The Old Curiosity Shop

by Dickens, Charles

  happy sleep--eh?'

  'Indeed it is,' returned the bachelor. 'Indeed, indeed, it is!'

  'That's well!--and the waking--' faltered the old man.

  'Happy too. Happier than tongue can tell, or heart of man

  conceive.'

  They watched him as he rose and stole on tiptoe to the other

  chamber where the lamp had been replaced. They listened as he

  spoke again within its silent walls. They looked into the faces of

  each other, and no man's cheek was free from tears. He came back,

  whispering that she was still asleep, but that he thought she had

  moved. It was her hand, he said--a little--a very, very little--

  but he was pretty sure she had moved it--perhaps in seeking his.

  He had known her do that, before now, though in the deepest sleep

  the while. And when he had said this, he dropped into his chair

  again, and clasping his hands above his head, uttered a cry never

  to be forgotten.

  The poor schoolmaster motioned to the bachelor that he would come

  on the other side, and speak to him. They gently unlocked his

  fingers, which he had twisted in his grey hair, and pressed them in

  their own.

  'He will hear me,' said the schoolmaster, 'I am sure. He will hear

  either me or you if we beseech him. She would, at all times.'

  'I will hear any voice she liked to hear,' cried the old man. 'I

  love all she loved!'

  'I know you do,' returned the schoolmaster. 'I am certain of it.

  Think of her; think of all the sorrows and afflictions you have

  shared together; of all the trials, and all the peaceful pleasures,

  you have jointly known.'

  'I do. I do. I think of nothing else.'

  'I would have you think of nothing else to-night--of nothing but

  those things which will soften your heart, dear friend, and open it

  to old affections and old times. It is so that she would speak to

  you herself, and in her name it is that I speak now.'

  'You do well to speak softly,' said the old man. 'We will not wake

  her. I should be glad to see her eyes again, and to see her smile.

  There is a smile upon her young face now, but it is fixed and

  changeless. I would have it come and go. That shall be in

  Heaven's good time. We will not wake her.'

  'Let us not talk of her in her sleep, but as she used to be when

  you were Journeying together, far away--as she was at home, in the

  old house from which you fled together--as she was, in the old

  cheerful time,' said the schoolmaster.

  'She was always cheerful--very cheerful,' cried the old man,

  looking steadfastly at him. 'There was ever something mild and

  quiet about her, I remember, from the first; but she was of a happy

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  nature.'

  'We have heard you say,' pursued the schoolmaster, 'that in this

  and in all goodness, she was like her mother. You can think of,

  and remember her?'

  He maintained his steadfast look, but gave no answer.

  'Or even one before her,' said the bachelor. 'it is many years

  ago, and affliction makes the time longer, but you have not

  forgotten her whose death contributed to make this child so dear to

  you, even before you knew her worth or could read her heart? Say,

  that you could carry back your thoughts to very distant days--to

  the time of your early life--when, unlike this fair flower, you

  did not pass your youth alone. Say, that you could remember, long

  ago, another child who loved you dearly, you being but a child

  yourself. Say, that you had a brother, long forgotten, long

  unseen, long separated from you, who now, at last, in your utmost

  need came back to comfort and console you--'

  'To be to you what you were once to him,' cried the younger,

  falling on his knee before him; 'to repay your old affection,

  brother dear, by constant care, solicitude, and love; to be, at

  your right hand, what he has never ceased to be when oceans rolled

  between us; to call to witness his unchanging truth and mindfulness

  of bygone days, whole years of desolation. Give me but one word of

  recognition, brother--and never--no never, in the brightest

  moment of our youngest days, when, poor silly boys, we thought to

  pass our lives together--have we been half as dear and precious to

  each other as we shall be from this time hence!'

  The old man looked from face to face, and his lips moved; but no

  sound came from them in reply.

  'If we were knit together then,' pursued the younger brother, 'what

  will be the bond between us now! Our love and fellowship began in

  childhood, when life was all before us, and will be resumed when we

  have proved it, and are but children at the last. As many restless

  spirits, who have hunted fortune, fame, or pleasure through the

  world, retire in their decline to where they first drew breath,

  vainly seeking to be children once again before they die, so we,

  less fortunate than they in early life, but happier in its closing

  scenes, will set up our rest again among our boyish haunts, and

  going home with no hope realised, that had its growth in manhood--

  carrying back nothing that we brought away, but our old yearnings

  to each other--saving no fragment from the wreck of life, but that

  which first endeared it--may be, indeed, but children as at first.

  And even,' he added in an altered voice, 'even if what I dread to

  name has come to pass--even if that be so, or is to be (which

  Heaven forbid and spare us!)--still, dear brother, we are not

  apart, and have that comfort in our great affliction.'

  By little and little, the old man had drawn back towards the inner

  chamber, while these words were spoken. He pointed there, as he

  replied, with trembling lips.

  'You plot among you to wean my heart from her. You never will do

  that--never while I have life. I have no relative or friend but

  her--I never had--I never will have. She is all in all to me.

  It is too late to part us now.'

  Waving them off with his hand, and calling softly to her as he

  went, he stole into the room. They who were left behind, drew

  close together, and after a few whispered words--not unbroken by

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  emotion, or easily uttered--followed him. They moved so gently,

  that their footsteps made no noise; but there were sobs from among

  the group, and sounds of grief and mourning.

  For she was dead. There, upon her little bed, she lay at rest.

  The solemn stillness was no marvel now.

  She was dead. No sleep so beautiful and calm, so free from trace

  of pain, so fair to look upon. She seemed a creature fresh from

  the hand of God, and waiting for the breath of life; not one who

  had lived and suffered death.

  Her couch was dressed with here and there some winter berries and

  green leaves, gathered in a spot she had been used to favour.

  'When I die, put near me something that has loved the light, and

  had the sky above it always.' Those were her words.

  She was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead. Her


  little bird--a poor slight thing the pressure of a finger would

  have crushed--was stirring nimbly in its cage; and the strong

  heart of its child mistress was mute and motionless for ever.

  Where were the traces of her early cares, her sufferings, and

  fatigues? All gone. Sorrow was dead indeed in her, but peace and

  perfect happiness were born; imaged in her tranquil beauty and

  profound repose.

  And still her former self lay there, unaltered in this change.

  Yes. The old fireside had smiled upon that same sweet face; it had

  passed, like a dream, through haunts of misery and care; at the

  door of the poor schoolmaster on the summer evening, before the

  furnace fire upon the cold wet night, at the still bedside of the

  dying boy, there had been the same mild lovely look. So shall we

  know the angels in their majesty, after death.

  The old man held one languid arm in his, and had the small hand

  tight folded to his breast, for warmth. It was the hand she had

  stretched out to him with her last smile--the hand that had led

  him on, through all their wanderings. Ever and anon he pressed it

  to his lips; then hugged it to his breast again, murmuring that it

  was warmer now; and, as he said it, he looked, in agony, to those

  who stood around, as if imploring them to help her.

  She was dead, and past all help, or need of it. The ancient rooms

  she had seemed to fill with life, even while her own was waning

  fast--the garden she had tended--the eyes she had gladdened--the

  noiseless haunts of many a thoughtful hour--the paths she had

  trodden as it were but yesterday--could know her never more.

  'It is not,' said the schoolmaster, as he bent down to kiss her on

  the cheek, and gave his tears free vent, 'it is not on earth that

  Heaven's justice ends. Think what earth is, compared with the

  World to which her young spirit has winged its early flight; and

  say, if one deliberate wish expressed in solemn terms above this

  bed could call her back to life, which of us would utter it!'

  CHAPTER 72

  When morning came, and they could speak more calmly on the subject

  of their grief, they heard how her life had closed.

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  She had been dead two days. They were all about her at the time,

  knowing that the end was drawing on. She died soon after daybreak.

  They had read and talked to her in the earlier portion of the

  night, but as the hours crept on, she sunk to sleep. They could

  tell, by what she faintly uttered in her dreams, that they were of

  her journeyings with the old man; they were of no painful scenes,

  but of people who had helped and used them kindly, for she often

  said 'God bless you!' with great fervour. Waking, she never

  wandered in her mind but once, and that was of beautiful music

  which she said was in the air. God knows. It may have been.

  Opening her eyes at last, from a very quiet sleep, she begged that

  they would kiss her once again. That done, she turned to the old

  man with a lovely smile upon her face--such, they said, as they

  had never seen, and never could forget--and clung with both her

  arms about his neck. They did not know that she was dead, at

  first.

  She had spoken very often of the two sisters, who, she said, were

  like dear friends to her. She wished they could be told how much

  she thought about them, and how she had watched them as they walked

  together, by the river side at night. She would like to see poor

  Kit, she had often said of late. She wished there was somebody to

  take her love to Kit. And, even then, she never

  thought or spoke about him, but with something of her old, clear,

  merry laugh.

  For the rest, she had never murmured or complained; but with a

  quiet mind, and manner quite unaltered--save that she every day

  became more earnest and more grateful to them--faded like the

  light upon a summer's evening.

  The child who had been her little friend came there, almost as soon

  as it was day, with an offering of dried flowers which he begged

  them to lay upon her breast. It was he who had come to the window

  overnight and spoken to the sexton, and they saw in the snow traces

  of small feet, where he had been lingering near the room in which

  she lay, before he went to bed. He had a fancy, it seemed, that

  they had left her there alone; and could not bear the thought.

  He told them of his dream again, and that it was of her being

  restored to them, just as she used to be. He begged hard to see

  her, saying that he would be very quiet, and that they need not

  fear his being alarmed, for he had sat alone by his young brother

  all day long when he was dead, and had felt glad to be so near him.

  They let him have his wish; and indeed he kept his word, and was,

  in his childish way, a lesson to them all.

  Up to that time, the old man had not spoken once--except to her--

  or stirred from the bedside. But, when he saw her little

  favourite, he was moved as they had not seen him yet, and made as

  though he would have him come nearer. Then, pointing to the bed,

  he burst into tears for the first time, and they who stood by,

  knowing that the sight of this child had done him good, left them

  alone together.

  Soothing him with his artless talk of her, the child persuaded him

  to take some rest, to walk abroad, to do almost as he desired him.

  And when the day came on, which must remove her in her earthly

  shape from earthly eyes for ever, he led him away, that he might

  not know when she was taken from him.

  They were to gather fresh leaves and berries for her bed. It was

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  Sunday--a bright, clear, wintry afternoon--and as they traversed

  the village street, those who were walking in their path drew back

  to make way for them, and gave them a softened greeting. Some

  shook the old man kindly by the hand, some stood uncovered while he

  tottered by, and many cried 'God help him!' as he passed along.

  'Neighbour!' said the old man, stopping at the cottage where

  his young guide's mother dwelt, 'how is it that the folks are

  nearly all in black to-day? I have seen a mourning ribbon or a

  piece of crape on almost every one.'

  She could not tell, the woman said. 'Why, you yourself--you wear

  the colour too?' he said. 'Windows are closed that never used to

  be by day. What does this mean?'

  Again the woman said she could not tell.

  'We must go back,' said the old man, hurriedly. 'We must see what

  this is.'

  'No, no,' cried the child, detaining him. 'Remember what you

  promised. Our way is to the old green lane, where she and I so

  often were, and where you found us, more than once, making those

  garlands for her garden. Do not turn back!'

  'Where is she now?' said the old man. 'Tell me that.'

  'Do you not know?' returned the child. 'Did we not leave her, but

  just now?'

  'True. True. It was her we left--was it?'

  He pressed his hand upo
n his brow, looked vacantly round, and as if

  impelled by a sudden thought, crossed the road, and entered the

  sexton's house. He and his deaf assistant were sitting before the

  fire. Both rose up, on seeing who it was.

  The child made a hasty sign to them with his hand. It was the

  action of an instant, but that, and the old man's look, were quite

  enough.

  'Do you--do you bury any one to-day)' he said, eagerly.

  'No, no! Who should we bury, Sir?' returned the sexton.

  'Aye, who indeed! I say with you, who indeed!'

  'It is a holiday with us, good Sir,' returned the sexton mildly.

  'We have no work to do to-day.'

  'Why then, I'll go where you will,' said the old man, turning to

  the child. 'You're sure of what you tell me? You would not

  deceive me? I am changed, even in the little time since you last

  saw me.'

  'Go thy ways with him, Sir,' cried the sexton, 'and Heaven be with

  ye both!'

  'I am quite ready,' said the old man, meekly. 'Come, boy, come--'

  and so submitted to be led away.

  And now the bell--the bell she had so often heard, by night and

  day, and listened to with solemn pleasure almost as a living voice--

  rung its remorseless toll, for her, so young, so beautiful, so

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  good. Decrepit age, and vigorous life, and blooming youth, and

  helpless infancy, poured forth--on crutches, in the pride of

  strength and health, in the full blush of promise, in the mere dawn

  of life--to gather round her tomb. Old men were there, whose eyes

  were dim and senses failing--grandmothers, who might have died ten

  years ago, and still been old--the deaf, the blind, the lame, the

  palsied, the living dead in many shapes and forms, to see the

  closing of that early grave. What was the death it would shut in,

  to that which still could crawl and creep above it!

  Along the crowded path they bore her now; pure as the newly-fallen

  snow that covered it; whose day on earth had been as fleeting.

  Under the porch, where she had sat when Heaven in its mercy brought

  her to that peaceful spot, she passed again; and the old church

  received her in its quiet shade.

  They carried her to one old nook, where she had many and many a

  time sat musing, and laid their burden softly on the pavement. The

  light streamed on it through the coloured window--a window, where