who told her? He can speak of nothing else.

  They make him drink a little wine, and talk kindly to him for a

  while, until he is more collected, and can listen, and thank them.

  He is free to go. Mr Garland thinks, if he feels better, it is

  time they went away. The gentlemen cluster round him, and shake

  hands with him. He feels very grateful to them for the interest

  they have in him, and for the kind promises they make; but the

  power of speech is gone again, and he has much ado to keep his

  feet, even though leaning on his master's arm.

  As they come through the dismal passages, some officers of the jail

  who are in waiting there, congratulate him, in their rough way, on

  his release. The newsmonger is of the number, but his manner is

  not quite hearty--there is something of surliness in his

  compliments. He looks upon Kit as an intruder, as one who has

  obtained admission to that place on false pretences, who has

  enjoyed a privilege without being duly qualified. He may be a very

  good sort of young man, he thinks, but he has no business there,

  and the sooner he is gone, the better.

  The last door shuts behind them. They have passed the outer wall,

  and stand in the open air--in the street he has so often pictured

  to himself when hemmed in by the gloomy stones, and which has been

  in all his dreams. It seems wider and more busy than it used to

  be. The night is bad, and yet how cheerful and gay in his eyes!

  One of the gentlemen, in taking leave of him, pressed some money

  into his hand. He has not counted it; but when they have gone a

  few paces beyond the box for poor Prisoners, he hastily returns and

  drops it in.

  Mr Garland has a coach waiting in a neighbouring street, and,

  taking Kit inside with him, bids the man drive home. At first,

  they can only travel at a foot pace, and then with torches going on

  before, because of the heavy fog. But, as they get farther from

  the river, and leave the closer portions of the town behind, they

  are able to dispense with this precaution and to proceed at a

  brisker rate. On the road, hard galloping would be too slow for

  Kit; but, when they are drawing near their journey's end, he begs

  they may go more slowly, and, when the house appears in sight, that

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  they may stop--only for a minute or two, to give him time to

  breathe.

  But there is no stopping then, for the old gentleman speaks stoutly

  to him, the horses mend their pace, and they are already at the

  garden-gate. Next minute, they are at the door. There is a noise

  of tongues, and tread of feet, inside. It opens. Kit rushes in,

  and finds his mother clinging round his neck.

  And there, too, is the ever faithful Barbara's mother, still

  holding the baby as if she had never put it down since that sad day

  when they little hoped to have such joy as this--there she is,

  Heaven bless her, crying her eyes out, and sobbing as never woman

  sobbed before; and there is little Barbara--poor little Barbara,

  so much thinner and so much paler, and yet so very pretty--

  trembling like a leaf and supporting herself against the wall; and

  there is Mrs Garland, neater and nicer than ever, fainting away

  stone dead with nobody to help her; and there is Mr Abel, violently

  blowing his nose, and wanting to embrace everybody; and there is

  the single gentleman hovering round them all, and constant to

  nothing for an instant; and there is that good, dear, thoughtful

  little Jacob, sitting all alone by himself on the bottom stair,

  with his hands on his knees like an old man, roaring fearfully

  without giving any trouble to anybody; and each and all of them are

  for the time clean out of their wits, and do jointly and severally

  commit all manner of follies.

  And even when the rest have in some measure come to themselves

  again, and can find words and smiles, Barbara--that soft-hearted,

  gentle, foolish little Barbara--is suddenly missed, and found to

  be in a swoon by herself in the back parlour, from which swoon she

  falls into hysterics, and from which hysterics into a swoon again,

  and is, indeed, so bad, that despite a mortal quantity of vinegar

  and cold water she is hardly a bit better at last than she was at

  first. Th
en, Kit's mother comes in and says, will he come and

  speak to her; and Kit says 'Yes,' and goes; and he says in a kind

  voice 'Barbara!' and Barbara's mother tells her that 'it's only

  Kit;' and Barbara says (with her eyes closed all the time) 'Oh! but

  is it him indeed?' and Barbara's mother says 'To be sure it is, my

  dear; there's nothing the matter now.' And in further assurance

  that he's safe and sound, Kit speaks to her again; and then Barbara

  goes off into another fit of laughter, and then into another fit of

  crying; and then Barbara's mother and Kit's mother nod to each

  other and pretend to scold her--but only to bring her to herself

  the faster, bless you!--and being experienced matrons, and acute

  at perceiving the first dawning symptoms of recovery, they comfort

  Kit with the assurance that 'she'll do now,' and so dismiss him to

  the place from whence he came.

  Well! In that place (which is the next room) there are decanters

  of wine, and all that sort of thing, set out as grand as if Kit and

  his friends were first-rate company; and there is little Jacob,

  walking, as the popular phrase is, into a home-made plum-cake, at

  a most surprising pace, and keeping his eye on the figs and oranges

  which are to follow, and making the best use of his time, you may

  believe. Kit no sooner comes in, than that single gentleman (never

  was such a busy gentleman) charges all the glasses--bumpers--and

  drinks his health, and tells him he shall never want a friend while

  he lives; and so does Mr Garland, and so does Mrs Garland, and so

  does Mr Abel. But even this honour and distinction is not all, for

  the single gentleman forthwith pulls out of his pocket a massive

  silver watch--going hard, and right to half a second--and upon

  the back of this watch is engraved Kit's name, with flourishes all

  over; and in short it is Kit's watch, bought expressly for him, and

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  presented to him on the spot. You may rest assured that Mr and Mrs

  Garland can't help hinting about their present, in store, and that

  Mr Abel tells outright that he has his; and that Kit is the

  happiest of the happy.

  There is one friend he has not seen yet, and as he cannot be

  conveniently introduced into the family circle, by reason of his

  being an iron-shod quadruped, Kit takes the first opportunity of