 68 Lighted rooms, bright fires, cheerful faces, the music of glad voices, words of love and welcome, warm hearts and tears of happiness, all to 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. For most 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. Gentlemen clust around 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 adieu 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 pretenses, 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 the journey's end, he begs they may go more slowly, and when the house appears in sight that 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. Just a 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 the little hope to have such joy is 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 separately 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 parlor, 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. Then Kitt's mother comes in and says, will he come and speak to her? And Kitt says, yes, and goes. And he says in a kind voice, Barbara, and Barbara's mother tells her that it's only Kitt, 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, Kitt speaks to her again, and then Barbara goes off into another fit of laughter, and then into another fit of trying, and then Barbara's mother and Kitt'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 Kitt 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 cantors of wine, and all that sort of thing, set out as grand as if Kitt and his friends were first-rate company, and there is little Jacob, walking, as the popular phrase is, into a homemade 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. Kitt no sooner comes in than that single gentleman, never with 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 Kitt's name, with flourishes all over, and in short it is Kitt's watch, bought expressly for him, and 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 Kitt is the happiest of the happy. There is one Flandy has not seen yet, and as he cannot be conveniently introduced into the family circle, by reason of his being an iron shard quadruped, Kitt takes the first opportunity of slipping away and hurrying to the stable. The moment he lays his hand upon the latch, the pony nays, the loudest pony's greeting. Before he has crossed the threshold, the pony is capering about his loose box, for he brooks not the indignity of a halter, mad to give him welcome, and when Kitt goes up to caress and pat him, the pony rubs his nose against his coat, and fondles him more lovingly than ever pony-fondled man. It is the crowning circumstance of his earnest, heartfelt reception, and Kitt fairly puts his arm round Whisker's neck, and hugs him. But how comes Barbara to trip in there? And how smart she is again. She has been at her glass since she recovered. How comes Barbara in the stable of all places in the world? Why, since Kitt has been away, the pony would take his food from nobody but her. And Barbara, you see, not dreaming that Christopher was there, and just looking in to see that everything was right, has come upon him unawares. Blushing little Barbara. It may be that Kitt has caressed the pony enough. It may be that they are even better things to caress than ponies. He leaves him for Barbara at any rate, and hopes she is better. Yes, Barbara is a great deal better. She is afraid, and here Barbara looks down and blushes more, that he must have thought her very foolish. Not at all, says Kitt. Barbara is glad of that, and coughs. Just the sight is cough possible. Not more than that. What a discreet pony when he chooses. He is as quiet now as if he were of marble. He has a very knowing look, but that he always has. We have hardly a chance, I can't, Barbara, says Kitt. Barbara gives him hers. Why, she is trembling now, foolish, fluttering Barbara. Arms length? The length of an arm is not much. Barbara's was not a long arm by any means, and besides, she didn't hold it out straight, but bent a little. Kitt was so near her when they shook hands that he could see a small, tiny tear yet trembling on an eyelash. It was natural that he should look at it, unknown to Barbara. It was natural that Barbara should raise her eyes unconsciously and find him out. Was it natural that at that instant, without any previous impulse or design, Kitt should kiss Barbara? He did it, whether or no. Barbara said, for shame, but let him do it too, twice. He might have done it thrice, but the pony kicked up his heels and shook his head as if he were suddenly taken with convulsions of delight, and Barbara being frightened ran away. Not straight to where her mother and Kitt's mother were, though, lest they should see how red her cheeks were, and should ask her why. Sly little Barbara. When the first transports of the whole party had subsided, and Kitt and his mother and Barbara and her mother, with little Jacob and the baby to boot, had had their suppers together, which there was no hurrying over, for they were going to stop there all night, Mr. Garland called Kitt to him, and taking him into a room where they could be alone, told him that he had something yet to say which would surprise him greatly. Kitt looked so anxious, and turned so pale on hearing this, that the old gentleman hastened to add he would be agreeably surprised, and asked him if he would be ready next morning for a journey. For a journey, sir? cried Kitt, in company with me and my friend in the next room. Can you guess its purpose? Kitt turned paler yet, and shook his head. Oh, yes, I think you do already, said his master. Try! Kitt murmured something rather rambling and unintelligible, but he plainly pronounced the words. Miss! Nail! Three or four times, shaking his head while he did so, as if he would add that there was no hope of that. But Mr. Garland, instead of saying try again, as Kitt had made sure he would, told him very seriously, that he had guessed right. The place of their retreat is indeed discovered. He said, at last, and that is our journey's end. Kitt faulted out such questions as where was it, and how had it been found, and how long since, and was she well and happy? Happy she is beyond all doubt, said Mr. Garland, and well, I trust she will be soon. She has been weak and ailing as I learn, but she was better when I heard this morning. And they were full of hope. Sit you down, and you shall hear the rest. Scarcely venturing to draw his breath, Kitt did as he was told. Mr. Garland then related to him how he had a brother, of whom he would remember to have heard him speak, and whose picture, taken when he was a young man, hung in the best room. And how his brother lived a long way off, in a country place, with an old clergyman, who had been his early friend. How, although they loved each other as brother should, they had not met for many years, but had communicated by letter from time to time, always looking forward to some period when they would take each other by the hand once more, and still letting the present time steal on, as it was the habit for men to do, and suffering the future to melt into the past. How this brother, whose temper was very mild and quiet and retiring, such as Mr. Ables, was greatly beloved by the simple people among whom he dwelt, who quite revered the bachelor, or so they called him, and had every one experienced his charity and benevolence. How even those slight circumstances had come to his knowledge, very slowly and in course of years, for the bachelor was one of those whose goodness shuns the light, and who have more pleasure in discovering and extolling the good deeds of others than in trumpeting their own, be they never so commendable. How for that reason he seldom told him of his village friends, but how for all that his mind had become so full of two among them, a child and an old man to whom he had been very kind, that in a letter received a few days before he had dwelt upon them from first to last, and had told such a tale of their wandering and mutual love that few could read it without being moved to tears. How he, the recipient of that letter, was directly led to the belief that these must be the very wanderers for whom so much search had been made, and whom heaven had directed to his brother's care. How he had written, for such further information as would put the fact beyond all doubt, how it had that morning arrived, had confirmed his first impression into a certainty, and was the immediate cause of that journey being planned which they were to take to-morrow. In the meantime, said the old gentleman rising and laying his hand on Kit's shoulder, you have a great need of rest, for such a day as this would wear out the strongest man. Good night, and heaven send our journey may have a prosperous ending. End of chapter 68 Chapter 69 of the Old Curiosity Shop This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recorded by Mill Nicholson. The Old Curiosity Shop by Charles Dickens. Chapter 69 Kit was no sluggered next morning, but springing from his bed some time before day began to prepare for his welcome expedition. The hurry of spirits, consequent upon the events of yesterday, and the unexpected intelligence he had heard at night, had troubled his sleep through the long dark hours, and summoned such uneasy dreams about his pillow, that it was rest to rise. But had it been the beginning of some great labour with the same end in view? Had it been the commencement of a long journey to be performed on foot in that inclement season of the year? To be pursued under very privation and difficulty, and to be achieved only with great distress, fatigue, and suffering? Had it been the dawn of some painful enterprise, certain to task his utmost powers of resolution and endurance, and to need his utmost fortitude, but only likely to end, if happily achieved, in good fortune and delight to knell? Kit's cheerful zeal would have been as highly roused. Kit's ardour and impatience would have been at least the same. Nor was he alone excited and eager. Before he had been up a quarter of an hour, the whole house were astir and busy. Everybody hurried to do something towards facilitating the preparations. The single gentleman, it is true, could do nothing himself, but he overlooked everybody else, and was more locomotive than anybody. The work of packing and making ready went bristly on, and by daybreak every preparation for the journey was completed. Then Kit began to wish they had not been quite so nimble, for the travelling carriage which had been hired for the occasion was not to arrive until nine o'clock, and it was nothing but breakfast to fill up the intervening blank of one hour and a half. Yes, there was, though. There was Barbara. Barbara was busy, to be sure, but so much the better. Kit could help her, and that would pass away the time better than any means that could be devised. Barbara had no objection to this arrangement, and Kit, tracking out the idea which had come upon him so suddenly overnight, began to think that surely Barbara was fond of him, and surely he was fond of Barbara. Now, Barbara, if the truth must be told, as it must and ought to be, Barbara seemed, of all the little household, to take least pleasure in the bustle of the occasion, and when Kit and the openness of his heart told her how glad and overjoyed it made him, Barbara became more downcast still, and seemed to have even less pleasure in it than before. You have not been home so long, Christopher, said Barbara, and it is impossible to tell how carelessly she said it. You have not been home so long that you need to be glad to go away again, I should think. But for such a purpose, returned Kit, to bring back Miss Nell, to see her again. Only think of that. I am so pleased, too, to think that you will see her, Barbara, at last. Barbara did not absolutely say that she felt no gratification on this point, but she expressed the sentiment so plainly by one little toss of her head, that Kit was quite disconcerted, and wondered, in his simplicity, why she was so cool about it. You say she has the sweetest and beautifulest face you ever saw or know, said Kit, rubbing his hands. I am sure you'll sigh that. Barbara tossed her head again. What's the matter? A Barbara, said Kit. Nothing. Cried Barbara, and Barbara pouted, not sulkily, or in an ugly manner, but just enough to make her look more cherry-lipped than ever. There is no school in which a pupil gets on so fast, as that in which Kit became a scholar when he gave Barbara the kiss. He saw what Barbara meant now. He had his lesson by heart all at once. She was the book. There it was before him, as plain as print. Barbara, said Kit, you'll not cross with me. Oh, dear, no! Why should Barbara be cross? And what right had she to be cross? And what it did matter whether she was cross or not? Who minded her? Why, I do, said Kit. Of course I do. Barbara didn't see why it was, of course, at all. Kit was sure she must. Would she think again? Certainly Barbara would think again. No. She didn't see why it was, of course. She didn't understand what Christopher meant, and besides, she was sure they wanted her upstairs by this time, and she must go, indeed. No! Barbara, said Kit, detaining her gently, let us part, friends. I was always thinking of you in my troubles. I should have been a great deal more miserable than I was, if it hadn't been for you. Goodness gracious! How pretty Barbara was when she coloured, and when she trembled, like a little shrinking bird. I am telling you the truth, Barbara, upon my word, but not half so strong as I could wish, said Kit. When I want you to be pleased to see Miss Nell, it's only because I like you to be pleased with what pleases me, as all. As to her, Barbara. I think I could almost die to do her service. But you would think so, too, if you knew her as I do. I am sure you would. Barbara was touched, and sorry to have appeared indifferent. I have been used, you see, said Kit, to talk and think of her almost as if she was an angel. When I look forward to meeting her again, I think of her smiling as she used to do, and being glad to see me, and putting out her end in saying, It's my own old Kit, or some such words as those, like what she used to say. I think of seeing her happy, and with friends about her, and brought up as she deserves as she ought to be. When I think of myself, it's as her old servant, and one that loved her dearly, as his kind, good, gentle mistress, and who would have gone, yes, and still would go, through any harm to serve her. Once, I couldn't help being afraid that if she came back with friends about her, she might forget, or be ashamed of having no namble lad like me, and so might speak coldly, which would have capped me, Barbara, deeper than I can tell. But when I came to think again, I felt sure that I was doing her wrong in this, and so I went on, as I did it first, hoping to see her once more, just as she used to be. Open this, and remembering what she was, has made me feel as if I would always try to please her, and always be what I should like to seem to her, if I were still a servant. If I'm the better for that, and I don't think I'm the worse, I am grateful to her for it, and love and honourer the more. That's the plain, honest truth, dear Barbara, upon my word, it is. Little Barbara was not of a wayward or capricious nature, and, being full of remorse, melted into tears. To what more conversation this might have led, we need not stop to inquire, for the wheels of the carriage were heard at that moment, and, being followed by a smart ring at the garden gate, caused the bustle in the house, which had laid dormant for a short time, to burst again into tenfold life and vigor. Simultaneously, with the travelling equipage, arrived Mr. Chuckster in a hackney cab, with certain papers and supplies of money for the single gentleman into whose hands he delivered them. This duty discharged, he subsided into the bosom of the family, and, entertaining himself with the strolling or peripatatic breakfast, watched with genteel and difference the process of loading the carriage. Snobbies in this I see, sir," he said to Mr. Abel, garland. Well, I thought he wasn't in the last trip, because I was expected that his presence wouldn't be acceptable to the ancient buffalo. To whom, sir? demanded Mr. Abel. To the old gentleman, turned Mr. Chuckster slightly abashed. Our client prefers to take him now, said Mr. Abel, dryly. There is no longer any need for that precaution, as my father's relationship to a gentleman in whom the objects of his search have full confidence, will be a sufficient guarantee for the friendly nature of their errand. Ah! thought Mr. Chuckster, looking out of the window. Anybody but me. Snobby before me, of course. He didn't happen to take that particular firepile note, but I have not the smallest doubt that he is always up to something of that sort. I always said it, long before this came out. Devilish pretty girl, that. Pond my soul, an amazing little creature. Barbara was the subject of Mr. Chuckster's commendations, and as she was lingering near the carriage, all being now ready for its departure, that gentleman was suddenly seized with a strong interest in the proceedings, which impelled him to swagger down the garden and take up his position at a convenient ogling distance. Having had great experience of the sex, and being perfectly acquainted with all those little artifices which find the reddiest road to their hearts, Mr. Chuckster, on taking his ground, planted one hand on his hip, and with the other adjusted his flowing hair. This is a favourite attitude in the polite circles, and accompanied with a graceful whistling, has been known to do immense execution. A search, however, is the difference between town and country, that nobody took the smallest notice of this insinuating figure. The wretches being wholly engaged in bidding the travellers farewell, in kissing hands to each other, waving handkerchiefs, and the like, tame and vulgar practices. For now the single gentleman and Mr. Garland were in the carriage, and the post-boy was in the saddle, and Kit, well-wrapped and muffled up, was in the rumble behind. And Mrs. Garland was there, and Mr. Abel was there, and Kit's mother was there, and little Jacob was there, and Barbara's mother was visible in remote perspective, nursing the ever-wakeful baby, and all were nodding, beckoning, curtsying, or crying out, goodbye, with all the energy they could express. In another minute the carriage was out of sight, and Mr. Chuckster remained alone on the spot where it had lately been, with the vision of Kit standing up in the rumble, waving his hand to Barbara, and of Barbara in the full light and luster of his eyes, his eyes, Chuckster's, Chuckster the successful, and whom Lady's equality had looked with favour from fatens in the parks on Sundays, waving hers to Kit. How Mr. Chuckster, entranced by this monstrous fact, stood for some time, rooted to the earth, protesting within himself that Kit was the prince of felonious characters, and very emperor or great mogul of snobs, and how he clearly traced this revolting circumstance back to that old villainy of the shilling, are matters foreign to our purpose, which is to track the rolling wheels, and bear the traveller's company on their cold, bleak journey. It was a bitter day, a keen wind was blowing, and rushed against them fiercely, bleaching the hard ground, shaking the white frost from the trees and hedges, and whirling it away like dust. But little cared Kit for weather. There was a freedom and freshness in the wind, as it came howling by, which, let it cut never so sharp, was welcome. As it swept on with its cloud of frost, bearing down the dry twigs and boughs and withered leaves, and carrying them away pel-mel, it seemed as though some general sympathy had got abroad, and everything was in a hurry, like themselves. The harder the gusts, the better progress they appeared to make. It was a good thing to go struggling and fighting forward, vanquishing them one by one, to watch them driving up, gathering strength and fury as they came along, to bend for a moment as they whistled past, and then to look back and see them speed away, their hoarse noise dying in the distance, and the stout trees cowering down before them. All day long it blew without cessation. The night was clear and starlight, but the wind had not fallen, and the cold was piercing. Sometimes, towards the end of a long stage, Kit could not help wishing it were a little warmer. But when they stopped to change horses, and he had had a good run, and what with that, and the bustle of paying the old postillian, and rousing the new one, and running to and fro again until the horses were put to, he was so warm that the blood tingled and smarted in his fingers' ends. Then he felt as if to have it one degree less cold would be to lose half the delight and glory of the journey. And up he jumped again right cheerily, singing to the merry music of the wheels as they rolled away, and leaving the townspeople in their warm beds, pursued their course along the lonely road. Meantime, the two gentlemen inside, who were little disposed to sleep, beguiled the time with conversation. As both were anxious and expectant, it naturally turned upon the subject of their expedition, on the manner in which it had been brought about, and on the hopes and fears they entertained respecting it. Of the former they had many, of the latter few, none perhaps beyond that indefinable uneasiness which is inseparable from suddenly awakened hope and protracted expectation. In one of the pauses of their discourse, a man half a night had worn away, the single gentleman who had gradually become more and more silent and thoughtful, turned to his companion, and said abruptly, Are you a good listener? Like most other men, I suppose, returned Mr. Garland, smiling, I can be, if I am interested, and if not interested, I should still try to appear so. Why do you ask? I have a short narrative on my lips, rejoined his friend, and will try you with it. It is very brief. Pausing for no reply, he laid his hand on the old gentleman's sleeve, and proceeded thus. There were once two brothers who loved each other dearly. There was a disparity in their ages, some twelve years. I am not sure, but they may insensibly have loved each other the better, for that reason. Why does the interval between them was, however, they became rivals too soon? The deepest and strongest affection of both their hearts settled upon one object. The youngest? There were reasons for his being sensitive and watchful, was the first to find this out. I will not tell you what misery he underwent, or agony of soul he knew how great his mental struggle was. He had been a sickly child. His brother, patient and considerate in the midst of his own high health and strength, had many and many a day denied himself the sports he loved to sit beside his couch, telling him old stories till his pale face lighted up with an unwonted glow, to carry him in his arms to some green spot where he could tend the poor, pensive boy, as he looked upon the bright summer day, and saw all nature healthy but himself, to be in any way his fond and faithful nurse. I may not dwell on all he did, to make the poor weak creature love him, or my tale would have no end. But when the time of trial came, the younger brother's heart was full of those old days. Heaven strengthened it to repay the sacrifices of inconsiderate youth by one of thoughtful manhood. He left his brother to be happy. The tooth never passed his lips, and he quitted the country, hoping to die abroad. The elder brother married her. She was in heaven before long, and left him with an infant daughter. If you have seen the picture gallery of any one old family, you'll remember how the same face and figure, often the fairest and slightest of them all, come upon you in different generations, and how you trace the same sweet girl through a long line of portraits, never growing old or changing, the good angel of the race, abiding by them in all reverses, redeeming all their sins. In this daughter the mother lived again. He may judge with what devotion he who lost that mother almost in the winning clung to this girl her breathing image. She grew to womanhood, and gave her heart to one who could not know its worth. Well, her fun father could not see her pine and droop. He might be more deserving than he thought him. He surely might become so with a wife like her. He joined her hands, and they were married. Through all the misery that followed this union, through all the cold neglect and undeserved reproach, through all the poverty he brought upon her, through all the struggles of their daily life, too mean and pitiful to tell, but dreadful to endure, she toiled on in the deep devotion of her spirit, and in her better nature, as only women can. Her means and substance wasted, her father nearly beggard by her husband's hand, and the hourly witness, for they lived now under one roof, of her ill usage and unhappiness, she never but for him bewailed her fate. Patient and upheld by strong affection to the last, she died a widow of some three weeks' date, leaving to her father's care two orphans, one a son of ten or twelve years old, the other a girl, such another infant child, the same in helplessness, in age, in form, in feature, as she had been herself when her young mother died. The elder brother, grandfather to these two children, was now a broken man, crushed and borne down, less by the weight of years than by the heavy hand of sorrow. With the wreck of his possessions he began to trade, in pictures first, and then in curious ancient things. He had entertained a fondness for such matters from a boy, and the tastes he had cultivated were now to yield him an anxious and precarious subsistence. The boy grew like his father in mind and person, the girl so like her mother, that when the old man had her on his knee, and looked into her mild blue eyes, he felt as if awakening from a wretched dream, and his daughter were a little child again. The wayward boy soon spurned the shelter of his roof, and sought associates more congenial to his taste, the old man and the child dwelt alone together. It was then, when the love of two dead people who had been nearest and dearest to his heart, was all transferred to this slight creature, when her face constantly before him reminded him from hour to hour of the too early change he had seen in such another. Of all the sufferings he had watched and known, and all his child had undergone, when the young man's profligate and hardened course drained him of money, as his father's had, and even sometimes occasioned them temporary privation and distress, it was then that they began to beset him, and to be ever in his mind, a gloomy dread of poverty and want. He had no thought for himself in this. His fear was for the child. It was a spectre in his house, and haunted him night and day. The younger brother had been a traveller in many countries, and had made his pilgrimage through life alone. His voluntary banishment had been misconstrued, and he had borne, not without pain, reproach and slight for doing that which had wrung his heart, and cast a mournful shadow on his path. Apart from this, communication between him and the elder was difficult and uncertain, and often, still, it was not so wholly broken off, but that he learnt, with long blanks and gaps between each interval of information, all that I have told you now. Then dreams of their young, happy life. Happy to him, though laden with pain and early care, visited his pillow yet oftener than before, and every night, a born man, he was at his brother's side. With the utmost speed he could exert, he settled his affairs, converted into money all the goods he had, and, with honourable wealth enough for both, with open heart and hand, with limbs that trembled as they bore him on, with a motion such as men can hardly bear and live, arrived one evening at his brother's door. The narrator, whose voice had faltered lately, stopped. "'The rest?' said Mr. Garland, pressing his hand after a pause. "'I know.' "'Yes,' rejoined his friend, "'we may spare ourselves the sequel. "'You know the poor result of all my search, "'even when by dint of such inquiries "'as the utmost vigilance of the world.' "'And when by dint of such inquiries "'as the utmost vigilance and sagacity could set on foot, "'we found they had been seen with too poor travelling showmen, "'and in time discovered the men themselves, "'and in time the actual place of their retreat. "'Even then we were too late. "'Pray, God, we are not too late again.' "'We cannot be,' said Mr. Garland, "'we must succeed. "'I have believed and hoped so,' returned the other. "'I try to believe and hope so still. "'But a heavy weight has fallen on my spirits, my good friend, "'and the sadness that gathers over me "'will yield to neither hope nor reason. "'That does not surprise me,' said Mr. Garland. "'It is a natural consequence of the events you have recalled, "'of this dreary time and place, "'and above all of this wild and dismal night, "'a dismal night indeed. "'Hark, how the wind is howling!' "'End of Chapter 69. "'Chapter 70 of the Old Curiosity Shop.' "'This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. "'Recorded by Mill Nicholson. "'The Old Curiosity Shop by Charles Dickens. "'Chapter 70. "'Day broke, and found them still upon their way. "'Since leaving home they had halted here and there "'for necessary refreshment, "'and had frequently been delayed, "'especially in the night-time, "'by waiting for fresh horses. "'They had made no other stoppages, "'but the weather continued rough, "'and the roads were often steep and heavy. "'It would be night again before they reached "'their place of destination.' "'Kitt, all bluff and hardened with the cold, "'went on manfully, "'and, having enough to do to keep his blood circulating, "'to picture to himself the happy end "'of this adventurous journey, "'and to look about him, "'and be amazed at everything, "'had little spare time for thinking of discomforts. "'Though his impatience, "'and that of his fellow travellers, "'rapidly increased as the day waned, "'the hours did not stand still. "'The short daylight of winter soon faded away, "'and it was dark again, "'when they had yet many miles to travel. "'As it grew dusk, the wind fell, "'its distant moanings were more low and mournful, "'and, as it came creeping up the road "'and rattling covertly among the dry brambles "'and either hand, "'it seemed like some great phantom "'for whom the way was narrow, "'whose garments rustled as it stalked along. "'By degrees it lulled and died away, "'and then it came on to snow. "'The flakes fell fast and thick, "'soon covering the ground some inches deep, "'and spreading abroad a solemn stillness. "'The rolling wheels were noiseless, "'and the sharp ring and clatter of the horses' hoofs "'became a dull, muffled tramp. "'The life of their progress seemed to be slowly hushed, "'and something deathlike to usurp its place.' "'Shading his eyes from the falling snow, "'which froze upon their lashes and obscured his sight, "'Kitt often tried to catch the earliest glimpse "'of twinkling lights, "'denoting their approach to some not distant town. "'He could describe objects enough at such times, "'but non-correctly. "'Now a tall church-spire appeared in view, "'which presently became a tree, a barn, "'a shadow on the ground thrown on it by their own bright lamps. "'Now there were horsemen, foot-pessengers, "'carriages going on before, "'or meeting them in narrow ways, "'which, when they were close upon them, turned to shadows too. "'A wall, a ruin, a sturdy gable end, "'would rise up in the road, "'and, when they were plunging headlong at it, "'would be the road itself. "'Strange turnings, too. "'Bridges and sheets of water appeared to start up here and there, "'making the way doubtful and uncertain. "'And yet they were on the same bare road, "'and these things, like the others, "'as they were past, turned into dim illusions. "'He descended slowly from his seat, "'for his limbs were numbed, "'when they arrived at a lone posting-house, "'and inquired how far they had to go "'to reach their journey's end. "'It was a late hour in such by-places, "'and the people were a bed, "'but a voice answered from an upper window, "'ten miles. "'The ten minutes that ensued appeared an hour, "'but at the end of that time "'a shivering figure led out the horses they required, "'and after another brief delay, "'they were again in motion. "'It was a cross-country road, "'full, after the first three or four miles, "'of holes and cart-ruts, "'which, being covered by the snow, "'were so many pitfalls to the trembling horses, "'and obliged them to keep a foot-pace. "'As it was next to impossible for men "'so much agitated as they were by this time "'to sit still and move so slowly, "'all three got out "'and plodded on behind the carriage. "'The distance seemed interminable, "'and the walk was most laborious. "'As each was thinking within himself, "'at the driver must have lost his way, "'a church bell, close at hand, "'struck the hour of midnight, "'and the carriage stopped. "'It had moved softly enough, "'but when it ceased to crunch the snow, "'the silence was a startling, "'as if some great noise had been replaced "'by perfect stillness.' "'This is your place, gentlemen,' said the driver, dismounting from his horse, and knocking at the door of a little inn. "'Hallo!' "'Post twelve o'clock is the dead of night here.' "'The knocking was loud and long, "'but it failed to rouse the drowsy inmates. "'All continued dark and silent as before.' "'They fell back a little, "'and looked up at the windows, "'which were mere black patches "'in the whitened house-front. "'No light appeared. "'The house might have been deserted, "'or the sleeper's dead "'for any air of life 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 can't rest until I know that we are not too late. "'Let us go on in the name of heaven.' "'They did so, leaving the postillion "'to order such accommodation as the house afforded, "'and to renew his knocking. "'Kid 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. "'The road wound gently downward. "'As they proceeded, "'they lost sight of the church, "'who's 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 sundial 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 wicked 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 a hard weather, this,' he grumbled, "'and not a night to call me up in. "'My trade is not of that kind "'that I need to 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'd known you were old, Anil,' said Kit. "'Old?' repeated the other, peevishly. "'How do you know I'm 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 a pity that it should be so. "'Not that I should be strong and arty 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'm 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've been six and a year, good fifty years. "'The right and path, friend, is the road. "'There is no little 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. "'What is that?' cried the child earnestly. "'As my dream come true. Praise be to me, whoever that is, awake and up.' "'Poor boy,' said the Sexton before Kit could answer. "'All goes it, darling.' "'As 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 now, there can never be. How could it be? Oh, how could it?' "'I guess his meaning,' said the Sexton, "'to bed again, poor boy.' "'I,' 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, 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 stayed, cruel as it is. I would rather that it stayed,' 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 to the distance, one single solitary light. It shone from what appeared to be an old orial 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 bird-cage 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 round that he felt sure he could have 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. End of Chapter 70 Chapter 71 of the Old Curiosity Shop This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recorded by Mill Nicholson The Old Curiosity Shop by Charles Dickens 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-haired 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, distinctly seen as one log broke and fell, and as it fell blazed up, arrested it. He returned to where he had stood before, advance to 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 toward him, and muttered in a hollow voice. This is another. How many of these spirits there have been tonight? No, Spirit Master, no one but your old servant. You know me now, I'm sure. Miss Nail, where is she? Where is she? They all say that, cried the old man. They all asked the same question. A spirit. Where is she? demanded kid. Oh, tell me about that! But that, dear Master! She is asleep, yonder, in there. Thank God! I thank God. But, and the old man, I have prayed to him many, and many, and many, live long 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. No, that! He cried with a triumphant smile. Can anybody know that voice so well as I? Motioning to him to be silent, he stole away into another chamber. After short absence, during which he could be heard to speak in a soft and 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 of strewn ground deep with snow, at 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 that timid things would fly from us. They never flew from her. 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 shriveled 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 switches. See here, these shoes, how worn they are! She kept them to remind her 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 liar-bed, but she was well then. We must have patience. When she is well again, she will rise earlier 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 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. 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 happy sleep, eh? Eh? Indeed it is, returned the bachelor, indeed, indeed it is. That's well, and the waking, thought at 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 tonight, 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 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, who 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 roll between us, to call 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 our 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 realized, 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'd read 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 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 adressed. 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 knell was dead. Her little bird, a poor, slight thing the pressure of her finger would have crushed, was stirring nimbly in its cage, and the strong heart of its child mistress was mute and motionless forever. 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 to all their wanderings. Everon and on 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 passed 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? End of Chapter 71 Chapter 72 of The Old Curiosity Shop This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recorded by Mill Nicholson The Old Curiosity Shop by Charles Dickens Chapter 72 When the morning came, and they could speak more calmly on the subject of their grief, they heard how her life had closed. 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 a 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 she 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. After 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 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 today? I have seen a morning ribbon or a piece of crepe 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. Now, now, cried the child, detaining him, remember what you promised. Our ways 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 a 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 upon 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 today? He said eagerly. No, no, who should we bury, sir? returned the sexton. I, who indeed, I say with you, who indeed, it is all a day 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, wrung it from morseless toll for her. So young, so beautiful, so 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 pulsed, 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 the boughs of trees were ever rustling in the summer, and where the birds sang sweetly all day long. With every breath of air that stirred among those branches in the sunshine, some trembling, changing light would fall upon her grave. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, many a young hand dropped in its little wreath, many a stifled sombre as heard, some, and they were not a few, knelt down, or were sincere and truthful in their sorrow. The service done, the mourners stood apart, and the villagers closed round to look into the grave, before the pavement-stone should be replaced. One called to mind how he had seen her sitting on that very spot, and how her book had fallen on her lap, and she was gazing with a pensive face upon the sky. Another told how he had wondered much that one so delicate as she should be so bold, how she had never feared to enter the church alone at night, but had loved to linger there when all was quiet, and even to climb the tower stair was no more light than that of the moon rays stealing through the loopholes in the thick old wall. A whisper went about among the oldest, that she had seen and talked with angels, and when they called to mind how she had looked and spoken, and her early death, some thought it might be so indeed. Thus coming to the grave in little knots, and glancing down, and giving place to others, and falling off in whispering groups of three or four, the church was cleared in time, of all but the sexton and the mourning friends. They saw the vault covered, and the stone fixed down. Then when the dusk of evening had come on, and not a sound disturbed the sacred stillness of the place, when the bright moon poured in her light on tomb and monument, on pillar, wall, and arch, and most of all it seemed to them upon her quiet grave. In that calm time, on outward things and inward thoughts, teem with assurances of immortality, and worldly hopes and fears are humbled in the dusk before them, then, with tranquil and submissive hearts, they turned away and left the child with God. Oh! it is hard to take to heart the lesson that such deaths will teach, but let no man reject it, for it is one that all must learn, and is a mighty universal tooth. When death strikes down the innocent and young, for every fragile form from which he lets the panting spirit free, a hundred virtues rise, in shapes of mercy, charity, and love, to walk the world, and bless it. Of every tear that sorrowing mortals shared on such green graves, some good is born, some gentler nature comes. In the destroyer's steps there spring up bright creations that defy his power, and his dark path becomes a way of light to heaven. It was late when the old man came home. The boy had led him to his own dwelling, and to some pretence on their way back, and rendered drowsy by his long ramble and late want of rest, he had sunk into a deep sleep by the fireside. He was perfectly exhausted, and they were careful not to rouse him. The slumber held him a long time, and when he had length awoke, the moon was shining. The younger brother, uneasy at his protracted absence, was watching at the door for his coming, when he appeared in the pathway with his little guide. He advanced to meet them, and tenderly obliging the old man to lean upon his arm, conducted him with slow and trembling steps towards the house. He repaired to her chamber straight. Not finding what he had left there, he returned with distracted looks to the room in which they were assembled. From that he rushed into the schoolmaster's cottage, calling her name. They followed close upon him, and when he had vainly searched it, brought him home. With such persuasive words as pity and affection could suggest, they prevailed upon him to sit among them, and hear what they should tell him. Then, endeavouring by every little art of us, to prepare his mind for what must come, and dwelling with many fervent words upon the happy lot to which he had been removed, they told him at last the truth. The moment it had passed their lips, he fell down among them like a murdered man. For many hours they had little hope of his surviving, but grief is strong, and he recovered. If there be any who have never known the blank that follows death, the weary void, the sense of desolation that will come upon the strongest minds, when something familiar and beloved is missed at every turn, the connection between inanimate and senseless things, and the object of recollection, when every household God becomes a monument, and every room aggrave. If there be any who have not known this, and proved it by their own experience, they can never faintly guess how, for many days, the old man pined and moped away the time, and wandered here and there, seeking something, and had no comfort. Whatever power of thought or memory he retained was all bound up in her. He never understood, or seemed to care to understand, about his brother. To every endearment and attention he continued listless. If they spoke to him on this, or any other theme, save one, he would hear them patiently for a while, then turn away, and go on seeking as before. On that one theme, which was in his and all their minds, it was impossible to touch. Dead. He could not hear or bear the word. The slightest hint of it would throw him into a paroxysm like that he had when it was first spoken. In what hope he lived no man could tell, but that he had some hope of finding her again, some faint and shadowy hope deferred from day to day, and making him from day to day, more sick and sore at heart, was plain to all. They bethought them of a removal from the scene of this last sorrow, of trying whether change of place would rouse or cheer him. His brother sought the advice of those who were accounted skilful in such matters, and they came and saw him. Some of the numbers stayed upon the spot, conversed with him when he would converse, and watched him as he wandered up and down, alone and silent. Move him where they might, they said, he would ever seek to get back there. His mind would run upon that spot. If they confined him closely, and kept a strict guard upon him, they might hold him prisoner, but if he could by any means escape, he would surely wander back to that place, or die upon the road. The boy, to whom he had submitted at first, had no longer any influence with him. At times he would suffer the child to walk by his side, or would even take such notice of his presence as giving him his hand, or would stop to kiss his cheek, or pat him on the head. At other times he would entreat him, not unkindly, to be gone, and would not brook him near. But whether alone, or with this pliant friend, or with those who would have given him at any cost or sacrifice, some consolation or some peace of mind, if happily the means could have been devised, he was at all times the same, with no love or care for anything in life, a broken-hearted man. At length they found one day that he had risen early, and with his knapsack on his back, his staff in hand, her own straw hat, and little basketful of such things as she had been used to carry, was gone. As they were making ready to pursue him far and wide, a frightened school boy came who had seen him, but a moment before, sitting in the church, upon her grave, he said. They hastened there, and going softly to the door, aspired him in the attitude of one who waited patiently. They did not disturb him then, but kept a watch upon him all that day. When it grew quite dark, he rose and returned home, and went to bed, murmuring to himself, She will come to-morrow. Upon the morrow he was there again, from sunrise until night, and still at night he laid him down to rest, and murmured, She will come to-morrow. And thenceforth, every day, and all day long, he waited at her grave for her. How many pictures of new journeys over pleasant country, of resting places under the free broad sky, of rambles in the fields and woods and paths not often trodden. How many tones of that one well-remembered voice, how many glimpses of the form, the fluttering dress, the hair that waved so gaily in the wind, how many visions of what had been, and what he hoped was yet to be, rose up before him in the old, dull, silent church. He never told them what he thought, or where he went. He would sit with them at night, pondering for the secret satisfaction they could see, upon the flight that he and she would take before night came again. And still they would hear him whispering his prayers, Lord, let her come to-morrow. The last time was on a genial day in spring. He did not return at the usual hour, and they went to seek him. He was lying dead upon the stone. They laid him by the side of her whom he had loved so well, and in the church where they had often prayed and mused and lingered hand in hand, the child and the old man slept together. End of chapter 72