The Old Curiosity Shop

by Dickens, Charles

it had about it.

  They spoke together with a strange inconsistency, in whispers;

  unwilling to disturb again the dreary echoes they had just now

  raised.

  'Let us go on,' said the younger brother, 'and leave this good

  fellow to wake them, if he can. I cannot rest until I know that we

  are not too late. Let us go on, in the name of Heaven!'

  They did so, leaving the postilion to order such accommodation as

  the house afforded, and to renew his knocking. Kit accompanied

  them with a little bundle, which he had hung in the carriage when

  they left home, and had not forgotten since--the bird in his old

  cage--just as she had left him. She would be glad to see her

  bird, he knew.

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  The road wound gently downward. As they proceeded, they lost sight

  of the church whose clock they had heard, and of the small village

  clustering round it. The knocking, which was now renewed, and

  which in that stillness they could plainly hear, troubled them.

  They wished the man would forbear, or that they had told him not to

  break the silence until they returned.

  The old church tower, clad in a ghostly garb of pure cold white,

  again rose up before them, and a few moments brought them close

  beside it. A venerable building--grey, even in the midst of the

  hoary landscape. An ancient sun-dial on the belfry wall was nearly

  hidden by the snow-drift, and scarcely to be known for what it was.

  Time itself seemed to have grown dull and old, as if no day were

  ever to displace the melancholy night.

  A wicket gate was close at hand, but there was more than one path

  across the churchyard to which it led, and, uncertain which to

  take, they came to a stand again.

  The village street--if street that could be called which was an

  irregular cluster of poor cottages of many heights and ages, some

  with their fronts, some with their backs, and some with gable ends

  towards the road, with here and there a signpost, or a shed

  encroaching on the path--was close at hand. There was a faint

  light in a chamber window not far off, and Kit ran towards that

  house to ask their way.

  His first shout was answered by an old man within, who presently

  appeared at the casement, wrapping some garment round his throat as

  a protection from the cold, and demanded who was abroad at that

  unseasonable hour, wanting him.

  ''Tis hard weather this,' he grumbled, 'and not a night to call me

  up in. My trade is not of that kind that I need be roused from

  bed. The business on which folks want me, will keep cold,

  especially at this season. What do you want?'

  'I would not have roused you, if I had known you were old and ill,'

  said Kit.

  'Old!' repeated the other peevishly. 'How do you know I am old?

  Not so old as you think, friend, perhaps. As to being ill, you

  will find many young people in worse case than I am. More's the

  pity that it should be so--not that I should be strong and hearty

  for my years, I mean, but that they should be weak and tender. I

  ask your pardon though,' said the old man, 'if I spoke rather rough

  at first. My eyes are not good at night--that's neither age nor

  illness; they never were--and I didn't see you were a stranger.'

  'I am sorry to call you from your bed,' said Kit, 'but those

  gentlemen you may see by the churchyard gate, are strangers too,

  who have just arrived from a long journey, and seek the

  parsonage-house. You can direct us?'

  'I should be able to,' answered the old man, in a trembling voice,

  'for, come next summer, I have been sexton here, good fifty years.

  The right hand path, friend, is the road.--There is no ill news

  for our good gentleman, I hope?'

  Kit thanked him, and made him a hasty answer in the negative; he

  was turning back, when his attention was caught

  by the voice of a child. Looking up, he saw a very little creature

  at a neighbouring window.

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  'What is that?' cried the child, earnestly. 'Has my dream come

  true? Pray speak to me, whoever that is, awake and up.'

  'Poor boy!' said the sexton, before Kit could answer, 'how goes it,

  darling?'

  'Has my dream come true?' exclaimed the child again, in a voice so

  fervent that it might have thrilled to the heart of any listener.

  'But no, that can never be! How could it be--Oh! how could it!'

  'I guess his meaning,' said the sexton. 'To bed again, poor boy!'

  'Ay!' cried the child, in a burst of despair. 'I knew it could

  never be, I felt too sure of that, before I asked! But, all

  to-night, and last night too, it was the same. I never fall

  asleep, but that cruel dream comes back.'

  'Try to sleep again,' said the old man, soothingly. 'It will go in

  time.'

  'No no, I would rather that it staid--cruel as it is, I would

  rather that it staid,' rejoined the child. 'I am not afraid to

  have it in my sleep, but I am so sad--so very, very sad.'

  The old man blessed him, the child in tears replied Good night, and

  Kit was again alone.

  He hurried back, moved by what he had heard, though more by the

  child's manner than by anything he had said, as his meaning was

  hidden from him. They took the path indicated by the sexton, and

  soon arrived before the parsonage wall. Turning round to look

  about them when they had got thus far, they saw, among some ruined

  buildings at a distance, one single solitary light.

  It shone from what appeared to be an old oriel window, and being

  surrounded by the deep shadows of overhanging walls, sparkled like

  a star. Bright and glimmering as the stars above their heads,

  lonely and motionless as they, it seemed to claim some kindred with

  the eternal lamps of Heaven, and to burn in fellowship with them.

  'What light is that!' said the younger brother.

  'It is surely,' said Mr Garland, 'in the ruin where they live. I

  see no other ruin hereabouts.'

  'They cannot,' returned the brother hastily, 'be waking at this

  late hour--'

  Kit interposed directly, and begged that, while they rang and

  waited at the gate, they would let him make his way to where this

  light was shining, and try to ascertain if any people were about.

  Obtaining the permission he desired, he darted off with breathless

  eagerness, and, still carrying the birdcage in his hand, made

  straight towards the spot.

  It was not easy to hold that pace among the graves, and at another

  time he might have gone more slowly, or round by the path.

  Unmindful of all obstacles, however, he pressed forward without

  slackening his speed, and soon arrived within a few yards of the

  window.

  He approached as softly as he could, and advancing so near the wall

  as to brush the whitened ivy with his dress, listened. There was

  no sound inside. The church itself was not more quiet. Touching

  the glass with his cheek, he listened again. No. And yet there

  was such a silence all around, th
at he felt sure he could have

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  heard even the breathing of a sleeper, if there had been one there.

  A strange circumstance, a light in such a place at that time of

  night, with no one near it.

  A curtain was drawn across the lower portion of the window, and he

  could not see into the room. But there was no shadow thrown upon

  it from within. To have gained a footing on the wall and tried to

  look in from above, would have been attended with some danger--

  certainly with some noise, and the chance of terrifying the child,

  if that really were her habitation. Again and again he listened;

  again and again the same wearisome blank.

  Leaving the spot with slow and cautious steps, and skirting the

  ruin for a few paces, he came at length to a door. He knocked. No

  answer. But there was a curious noise inside. It was difficult to

  determine what it was. It bore a resemblance to the low moaning of

  one in pain, but it was not that, being far too regular and

  constant. Now it seemed a kind of song, now a wail--seemed, that

  is, to his changing fancy, for the sound itself was never changed

  or checked. It was unlike anything he had ever heard; and in its

  tone there was something fearful, chilling, and unearthly.

  The listener's blood ran colder now than ever it had done in frost

  and snow, but he knocked again. There was no answer, and the sound

  went on without any interruption. He laid his

  hand softly upon the latch, and put his knee against the door. It

  was secured on the inside, but yielded to the pressure, and turned

  upon its hinges. He saw the glimmering of a fire upon the old

  walls, and entered.

  CHAPTER 71

  The dull, red glow of a wood fire--for no lamp or candle burnt

  within the room--showed him a figure, seated on the hearth with

  its back towards him, bending over the fitful light. The attitude

  was that of one who sought the heat. It was, and yet was not. The

  stooping posture and the cowering form were there, but no hands

  were stretched out to meet the grateful warmth, no shrug or shiver

  compared its luxury with the piercing cold outside. With limbs

  huddled together, head bowed down, arms crossed upon the breast,

  and fingers tightly clenched, it rocked to and fro upon its seat

  without a moment's pause, accompanying the action with the mournful

  sound he had heard.

  The heavy door had closed behind him on his entrance, with a crash

  that made him start. The figure neither spoke, nor turned to look,

  nor gave in any other way the faintest sign of having heard the

  noise. The form was that of an old man, his white head akin in

  colour to the mouldering embers upon which he gazed. He, and the

  failing light and dying fire, the time-worn room, the solitude, the

  wasted life, and gloom, were all in fellowship. Ashes, and dust,

  and ruin!

  Kit tried to speak, and did pronounce some words, though what they

  were he scarcely knew. Still the same terrible low cry went on--

  still the same rocking in the chair--the same stricken figure was

  there, unchanged and heedless of his presence.

  He had his hand upon the latch, when something in the form--

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  distinctly seen as one log broke and fell, and, as it fell, blazed

  up--arrested it. He returned to where he had stood before--

  advanced a pace--another--another still. Another, and he saw the

  face. Yes! Changed as it was, he knew it well.

  'Master!' he cried, stooping on one knee and catching at his hand.

  'Dear master. Speak to me!'

  The old man turned slowly towards him; and muttered in a hollow

  voice,

  'This is another!--How many of these spirits there have been

  to-night!'

  'No spirit, master. No one but your old servant. You know me now,

  I am sure? Miss Nell--where is she--where is she?'

  'They all say that!' cried the old man. 'They all ask the same

  question. A spirit!'

  'Where is she?' demanded Kit. 'Oh tell me but that,--but that,

  dear master!'

  'She is asleep--yonder--in there.'

  'Thank God!'

  'Aye! Thank God!' returned the old man. 'I have prayed to Him,

  many, and many, and many a livelong night, when she has been

  asleep, He knows. Hark! Did she call?'

  'I heard no voice.'

  'You did. You hear her now. Do you tell me that you don't hear

  THAT?'

  He started up, and listened again.

  'Nor that?' he cried, with a triumphant smile, 'Can any body know

  that voice so well as I? Hush! Hush!'

  Motioning to him to be silent, he stole away into another chamber.

  After a short absence (during which he could be heard to speak in

  a softened soothing tone) he returned, bearing in his hand a lamp.

  'She is still asleep,' he whispered. 'You were right. She did not

  call--unless she did so in her slumber. She has called to me in

  her sleep before now, sir; as I have sat by, watching, I have seen

  her lips move, and have known, though no sound came from them, that

  she spoke of me. I feared the light might dazzle her eyes and wake

  her, so I brought it here.'

  He spoke rather to himself than to the visitor, but when he had put

  the lamp upon the table, he took it up, as if impelled by some

  momentary recollection or curiosity, and held it near his face.

  Then, as if forgetting his motive in the very action, he turned

  away and put it down again.

  'She is sleeping soundly,' he said; 'but no wonder. Angel hands

  have strewn the ground deep with snow, that the lightest footstep

  may be lighter yet; and the very birds are dead, that they may not

  wake her. She used to feed them, Sir. Though never so cold and

  hungry, the timid things would fly from us. They never flew from

  her!'

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  Again he stopped to listen, and scarcely drawing breath, listened

  for a long, long time. That fancy past, he opened an old chest,

  took out some clothes as fondly as if they had been living things,

  and began to smooth and brush them with his hand.

  'Why dost thou lie so idle there, dear Nell,' he murmured, 'when

  there are bright red berries out of doors waiting for thee to pluck

  them! Why dost thou lie so idle there, when thy little friends

  come creeping to the door, crying "where is Nell--sweet Nell?"--

  and sob, and weep, because they do not see thee. She was always

  gentle with children. The wildest would do her bidding--she had

  a tender way with them, indeed she had!'

  Kit had no power to speak. His eyes were filled with tears.

  'Her little homely dress,--her favourite!' cried the old man,

  pressing it to his breast, and patting it with his shrivelled hand.

  'She will miss it when she wakes. They have hid it here in sport,

  but she shall have it--she shall have it. I would not vex my

  darling, for the wide world's riches. See here--these shoes--how

  worn they are--she kept them to remind he
r of our last

  long journey. You see where the little feet went bare upon the

  ground. They told me, afterwards, that the stones had cut and

  bruised them. She never told me that. No, no, God bless her! and,

  I have remembered since, she walked behind me, sir, that I might

  not see how lame she was--but yet she had my hand in hers, and

  seemed to lead me still.'

  He pressed them to his lips, and having carefully put them back

  again, went on communing with himself--looking wistfully from time

  to time towards the chamber he had lately visited.

  'She was not wont to be a lie-abed; but she was well then. We must

  have patience. When she is well again, she will rise early, as she

  used to do, and ramble abroad in the healthy morning time. I often

  tried to track the way she had gone, but her small footstep left no

  print upon the dewy ground, to guide me. Who is that? Shut the

  door. Quick!--Have we not enough to do to drive away that marble

  cold, and keep her warm!'

  The door was indeed opened, for the entrance of Mr Garland and his

  friend, accompanied by two other persons. These were the

  schoolmaster, and the bachelor. The former held a light in his

  hand. He had, it seemed, but gone to his own cottage to replenish

  the exhausted lamp, at the moment when Kit came up and found the

  old man alone.

  He softened again at sight of these two friends, and, laying aside

  the angry manner--if to anything so feeble and so sad the term can

  be applied--in which he had spoken when the door opened, resumed

  his former seat, and subsided, by little and little into the old

  action, and the old, dull, wandering sound.

  Of the strangers, he took no heed whatever. He had seen them, but

  appeared quite incapable of interest or curiosity. The younger

  brother stood apart. The bachelor drew a chair towards the old

  man, and sat down close beside him. After a long silence, he

  ventured to speak.

  'Another night, and not in bed!' he said softly; 'I hoped you would

  be more mindful of your promise to me. Why do you not take some

  rest?'

  'Sleep has left me,' returned the old man. 'It is all with her!'

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  'It would pain her very much to know that you were watching thus,'

  said the bachelor. 'You would not give her pain?'

  'I am not so sure of that, if it would only rouse her. She has

  slept so very long. And yet I am rash to say so. It is a good and