 Chapter 53 of the Old Curiosity Shop Nell was stirring early in the morning, and having discharged her household tasks and put everything in order for the good schoolmaster, though solely against his will, for he would have spared her the pains, took down from its nail by the fireside a little bundle of keys, with which the bachelor had formally invested her on the previous day, and went out alone to visit the old church. The sky was serene and bright, the air clear, perfumed with the fresh scent of newly fallen leaves, and grateful to every sense. The neighbouring stream sparkled, and rolled onward with a tuneful sound. The dew glistened on the green mounds, like tears shed by good spirits over the dead. Some young children sported among the tombs, and hid from each other, with laughing faces. They had an infant with them, and had laid it down asleep upon a child's grave in a little bed of leaves. It was a new grave. The resting place, perhaps, of some little creature, whom meek and patient in its illness had often sat and watched them, and now seemed to their minds scarcely changed. She drew near, and asked one of them whose grave it was. The child answered that that was not its name. It was a garden—his brother's. It was greener, he said, than all the other gardens, and the birds loved it better because he had been used to feed them. When he had done speaking, he looked at her with a smile, and kneeling down and nestling for a moment with his cheek against the turf, bounded merrily away. She passed the church, gazing upward at its old tower, went through the wicked gate, and so into the village. The old sexton, leaning on a crutch, was taking the air at his cottage door, and gave her good morrow. "'You are better,' said the child, stopping to speak with him. "'I, surely,' returned the old man, "'I'm thankful to say much better. You will be quite well soon.' With heaven's leave, and a little patience, but come in, come in!' The old man limped on before, and warning her of the downward step which he achieved himself with no small difficulty, led the way into his little cottage. "'It is but one room, you see. There is another up above, but the stairs got harder to climb more late years, and I never use it. I am thinking of taking to it again next summer, though.' The child wondered how a grey-headed man like him, one of his trade, too, could talk of time so easily. He saw her eyes wandering to the tools that hung upon the wall, and smiled. "'I warrant now,' he said, "'that you think all those are used in making graves. Indeed, I wondered that you wanted so many. And, well, you might. I am a gardener. I dig the ground, and plant things that are to live and grow. My works don't all moulder away and rot in the earth. You see that spade in the centre? The very old one, so notched and worn? Yes. That's the sexton spade. And it's a well-used one, as you see. We're healthy people here, but it has done a power of work. If it could speak now, that spade, it would tell you of many an unexpected job that it and I have done together. But I forget them, for my memory is a poor one. That's nothing new,' he added hastily. It always was. "'There are flowers and shrubs to speak to your other work,' said the child. "'Oh, yes, and to all trees. But they are not so separate from the sexton's labours, as you think.' "'No. Not in my mind and recollection, such as it is,' said the old man. "'Indeed, they often help it. For say that I planted such a tree for such a man. There it stands to remind me that he died. When I look at its broad shadow and remember what it was in his time, it helps me to the age of my other work, and I can tell you pretty nearly when I made his grave. But it may remind you of one who is still alive,' said the child. "'Of twenty that are dead, in connection with that one who lives then,' rejoined the old man, wife, husband, parents, brothers, sisters, children, friends, a score at least. So it happens that the sexton's spade gets worn and battered. "'I shall need a new one next summer.' The child looked quickly towards him, thinking that he gestured with his age and infirmity. But the unconscious sexton was quite in earnest. "'Ah!' he said after a brief silence. "'People never learn. They never learn. It's only we who turn up the ground, where nothing grows and everything decays, who think of such things as these, who think of them properly, I mean. "'You have been into the church?' "'I am going there now,' the child replied. "'There's an old well there,' said the sexton, "'right underneath the belfry, a deep, dark, echoing well. "'Forty year ago, you had only to let down the bucket "'till the first knot in the rope was free of the windlass. "'And you heard it splashing in the cold, dull water. "'By little and little the water fell away, "'so that in ten year after that a second knot was made. "'And you must unwind so much rope "'or the bucket swung tight and empty at the end. "'In ten years' time the water fell again "'and a third knot was made. "'In ten years' more the well dried up. "'And now, if you lower the bucket till your arms are tired "'and let out nearly all the cord, "'you'll hear it, of a sudden, clanking and rattling "'on the ground below, with a sound of being so deep "'and so far down, that your heart leaps into your mouth "'and you start away as if you were falling in.' "'A dreadful place to come on in the dark,' exclaimed the child, who had followed the old man's looks and words until she seemed to stand upon its brink. "'What is it but a grave?' said the section. "'What else? "'And which of our old folks, knowing all this, "'thought as the springs subsided, "'of their own feeling strength and lesson in life? "'Not one.' "'Are you very old yourself?' asked the child involuntarily. "'I shall be seventy-nine next summer.' "'You still work when you are well?' "'Work, to be sure. "'You shall see my gardens here about. "'Look at the window there. "'I made and have kept that plot of ground entirely "'with my own hands. "'By this time next year I shall hardly see the sky, "'but the boughs will have grown so thick. "'I have my winter work at night besides.' "'He opened as he spoke, a cupboard close to where he sat, "'and produced some miniature boxes carved in a homely manner "'and made of old wood. "'Some gentle folks, who are fond of ancient days "'and what belongs to them,' he said, "'like to buy these keepsakes from our church and ruins. "'Sometimes I make them a scraps of oak "'that turn up here and there, "'sometimes of bits of coffins "'which the vaults have long preserved. "'See here, this is a little chest of the last kind, "'clasped at the edges with fragments of brass plates "'that had right in on them once, "'though it would be hard to read it now. "'I haven't many by me at this time of year, "'these shelves will be full next summer.' The child admired and praised his work, and shortly afterwards departed, thinking as she went, how strange it was, that this old man, drawing from his pursuits and everything around him, one stern moral, never contemplated its application to himself, and while he dwelt upon the uncertainty of human life, seemed both in word and deed to deem himself immortal. But her musings did not stop here, for she was wise enough to think that by a good and merciful adjustment this must be human nature, and that the old sexton, with his plans for next summer, was but a type of all mankind. Full of these meditations she reached the church. It was easy to find the key belonging to the outer door, for each was labelled on a scrap of yellow parchment. It's very turning in the lock a woker hollow sound, and when she entered with a faltering step, the echoes that it raised in closing made her start. If the peace of the simple village had moved the child more strongly, because of the dark and troubled ways that lay beyond, and through which she had journeyed with such failing feet, what was the deep impression of finding herself alone in that solemn building, where the very light coming through sunken windows seemed old and gray, and the air, redolent of earth and mould, seemed laden with decay, purified by time of all its grosser particles, and sighing through arch and aisle and clustered pillars, like the breath of ages gone. Here was the broken pavement, worn so long ago by pious feet, that time, stealing on the pilgrim's steps, had trodden out their track and left but crumbling stones. Here were the rotten beam, the sinking arch, the sapped and mouldering wall, the lowly trench of earth, the stately tomb on which no epitaph remained, all marble, stone, iron, wood and dust, one common monument of ruin. The best work and the worst, the plainest and the richest, the stateliest and the least imposing, both of heaven's work and man's, all found one common level here and told one common tale. Some part of the edifice had been a baronial chapel, and here were effigies of warriors stretched upon their beds of stone with folded hands, cross-legged, those who had fought in the holy wars, girded with their swords and cased in armour as they had lived. Some of these knights had their own weapons, helmets, coats of mail, hanging upon the walls hard by, and dangling from rusty hooks, broken and elapidated as they were, they yet retained their ancient form and something of their ancient aspect. Thus violent deeds live after men upon the earth, and traces of war and bloodshed will survive in mournful shapes, long after those who worked the desolation are but atoms of earth themselves. The child sat down in this old, silent place among the stark figures on the tombs. They made it more quiet there than elsewhere to her fancy, and gazing round with the feeling of awe, tempered with a calm delight, felt that now she was happy and at rest. She took a Bible from the shelf and read, then laying it down, thought of the summer days and the bright springtime that would come, of the rays of sun that would fall in a slant upon the sleeping forms, of the leaves that would flutter at the window and play in glistening shadows on the pavement, of the songs of birds and growth of buds and blossoms out of doors, of the sweet air that would steal in and gently wave the tattered banners overhead, or to the spot awakened thoughts of death, die who would, it would still remain the same, these sights and sounds would still go on as happily as ever, it would be no pain to sleep amidst them. She left the chapel, very slowly and often turning back to gaze again, and coming to a low door, which plainly led into the tower, opened it and climbed the winding stair in darkness, save where she looked down through narrow loopholes on the place she had left, or caught a glimmering vision of the dusty bells. At length she gained the end of the ascent and stood upon the turret's top. Oh, the glory of the sudden burst of light, the freshness of the fields and woods stretching away on every side and meeting the bright blue sky, the cattle grazing in the pastureage, the smoke that, coming from among the trees, seemed to rise upward from the green earth, the children yet at their gambles down below, all everything so beautiful and happy. It was like passing from death to life, it was drawing nearer heaven. The children were gone when she emerged into the porch and locked the door. As she passed the schoolhouse, she could hear the busy, hummer voices. Her friend had begun his labours only on that day. The noise grew louder, and looking back, she saw the boys come trooping out and disperse themselves with merry shouts and play. "'It's a good thing,' thought the child. "'I'm very glad they passed the church.' And then she stopped, to fancy how the noise would sound inside and how gently it would seem to die away upon the ear. Again that day, yes, twice again, she stole back to the old chapel and in her former seat read from the same book or indulged the same quiet train of thought. Even when it had grown dusk and the shadows of coming night made it more solemn still, the child remained, like one rooted to the spot and had no fear or thought of stirring. They found her there at last and took her home. She looked pale, but very happy, until they separated for the night. And then, as the poor schoolmaster stooped down to kiss her cheek, he thought he felt a tear upon his face. End of chapter 53 Chapter 54 of the Old Curiosity Shop This Libra Vox recording is in the public domain. Recorded by Mill Nicholson. The Old Curiosity Shop by Charles Dickens. Chapter 54 The bachelor, among his various occupations, found in the old church a constant source of interest and amusement. Taking that pride in it, which men can see for the wonders of their own little world, he had made its history his study and many a summer day within its walls and many a winter's night beside the Parsonage fire had found the bachelor still pouring over and adding to his goodly store of tale and legend. As he was not one of those rough spirits who would strip fair truth of every little shadowy vestment in which time and teeming fancies loved to array her, and some of which become her pleasantly enough, serving like the waters of her well to add new graces to the charms they half conceal and half suggest, and to awaken interest and pursuit rather than languor and indifference. Flowers unlike this stern and obdurate class, he loved to see the goddess crowned with those garlands of wild flowers which tradition wreaths for her gentle wearing, and which are often freshest in their homeliest shapes. He trod with a light step and bore with a light hand upon the dust of centuries, unwilling to demolish any of the airy shrines that had been raised above it, if any good feeling or affection of the human heart were hiding thereabouts. Thus, in the case of an ancient coffin of rough stone, supposed for many generations to contain the bones of a certain barren who, after ravaging with cut and thrust and plunder in foreign lands, came back with a penitent and sorrowing heart to die at home, but which had been lately shown by learned antiquaries to be no such thing, as the barren in question, so they contended, had died hard in battle, gnashing his teeth and cursing with his latest breath, the bachelor stoutly maintained that the old tale was the true one, that the barren, repenting him of the evil, had done great charities and meekly given up the ghost, and that if ever barren went to heaven, that barren was then at peace. In like manner, when the aforesaid antiquaries did argue and contend that a certain secret vault was not the tomb of a grey-haired lady who had been hanged and drawn and quartered by glorious Queen Bess for suckering a wretched priest who fainted of thirst and hunger at her door, the bachelor did solemnly maintain against all comers that the church was hallowed by the said poor lady's ashes, that her remains had been collected in the night from four of the city's gates and thither in secret brought and there deposited, and the bachelor did further, being highly excited at such times, deny the glory of Queen Bess and assert the immeasurably greater glory of the meanest woman in her realm who had a merciful and tender heart. As to the assertion that the flat stone near the door was not the grave of the miser who had disowned his only child and left a sum of money to the church to buy a peal of bells, the bachelor did readily admit the same and that the place had given birth to no such man. In a word he would have had every stone and plate of brass, the monument only of deeds whose memory should survive. All others he was willing to forget. They might be buried in consecrated ground, but he would have had them buried deep and never brought to light again. It was from the lips of such a tutor that the child learned her easy task. Already impressed beyond all telling by the silent building and the peaceful beauty of the spot in which it stood, majestic age surrounded by perpetual youth, it seemed to her. When she heard these things sacred to all goodness and virtue. It was another world where sin and sorrow never came, a tranquil place of rest where nothing evil entered. When the bachelor had given her in connection with almost every tomb and flat gravestone, some history of its own, he took her down into the old crypt, now a mere dull vault and showed her how it had been lighted up in the time of the monks and how amid lamps depending from the roof and swinging sensors exhaling centered odours and habits glittering with gold and silver and pictures and precious stuffs and jewels all flashing and glistening through the low arches. The taunt of aged voices had been many a time heard there at midnight in old days while hooded figures knelt and prayed around and told their rosaries of beads. Then she took her above ground again and showed her high up in the old walls, small galleries where the nuns had been won't to glide along, dimly seen in their dark dresses so far off or to pause like gloomy shadows listening to the prayers. He showed her too how the warriors whose figures rested on the tombs had worn those rotting scraps of armour up above. How this had been a helmet and that a shield and that a gauntlet and how they had wielded the great two-handed swords and beaten men down with yonder iron mace. All that he told the child, she treasured in her mind and sometimes when she awoke at night from dreams of those old times and rising from her bed looked out at the dark church she almost hoped to see the windows lighted up and hear the organs swell and sound of voices on the rushing wind. The old sexton soon got better and was about again. From him the child learnt many other things though of a different kind. He was not able to work but one day there was a grave to be made and he came to overlook the man who dug it. He was in talkative mood and the child at first standing by his side and afterwards sitting on the grass at his feet with her thoughtful face raised towards his began to converse with him. Now the man who did the sexton's duty was a little older than he though much more active but he was deaf. And when the sexton, who perred venture on a pinch might have walked a mile with great difficulty in half a dozen hours exchanged a remark with him about his work the child could not help noticing that he did so with an impatient kind of pity for his infirmity as if he were himself the strongest and heartiest man alive. I'm sorry to see there is this to do said the child when she approached. I heard of no one having died. She lived in another hamlet, my dear. Returned the sexton three mile away. Was she young? Eh, yes, said the sexton. Not more than sixty-four, I think. David, was she more than sixty-four? David, who was digging hard, heard nothing of the question. The sexton, as he could not reach to touch him with his crutch and was too infirm to rise without a systems, called his attention by throwing a little mould upon his red nightcap. What's the matter now? said David looking up. How old was Becky Morgan? asked the sexton. Becky Morgan? repeated David. Yes, replied the sexton, adding in a half-compassionate, half-irritable tone which the old man couldn't hear. You're getting very deaf, David, very deaf to be sure. The old man stopped in his work and cleansing his spade with a piece of slate he had by him for the purpose and scraping off in the process the essence of heaven knows how many Becky Morgans set himself to consider the subject. Let me think, quote he, I saw last night what they had put up on the coffin. Was it seventy-nine? No, no, said the sexton. Ah, yes, it was, though, returned the old man with a sigh. For I remember thinking she was very near our age. Yes, it was seventy-nine. Are you sure you didn't mistake a figure, David? asked the sexton, with signs of some emotion. What? said the old man. Say that again. He's very deaf. He's very deaf indeed, cried the sexton petulently. Are you sure you're right about the figures? Oh, quite, replied the old man. Why not? He's exceedingly deaf. But at the sexton to himself, I think he's getting foolish. The child rather wondered what had led him to this belief, as, to say the truth, the old man seemed quite as sharp as he, and was infinitely more robust. As the sexton said nothing more just then, however, she forgot it for the time and spoke again. You were telling me, she said, about your gardening. Do you ever plant things here? In the churchyard, turned the sexton, not a high. I have seen some flowers and little shrubs about. The child rejoined. There are some over there, you see. I thought they were of your rearing, though indeed they grow but poorly. They grow as heaven wills, said the old man, and yet kindly ordains that they shall never flourish here. I do not understand you. Why this it is, said the sexton. They mark the graves of those who had very tender, loving friends. I was sure they did, the child exclaimed. I'm very glad to know they do. I returned the old man, but stay, look at them, see how they hang their heads and droop and wither. Do you guess the reason? No, the child replied. Because the memory of those who lie below passes away so soon. At first they tend them morning, noon and night. They soon begin to come less frequently. From once a day to once a week, from once a week to once a month, then at long and uncertain intervals, then not at all. Such tokens seldom flourish long. I have known the briefest summer flowers, outlived them. I grieve to hear it, said the child. Ah, so see the gentle forks who come down here to look about them. Returned the old man, shaking his head. But I see otherwise. It's a pretty custom you have in this part of the country, they say to me sometimes, to plant the graves. But it's melancholy to see these things all withering or dead. I crave their pardon and tell them that, as I take it, it is a good sign for the happiness of the living. And so it is, it's nature. Perhaps the mourners learn to look to the blue sky by day and to the stars by night and to think that the dead are there and not in graves, said the child in an earnest voice. Perhaps so, replied the old man doubtfully. It may be. Whether it be as I believe it is or no, thought the child within herself, I'll make this place my garden. It will be no harm, at least, to work here day by day. And pleasant thoughts will come of it, I am sure. Her glowing cheek and moistened eye passed unnoticed by the sexton, who turned towards old David and called him by his name. It was plain that Becky Morgan's age still troubled him, though why the child could scarcely understand. The second or third repetition of his name attracted the old man's attention. Pausing from his work, he lent on his spade and put his hand to his dull ear. Did you call? He said. I have been thinking, Davey, replied the sexton, that she, he pointed to the grave, must have been a deal older than you or me. 79, answered the old man with a shake of the head, I tell you that I saw it. Saw it, replied the sexton, I, but Davey, women don't always tell the truth about their age. That's true indeed, said the other old man, with a sudden sparkle in his eye. She might have been older. I am sure she must have been. I only think how old she looked. You and I seemed but boys to her. She did look old, rejoined David. You're right, she did look old. Call to mind how old she looked for many a long, long year and say if she could be but 79 at last, only our age, said the sexton. Five year older at the very least, cried the other. Five, retorted the sexton, 10, good 89. I call to mind the time her daughter died. She was 89 if she was a day and tries to pass upon us now for 10 years younger. Oh, human vanity! The other old man was not behind hand with some moral reflections on this fruitful theme and both deduced a massive evidence of such weight as to render it doubtful not whether the deceased was of the age suggested but whether she had not almost reached the patriarchal term of a hundred. When they had settled this question to their mutual satisfaction, the sexton with his friend's assistance rose to go. It's chilly sitting here and I must be careful till the summer. He said as he prepared to limp away. What? Asked old David. He's very deaf, poor fellow. Cried the sexton, goodbye. Ah, said old David, looking after him. He's failing very fast. He ages every day. And so they parted, each persuaded that the other had less life in him than himself and both greatly consoled and comforted by the little fiction they had agreed upon respecting Becky Morgan, whose decease was no longer a precedent of uncomfortable application and would be no business of theirs for half a score of years to come. The child remained for some minutes watching the deaf old man as he threw out the earth of this shovel and often stopping to cough and fetch his breath still muttered to himself with a kind of sober chuckle that the sexton was wearing fast. At length she turned away and walking thoughtfully through the churchyard came unexpectedly upon the schoolmaster who was sitting on a green grave in the sun reading. Nell here, he said cheerfully as he closed his book. It does me good to see you in the air and light. I feared you were again in the church where you so often are. Feared, replied the child sitting down beside him, is it not a good place? Yes, yes, said the schoolmaster, but you must be gay sometimes. Nay, don't shake your head and smile so sadly. Not sadly, if you knew my heart. Do not look at me as if you thought me sorrowful. There is not a happier creature on earth than I am now. Full of grateful tenderness, the child took his hand and folded it between her own. It's God's will, she said, when they had been silent for some time. What? All this, she rejoined, all this about us. But which of us is sad now? You see that I am smiling. And so am I, said the schoolmaster, smiling to think how often we shall laugh in this same place. Were you not talking yonder? Yes, the child rejoined, of something that has made you sorrowful. There was a long pause. What was it, said the schoolmaster tenderly? Come, tell me what it was. I rather grieve. I do rather grieve to think, said the child, bursting into tears, that those who die about us are so soon forgotten. And do you think, said the schoolmaster, marking the glance she had thrown around, that an unvisited grave, a withered tree, a faded flower or two, or tokens of forgetfulness or cold neglect, do you think there are no deeds far away from here in which these dead may be best remembered? Nell, Nell, there may be people busy in the world at this instant in whose good actions and good thoughts, these very graves, neglected as they look to us, are the chief instruments. Tell me no more, said the child quickly. Tell me no more. I feel I know it. How could I be unmindful of it when I thought of you? There is nothing, cried her friend. No, nothing innocent or good that dies and is forgotten. Let us hold to that faith, or none. An infant, a prattling child, dying in its cradle, will live again in the better thoughts of those who loved it, and will play its part through them in the redeeming actions of the world, though its body be burnt to ashes or drowned in the deepest sea. There is not an angel added to the host of heaven, but does its blessed work on earth in those that loved it here. Forgotten, oh, if the good deeds of human creatures could be traced to their source, how beautiful would even death appear. For how much charity, mercy, and purified affection would be seen to have their growth in dusty graves. Yes, said the child. It is the truth. I know it is. Who should feel its force so much as I, in whom your little scholar lives again? Dear, dear good friend, if you knew the comfort you have given me. The poor schoolmaster made her no answer, but bent over her in silence, for his heart was full. They were yet seated in the same place when the grandfather approached, before they had spoken many words together, the church-clock struck the hour of school, and their friend withdrew. A good man, said the grandfather, looking after him. A kind man. Surely he will never harm us now. We are safe here at last, eh? We will never go away from here. The child shook her head and smiled. She needs rest, said the old man, patting her cheek. Too pale, too pale. She is not like what she was. When? asked the child. Ah, said the old man, to be sure, when, how many weeks ago, could I count them on my fingers? Let them rest, though. They're better gone. Much better, dear, replied the child. We will forget them, or if we ever call them to mind, it shall be only as some uneasy dream that has passed away. Hush, said the old man, motioning hastily to her with his hand and looking over his shoulder. No more talk of the dream and all the miseries it brought. There are no dreams here. It is a quiet place, and they keep away. Let us never think about them, lest they should pursue us again. Sunken eyes and hollow cheeks, wet, cold and famine, and horrors before them all that were even worse. We must forget such things if we would be tranquil here. Thank heaven, inwardly exclaimed the child, for this most happy change. I will be patient, said the old man, humble, very thankful and obedient, if you will let me stay. But do not hide from me. Do not steal away alone. Let me keep beside you. Indeed, I will be very true and faithful now. I steal away alone Why that, replied the child, with assumed gaiety, would be a pleasant jest indeed. See here, dear grandfather, we'll make this place our garden. Why not? It is a very good one, and tomorrow we'll begin and work together, side by side. It is a brave thought, cried her grandfather, mind, darling, we begin tomorrow. Who so delighted as the old man, when they next day began their labour? Who so unconscious of all associations connected with the spot as he? They plucked the long grass and nettles from the tombs, thinned the poor shrubs and roots, made the turf smooth and cleared it of the leaves and weeds. They were yet in the ardour of their work, when the child, raising her head from the ground over which she bent, observed that the bachelor was sitting on the stile close by, watching them in silence. Her kind office, said the little gentleman, nodding to Nell, as she curtey to him. Have you done all that this morning? It is very little, sir, returned the child with downcast eyes, to what we mean to do. Good work, good work, said the bachelor. But do you only labour at the graves of children and young people? We shall come to the others in good time, sir," replied Nell, turning her head aside and speaking softly. It was a slight incident, and might have been design or accident, or the child's unconscious sympathy with youth. But it seemed to strike upon her grandfather, though we had not noticed it before. He looked in a hurried manner at the graves, then anxiously at the child, and pressed her to his side and made her stop to rest. Something he had long forgotten appeared to struggle faintly in his mind. It did not pass away as weightier things had done, but came uppermost again, and yet again, and many times that day, and often afterwards. Once, while they were yet at work, the child seemed that he often turned and looked uneasily at her, as though he were trying to resolve some painful doubts or collect some scattered thoughts, urged him to tell the reason. But he said it was nothing, nothing, and, laying her head upon his arm, patted her fair cheek with his hand and muttered that she grew stronger every day and would be a woman soon. End of Chapter 54 Chapter 55 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 55 From that time, there sprang up in the old man's mind a solicitude about the child which never slept or left him. There are chords in the human heart, strange, varying strings, which are only struck by accident, which will remain mute and senseless to appeals the most passionate and earnest and respond at last to the slightest casual touch. In the most insensible or childish minds there is some train of reflection which art, consultum, lead or skill assist, but which will reveal itself as great truths have done by chance and when the discoverer has the plainest end in view. From that time the old man never for a moment forgot the weakness and devotion of the child. From the time of that slight incident, he who had seen her toiling by his side through so much difficulty and suffering, and had scarcely thought of her otherwise than as the partner of miseries which he felt severely in his own person, and deplored for his own sake at least as much as hers, awoke to a sense of what he owed her and what those miseries had made her. Never, no, never once in one unguarded moment from that time to the end did any care for himself, any thought of his own comfort, any selfish consideration or regard distract his thoughts from the gentle object of his love. He would follow her up and down waiting till she should tire and lean upon his arm. He would sit opposite to her in the chimney corner, content to watch and look until she raised her head and smiled upon him as a bold. He would discharge by stealth those household duties which tasked her powers too heavily. He would rise in the cold dark nights to listen to her breathing in her sleep, and sometimes crouch for hours by her bedside, only to touch her hand. He who knows all can only know what hopes and fears and thoughts of deep affection were in that one disordered brain and what a change had fallen on the poor old man. Sometimes weeks had crept on, then the child, exhausted, though with little fatigue, would pass whole evenings on a couch beside the fire. At such times the schoolmaster would bring in books and read to her aloud, and seldom an evening passed, but the bachelor came in and took his turn of reading. The old man sat and listened with little understanding for the words, but with his eyes fixed upon the child, and if she smiled or brightened with the story, he would say it was a good one, and conceive a fondness for the very book. When in their evening talk the bachelor told some tale that pleased her as his tales were sure to do, the old man would painfully try to store it in his mind. Nay, when the bachelor left them, he would sometimes slip out after him and humbly beg that he would tell him such a part again that he might learn to win a smile from Nell. But these were rare occasions happily, for the child yearned to be out of doors and walking in her solemn garden. Parties too would come to see the church, and those who came speaking to others of the child sent more, so even at that season of the year they had visitors almost daily. The old man would follow them at a little distance through the building, listening to the voice he loved so well, and when the strangers left and parted from Nell, he would mingle with them to catch up fragments of their conversation, or he would stand for the same purpose with his grey head uncovered at the gate as they passed through. They always praised the child, her sense and beauty, and he was proud to hear them. But what was that? So often added, which wrung his heart and made him sob and weep alone in some dull corner. Alas, even careless strangers, they who had no feeling for her, but the interest of the moment, they who would go away and forget next week that such a being lived, even they saw it, even they pitied her, even they made him good day compassionately and whispered as they passed. The people of the village too, of whom there was not one but grew to have a fondness for poor Nell, even among them there was the same feeling, a tenderness towards her, a compassionate regard for her, increasing every day. The very school boys, light-hearted and thoughtless as they were, even they cared for her. The roughest among them was sorry if he missed her in the usual place upon his way to school and would turn out of the path to ask for her at the lattice-window. If she were sitting in the church, they perhaps might peep in softly at the open door, but they never spoke to her, unless she rose and went to speak to them. Some feeling was abroad, which raised the child above them all. So when Sunday came, they were all poor country-people in the church, for the castle in which the old family had lived was an empty ruin, and they were none but humble folks for seven miles around. There, as elsewhere, they had an interest in Nell. They would gather round her in the porch, before and after service. Young children would cluster at her skirts and aged men and women forsake their gossips to give her kindly greeting. None of them, young or old, thought of passing the child without a friendly word. Many who came from three or four miles distant brought her little presents. The humblest and rudest had good wishes to bestow. She had sought out the young children whom she first saw playing in the churchyard. One of these, he who had spoken of his brother, was her little favorite and friend, and often sat by her side in the church or climbed with her to the tower-top. It was his delight to help her, or to fancy that he did so, and they soon became close companions. It happened that as she was reading in the old spot by herself one day, this child came running in with his eyes full of tears, and after holding her from him and looking at her eagerly for a moment, clasped his little arms passionately about her neck. What now? said Nell, soothing him. What is the matter? She is not one yet. cried the boy, embracing her still more closely. No, no, not yet. She looked at him, wonderingly, and putting his hair back from his face and kissing him, asked what he meant. You must not be one, dear Nell. cried the boy. We can't see them. They never come to play with us, or talk to us. Be what you are, you are better so. I do not understand you, said the child. Tell me what you mean. Why, they say, replied the boy, looking up into her face, that you will be an angel before the birds sing again. But you won't be, will you? Don't leave us, Nell, though the sky is bright. Do not leave us. The child dropped her head and put her hands before her face. She cannot bear the thought. cried the boy, exulting through his tears. You will not go. You know how sorry we should be. Dear Nell, tell me that you'll stay amongst us, oh pray, pray, tell me that you will. The little creature folded his hands and knelt down at her feet. Only look at me, Nell, said the boy, and tell me that you'll stop, and then I shall know that they are wrong, and will cry no more. Won't you say yes, Nell? Still the drooping head and hidden face and the child quite silent, say for her sobs. After a time, pursued the boy, trying to draw away her hand, the kind angels will be glad to think that you are not among them and that you stay here to be with us. Willie went away to join them, but if he had known how I should miss him in our little bed at night, he never would have left me. I am sure. Yet the child could make him no answer and sobbed as though her heart were bursting. Why would you go, dear Nell? I know you would not be happy when you heard that we were crying for your loss. They say that Willie is in heaven now, and that it's always summer there, and yet I'm sure he grieves when I lie down upon his garden bed, and he cannot turn to kiss me. But if you do go, Nell, said the boy, caressing her and pressing his face to hers, be fond of him for my sake. Tell him how I love him still and how much I loved you, and when I think that you two are together and are happy, I'll try to bear it, and never give you pain by doing wrong. Indeed, I never will. The child suffered him to move her hands and put them round his neck. There was a tearful silence, but it was not long before she looked upon him with a smile, and promised him in a very gentle, quiet voice that she would stay and be his friend as long as heaven would let her. He clapped his hands for joy and thanked her many times, and being charged to tell no person what had passed between them gave her an earnest promise that he never would. Nor did he, so far as the child could learn, but was her quiet companion in all her walks and musings, and never again adverted to the theme which he felt had given her pain, although he was unconscious of its cause. Something of distrust lingered about him still, for he would often come even in the dark evenings, and call in a timid voice outside the door to know if she was safe within. And being answered yes, and bade to enter, would take his station on a low stool at her feet, and sit there patiently until they came to seek and take him home. Sure as the morning came, it found him lingering near the house to ask if she were well, and, morning, noon or night, go where she would, he would forsake his playmates and his sports to bear her company. And a good little friend he is, too, said the old Saxon to her once. When his elder brother died—elder seems a strange word, for he was only seven years old— I remember this one took it sorely to heart. The child thought of what the schoolmaster had told her, and felt how its truth was shadowed out, even in this infant. It has given him something of a quiet way, I think, said the old man. Though, for that he is merry enough at times, I'd wager now, that you and he have been listening by the old well. Indeed we have not, the child replied. I have been afraid to go near it, for I'm not often down in that part of the church, and do not know the ground. Come down with me, said the old man. I have known it from a boy. Come. They descended the narrow steps, which led into the crypt, and paused among the gloomy arches in a dim and murky spot. This is the place, said the old man. Give me your hand while you throw back the cover, lest you should stumble and fall in. I am too old, I mean, rheumatic, to stoop myself. A black and dreadful place, exclaimed the child. Look in, said the old man, pointing downward with his finger. The child complied, and gazed down into the pit. It looks like a grave itself, said the old man. It does, replied the child. I have often had the fancy, said the sexton, that it might have been dug at first to make the old place more gloomy, and the old mocks more religious. It's to be closed up and built over. The child still stood, looking thoughtfully into the vault. We shall see, said the sexton, on what gay heads other earth will have closed when the light is shut out from here. God knows, they'll close it up next spring. The birds sing again in spring, thought the child, as she leaned at her casement window, and gazed at the declining sun. Spring, a beautiful and happy time. End of Chapter 55 Chapter 56 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 56 A day or two after the Quilp Tea Party at the wilderness, Mr Swiveller walked into Sampson Brass's office at the usual hour, and being alone in that temple of probity, placed his hat upon the desk, and taking from his pocket a small parcel of black crepe, applied himself to folding and pinning the same upon it, after the manner of a hat-band. Having completed the construction of this appendage, he surveyed his work with great complacency, and put his hat on again, very much over one eye, to increase the mournfulness of the effect. These arrangements perfected to his entire satisfaction, he thrust his hands into his pockets, and walked up and down the office with measured steps. "'It has always been the same with me,' said Mr Swiveller. "'Always. It was ever thus. From childhood's hour I have seen my fondest hopes decay. I never loved a tree or flower, but chose the furs to fade away. I never knew as to dear Giselle, to glad me with his soft black eye, but when it came to know me well and love me, it was sure to marry a market gardener.' Overpowered by these reflections, Mr Swiveller stopped short of the client's chair, and flung himself into its open arms. "'And this,' said Mr Swiveller, with the kind of bantering composure, "'his life, I believe.' "'Oh, certainly. Why not? Aren't quite satisfied?' "'I shall wear,' added Richard, taking off his hat again, looking hard at it, as if he were only deterred by pecuniary considerations from spurning it with his foot. "'I shall wear this emblem of woman's perfidy, in remembrance of her, with whom I shall never again thread the windings of the maizee. Whom I shall never more pledge in the rosy. Who, during the short remainder of my existence, will murder the barmy. Ha, ha, ha!' It may be necessary to observe, lest there should appear any incongruity in the clothes of this soliloquy, that Mr Swiveller did not wind up with cheerful hilarious laugh, which would have been undoubtedly at variance with his solemn reflections, but that, being in a theatrical mood, he merely achieved that performance which is designated in melodramas, laughing like a fiend. For it seems that your fiend always laugh in syllables, and always in three syllables, never more nor less, which is a remarkable property in such gentry and one worthy of remembrance. The baleful sounds had hardly died away, and Mr Swiveller was still sitting in a very grim state in the client's chair when there came a ring, or, if we may adapt the sound to this, then humour and knell at the office-bell. Opening the door with all speed, he beheld the expressive countenance of Mr Chuckster, between whom and himself a fraternal greeting ensued. You're a devilish early at this pestiferous old slaughterhouse," said that gentleman, poising himself on one leg and shaking the other in an easy manner. Rather, returned Dick, rather retorted Mr Chuckster with that air of graceful trifling which so well became him, I should think so. Why, my good fellow, do you know what a clock it is? Our past nine a.m. in the morning. Why, you come in," said Dick, all alone, Swiveller solace. Tis now the witch in air of night when church yards yawn and graves give up their dead. At the end of this quotation in dialogue each gentleman struck an attitude and immediately subsiding into prose walked into the office. Such morsels of enthusiasm are common among the glorious Apollo's, and were indeed the links that bound them together and raised them above the cold dull earth. Well, NLR, you my buck, said Mr Chuckster, taking a stool. I was forced to come into the city upon some little private matters of my own and couldn't pass the call of the street without looking in, but upon my soul I didn't expect to find you. It is so everlastingly early. Mr Swiveller expressed his acknowledgments and it appearing on further conversation that he was in good health and that Mr Chuckster was in the like enviable condition. Both gentlemen in compliance with the solemn custom of the ancient brotherhood to which they belonged joined in a fragment of the popular duet of All's Well with a long shake at the end. And what's the news? said Richard. The town's as flat, my dear fellow, replied Mr Chuckster, as the surface of a Dutch oven is now news. By the by that lodger of yours is a most extraordinary person. He quite eludes the most vigorous comprehension, you know. Never was such a fellow. What has he been doing now? said Dick. By Joe, sir, returned Mr Chuckster, taking out an oblong snuff-box, the lid where I was ornamented with a fox's head curiously carved in brass. That man is an unfathomable. Sir, that man has made friends with our article Clark. There's no arm in him. He is so amazingly slow and soft. Now, if he wanted a friend, why couldn't he have one that knew a thing or two and could do him some good by his manners and conversation? I have my faults, sir, said Mr Chuckster. No, no! interposed Mr Swiveller. Oh, yes I have. I have me faults. No man knows his faults better than I know mine. But, said Mr Chuckster, I'm not meek. My worst enemies, every man has his enemies, sir, and I of mine never accused me of being meek. And I'll tell you what, sir, if I hadn't more of these qualities that commonly endear man to man than our article Clark has, I'd steal a Cheshire cheese, tie it round me neck and drown myself. I'd die degraded as I had lived. I would, upon re-honour. Mr Chuckster paused, wrapped the fox's head exactly on the nose with the knuckle of the forefinger, took a pinch of snuff, and looked steadily at Mr Swiveller. As much as to say that if he thought he was going to sneeze, he would find himself mistaken. Not contented, sir, said Mr Chuckster. With my infreend with Abel, he has cultivated the acquaintance of his father and mother. Since he came home from that wild goose chase, he has been there, actually been there. He patronises young snobby besides. You'll find, sir, that you'll be constantly coming backwards and forwards to this place. You know, I don't suppose that beyond the common forms of civility is ever exchanged after a dozen words with me. Now, upon my soul, you know, said Mr Chuckster, shaking his head gravely, as men I want to do when they consider things are going a little too far. This is altogether such a low-minded affair, that if I didn't feel for the governor and know that he could never get on without me, I should be obliged to cut the connection. I should have no alternative. Mr Swivler, who sat on another stool opposite to his friend, stirred the fire in an excessive sympathy, but said nothing. As to young snob, sir, pursued Mr Chuckster with a prophetic look, you'll find you'll turn out bad. You know, our profession, we know something of human nature, and type my word for it. That fellow that came back to work out that shilling, will show himself one of these days in his two colours. He's a low thief, sir. He must be. Mr Chuckster, being roused, will probably have pursued this subject further, and in more emphatic language, but for a tap at the door, which seeming to announce the arrival of somebody on business, caused him to assume a greater appearance of meekness than was perhaps quite consistent with his late declaration. Mr Swivler, hearing the same sound, caused his stool to revolve rapidly on one leg until it brought him to his desk, into which, having forgotten in the sudden flurry of his spirits to part with the poker, he thrust it as he cried, Come in! Who should present himself but that very kit who had been the theme of Mr Chuckster's wrath? Never did man pluck up his courage so quickly, or look so fierce as Mr Chuckster when he found it was he. Mr Swivler stared at him for a moment, and then leaping from his stool and drawing out the poker from its place of concealment, performed the broadsword exercise with all the cuts and guards complete and a species of frenzy. Is the gentleman at home? Said Kit, rather astonished by this uncommon reception. Before Mr Swivler could make any reply, Mr Chuckster took occasion to enter his indignant protest against this form of inquiry, which he held to be of a disrespectful and snobbish tendency, inasmuch as the inquirer, seeing two gentlemen then and there present, should have spoken of the other gentleman, or rather, for it was not impossible that the object of his search might be of inferior quality, should have mentioned his name, leaving it to his hearers to determine his degree as he thought proper. Mr Chuckster likewise remarked that he had some reason to believe this form of address was personal to himself, and that he was not a man to be trifled with, as certain snobs, whom he did not more particularly mention or describe, might find to their cost. I mean, a gentleman upstairs. Said Kit, turning to Richard Swivler. Is he at home? Why rejoined Dick. Because of his, I have a letter for him. From whom? Said Dick. From Mr Garland. Oh! said Dick, with extreme politeness. Then you may hand it over, sir. And if you ought to wait for an arm, sir, sir, you may wait in the passage, sir, which is an airy and well-ventilated apartment, sir. Thank you! returned Kit. But I am to give it to himself, if you please. The accessible audacity of this retort, so overpowered Mr Chuckster, and so moved his tender regard for his friend's honour, that he declared, if you were not restrained by official considerations, he must certainly have annihilated Kit upon the spot. A resentment of the affront, which he did consider under the extraordinary circumstances of aggravation attending it, could but have met with proper sanction and approval of a jury of Englishmen, who, he had no doubt, would have returned a verdict of justifiable homicide, coupled with a high testimony to the morals and character of the Avenger. Mr Swivler, without being quite so hot upon the matter, was rather shamed by his friend's excitement, and not a little puzzled how to act, Kit being quite cool and good-humoured, when the single gentleman was heard to call violently down the stairs. Didn't I see somebody for me coming in? cried the lodger. Yes, sir, replied Dick. Certainly, sir. Then where is he? roared the single gentleman. He's here, sir, rejoined Mr Swivler. Now, young man, don't you hear it go upstairs? Are you deaf? Kit did not appear to think it worth his while to enter into any altercation, but hurried off and left the glorious Apollo's gazing at each other in silence. Didn't I tell you so? said Mr Chuckster. What do you think of that? Mr Swivler, being in the main a good-natured fellow, and not perceiving in the conduct of Kit any villainy of enormous magnitude, scarcely knew what answer to return. He was relieved from his perplexity, however, by the entrance of Mr Sampson and his sister, Sally, at sight of whom Mr Chuckster precipitately retired. Mr Bratt and his lovely companion appeared to have been holding a consultation over their temperate breakfast, upon some matter of great interest and importance. On the occasion of such conferences, they generally appeared in the office some half an hour after their usual time in a very smiling state, as though their late plots and designs had tranquilised their minds and shed a light upon their toilsome way. In the present instance, they seemed particularly gay, Miss Sally's aspect being of a most oily kind, and Mr Brass rubbing his hands in an exceedingly jacquoise and light-hearted manner. Well, Mr Richard, said Brass, Oh, are we this morning? Are we pretty fresh and cheerful, sir? Mr Richard? Pretty well, sir, replied Dick. That's well, said Brass. We should be as gay as Larks, Mr Richard. Why not? It's a pleasant world we live in, sir, a very pleasant world. There are bad people in it, Mr Richard, but if there were no bad people, there would be no good lawyers. Any letters by the post this morning, Mr Richard? Mr Swivilla answered in the negative. Ha! said Brass. No matter. If there's little business today, there'll be more tomorrow. A contented spirit, Mr Richard, is the sweetness of existence. Anybody been here, sir? Only my friend, replied Dick, May we near want a friend? Brass chimed in quickly, or a bottle to give him. That's the way the song runs, isn't it? Very good song, Mr Richard. Very good. I like the sentiment of it. Dear friends, the young man from Witherton's office, I think. Yes, may we near want a... Nobody else had all been, Mr Richard? Only somebody to the Lord, sir. Replyed Mr Swivilla. Oh, indeed, cried Brass. Somebody to the Lord, sir. Ah, may we near want a friend, or a... Somebody to the Lord, sir, Mr Richard. Yes, said Dick, a little disconcerted by the excessive buoyancy of spirits which his employer displayed. With him now. With him now, cried Brass. Ah, there, let him be merry and free to rule. Mr Richard. Oh, certainly, replied Dick. And who? said Brass, shuffling among his papers. Who is the larger's visitor? Not a lady visitor, I hope, eh, Mr Richard? The morals of the marks, you know, sir? When lovely woman stoops to folly, to all that, eh, Mr Richard? Another young man, who belongs to Witherton's, too, or off belongs there. Returned Richard. Kit, they call him. Kit, eh? said Brass. Strange name. Name of a dancing master's fiddle, eh, Mr Richard? Kit, there is he. Dick looked at Miss Sally, wondering that she didn't check this uncommon exuberance on the part of Mr Samson. But as she made no attempt to do so, and rather peered to exhibit a tacit acquiescence in it, he concluded that they had just been cheating somebody and receiving the bill. Will you have the goodness, Mr Richard? said Brass, taking a letter from his desk, just to step over to Peckham Rye with that? There's no answer, but it's rather particular, and should go by hand. Charge the office with your coach higher back, you know? Don't spare the office. Get as much out of it as you can. Clark's motto, eh, Mr Richard? Mr Swivler solemnly doft the aquatic jacket. Put on his coat, took down his hat from its peg, pocketed the letter, and departed. As soon as he was gone, up rose Miss Sally Brass, and smiling sweetly at her brother, who nodded and smote his nose in return, withdrew also. Samson Brass was no sooner left alone, than he set the office door wide open, and establishing himself at his desk, directly opposite, so that he could not fail to see anybody who came downstairs and passed out at the street door, began to write with extreme cheerfulness and aciduity. Humming, as he did so, in a voice that was anything but musical, certain vocal snatchers which appear to have reference to the union between church and state, inasmuch as they were compounded of the evening hymn, and God Save the King. Thus the attorney of Beavis Mark sat, and wrote, and hummed, for a long time, except when he stopped to listen with a very cunning face, and hearing nothing, went on humming louder, and writing slower than ever. At length, in one of these pauses, he heard his lodger's door opened and shut, and footsteps coming down the stairs. Then Mr. Brass left off writing entirely, and with his pen in his hand, hummed his very loudest, shaking his head meanwhile from side to side, like a man whose whole soul was in the music, and smiling in a manner quite surrific. It was towards this moving spectacle, that the staircase and the sweet sounds guided Kit, on whose arrival before his door Mr. Brass stopped his singing, but not his smiling, and nodded affably, at the same time beckoning to him with his pen. Kit, said Mr. Brass, in the pleasantest way imaginable, how do you do? Kit, being rather shy of his friend, made a suitable reply, and had his hand upon the lock of the street door when Mr. Brass called him softly back. You are not to go, if you please, Kit, said the attorney in a mysterious and yet business-like way. You are to step in here, if you please. Dear me, dear me, when I look at you, said the lawyer, quitting his stool and standing before the fire, with his back towards it, I am reminded of the sweetest little face that ever my eyes beheld. I remember your coming there twice or thrice when we were in possession. Ah, Kit, my dear fellow, gentlemen in my profession have such painful duties to perform sometimes, that you needn't envy us. You needn't indeed. I don't, sir, said Kit, though it isn't for the light of me to judge. Our only consolation, Kit, pursued the lawyer, looking at him in a sort of pensive abstraction, is that although we cannot turn away the wind, we can soften it, we can temper it, if I may say so, to the shorn lambs. Shorn indeed, thought Kit, pretty close, but he didn't say so. On that occasion, Kit, said Mr. Brass, on that occasion that I have just alluded to, I had a hard battle with Mr. Quilp, for Mr. Quilp is a very hard man, to obtain them the indulgence they had. It might have cost me a client, but suffering virtue inspired me, and I prevailed. He's not so bad, after all, thought honest Kit, as the attorney pursed up his lips and looked like a man who was struggling with his better feelings. I respect you, Kit, said Brass, with emotion. I saw enough of your conduct, at that time, to respect you, though your station is humble and your fortune lowly. It isn't the waistcoat that I look at, it is the heart. The checks and the waistcoat are, but the wires of the cage, but the heart is the bird. Ah, how many such birds are perpetually molting, and putting their beaks through the wires to peck at all mankind. This poetic figure, which Kit took to be in a special illusion to his own checked waistcoat, quite overcame him. Mr. Brass's voice and manner added not a little to its effect, for he disgorced with all the mild austerity of a hermit, and wanted but a cord round the waist of his rusty shirt out, and a skull on the chimney-piece, to be completely set up in that line of business. Well, well, said Samson, smiling as good men smile when they compassionate their own weakness, or that of their fellow creatures. This is wide the bullseye. You're to take that, if you please. As he spoke, he pointed to a couple of half-crowns on the desk. Kit looked at the coins, and then at Samson, and hesitated, for yourself, said Brass. From no matter about the person they came from, replied the lawyer, say me, if you like. We have eccentric friends overhead, Kit, and we mustn't ask questions or talk too much. You understand? You ought to take them, that's all, and between you and me I don't think they'll be the last you'll have to take from the same place. I hope not. Goodbye, Kit. Goodbye. With many thanks, and many more self-reproaches for having on such slight grounds, suspected one who in their very first conversation turned out such a different man from what he had supposed, Kit took the money, and made the best of his way home. Mr. Brass remained airing himself at the fire, and resumed his vocal exercise, and his seraphic smile simultaneously. May I come in? said Miss Sally, peeping. Oh, yes, you may come in. returned her brother. Ahem! coughed Miss Brass interrogatively. Why, yes, returned Samson. I should say, as good as done. End of chapter 56. Chapter 57 of the Old Curiosity Shop This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Recorded by Mill Nicholson The Old Curiosity Shop by Charles Dickens Chapter 57 Mr. Chuckster's indignant apprehensions were not without foundation. Certainly the friendship between the single gentleman and Mr. Garland was not suffered to cool, but had a rapid growth and flourished exceedingly. They were soon in habits of constant intercourse and communication, and the single gentleman laboring at this time under a slight attack of illness, the consequence most probably of his late excited feelings and subsequent disappointment, furnished a reason for their holding yet more frequent correspondence, so that some one of the inmates of Abel Cottage, Finchley, came backwards and forwards between that place and Beavis Marks, almost every day. As the pony had now thrown off all disguise, and without any mincing of the matter, or beating about the bush, sturdily refused to be driven by anybody but Kitt. It generally happened that whether old Mr. Garland came, or Mr. Abel, Kitt was of the party. Of all messages and inquiries, Kitt was, in right of his position, the bearer. Thus it came about that while the single gentleman remained indisposed, Kitt turned into Beavis Marks every morning with nearly as much regularity as the general postman. Mr. Samson Brass, who no doubt had his reasons for looking sharply about him, soon learnt to distinguish the pony's trot and the clatter of the little shades of the corner of the street. Whenever the sound reached his ears, he would immediately lay down his pen and fall to rubbing his hands and exhibiting the greatest glee. Ha-ha! he would cry, Here's the pony again, most remarkable pony, extremely docile, eh, Mr. Richard, eh, sir? Dick would return some matter-of-course reply, and Mr. Brass, standing on the bottom rail of his stool, so as to get a view of the street over the top of the window-blind, would take an observation of the visitors. The old gentleman again. He would exclaim, A very preprocessing old gentleman, Mr. Richard, charming countenance, sir, extremely calm, benevolence in every feature, sir. He quite realises my idea of King Lear, as he appeared when in possession of his kingdom, Mr. Richard, the same good humour, the same white hair and partial baldness, the same liability to be imposed upon. Ha! a sweet subject for contemplation, sir, very sweet. Then Mr. Garland, having alighted and gone upstairs, Samson would nod and smile to Kit from the window, and presently walk out into the street to greet him, when some such conversation as the following would ensue. Admirably groomed, Kit, Mr. Brass is patting the pony. Does you great credit? Amazingly sleek and bright, to be sure. He literally looks as if he had been varnished all over. Kit touches his hat, smiles, pats the pony himself, and expresses his conviction that Mr. Brass will not find many like him. A beautiful animal indeed! cries Brass, sagacious too. Bless you! replies Kit. He knows what you say to him, as well as a Christian, Daz. Does he indeed? cries Brass, who has heard the same thing in the same place, from the same person in the same words a dozen times, but is paralysed with astonishment notwithstanding. Dear me! Our little thought the first time our soym, sir, says Kit, pleased with the attorney's strong interest in his favourite, that I should come to be as intimate with him as I am now. Ah! rejoins Mr. Brass, brimful of moral precepts and love of virtue, a charming subject of reflection for you, very charming, a subject of proper pride and congratulation, Christopher. Honesty is the best policy. I always find it so myself. I lost forty-seven pound ten by being honest this morning. But it's all gain. It's gain. Mr. Brass slyly tickles his nose with his pen and looks at Kit with the water standing in his eyes. Kit thinks that if ever there was a good man who belied his appearance, that man is Samson Brass. A man, says Samson, who loses forty-seven pound ten in one morning by his honesty, is a man to be envied. If it had been eighty pound, the luxuriousness of feeling would have been increased. Every pound lost would have been a hundred weight of happiness gained. A still small voice, Christopher, cries Brass, smiling and tapping himself on the bosom, is a singing comic songs within me, and all is happiness and joy. Kit is so improved by the conversation, and finds it go so completely home to his feelings, that he is considering what he shall say when Mr. Garland appears. The old gentleman has helped into the chaise with great obsequiousness by Mr. Samson Brass, and the pony, after shaking his head several times, and standing for three or four minutes with all his four legs planted firmly on the ground, as if he had made up his mind never to stir from that spot, but there to live and die, suddenly darts off, without the smallest notice at the rate of twelve English miles an hour. Then Mr. Brass and his sister, who has joined him at the door, exchange an odd kind of smile, not at all a pleasant one in its expression, and return to the society of Mr. Richard Swithler, who, during their absence, has been regaling himself with various feats of pantomime, and has discovered at his desk in a very flushed and heated condition, violently scratching out nothing with half a penknife. Whenever Kit came alone, and without the chaise, it always happened that Samson Brass was reminded of some mission, calling Mr. Swithler, if not to peck and rye again, at all events to some pretty distant place, from which he could not be expected to return for two or three hours, or in all probability a much longer period, as that gentleman was not, to say the truth, renowned for using great expedition on such occasions, but rather for protracting and spinning out the time to the very utmost limit of possibility. Mr. Swithler out of sight, Miss Sally immediately withdrew. Mr. Brass would then set the office door wide open, hum his old tune with great gaiety of heart, and smile seraphically as before. Kit coming downstairs would be called in, entertained with some moral and agreeable conversation, perhaps and treated to mind the office for an instant while Mr. Brass stepped over the way, and afterwards presented with one or two half crowns as the case might be. This occurred so often, that Kit, nothing doubting but that they came from the single gentleman, who had already rewarded his mother with great liberality, could not enough admire his generosity, and bought so many cheap presents for her, and for little Jacob, and for the baby, and for Barbara to boot, that one or other of them was having some new trifle every day of their lives. While these acts and deeds were in progress in and out of the office of Samson Brass, Richard Swithler, being often left alone therein, began to find the time hang heavy on his hands. For the better preservation of his cheerfulness, therefore, and to prevent his faculties from rusting, he provided himself with a cribbage board and pack of cards, and accustomed himself to play at cribbage with a dummy, for twenty, thirty, or sometimes even fifty thousand pounds a side, besides many hazardous bets to a considerable amount. As these games were very silently conducted, notwithstanding the magnitude of the interest involved, Mr. Swithler began to think that on those evenings when Mr. and Miss Brass were out, and they often went out now, he heard a kind of snorting or hard breathing sound in the direction of the door, which had occurred to him after some reflection, must proceed from the small servant, who always had a cold from damp living. Looking intently that way one night, he plainly distinguished an eye gleaming and glistening at the keyhole, and having now no doubt that his suspicions were correct, he stole softly to the door and pounced upon her before she was aware of his approach. Oh! I didn't mean any harm indeed. Upon my word I didn't. cried the small servant, struggling like a much larger one. It's a very dull downstairs. Please don't you tell upon me. Please don't. Tell upon you, said Dick, do you mean to say you were looking through the keyhole for company? Yes, upon my word I was, replied the small servant. How long have you been cooling your eye there, said Dick? Oh! ever since you first began to play them cards, and long before. Vague recollections of several fantastic exercises with which he had refreshed himself after the fatigue of business, and to all of which, no doubt the small servant was a party, rather disconcerted Mr Swivler, but he was not very sensitive on such points, and recovered himself speedily. Well, come in, he said after a little consideration. Here, sit down, and I'll teach you how to play. Oh! I didn't do it! rejoined the small servant. Miss Sally had killed me if she'd never come up here. Have you got a fire downstairs, said Dick? A very little one, replied the small servant. Miss Sally couldn't kill me if she'd known I went down there, so I'll come, said Richard, putting the cards into his pocket. Why, how thin you are! What do you mean by it? It ain't my fault. Could you eat any bread and meat, said Dick, taking down his hat? Yes. Ah, I thought so. Did you ever taste beer? I had a sip of it once, said the small servant. Here's a state of things! cried Mr Swivler, raising his eyes to the ceiling. She never tasted it. It can't be tasted in a sip. Why, how old are you? I don't know. Mr Swivler opened his eyes very wide, and appeared thoughtful for a moment. Then, bidding the child mind the door until he came back, vanished straight away. Presently he returned, followed by the boy from the public house, who bore in one hand a plate of bread and beef, and in the other a great pot, filled with some very fragrant compound, which sent forth a grateful steam, and was indeed Choice Pearl, made after a particular recipe which Mr Swivler had imparted to the landlord, at a period when he was deep in his books and desirous to conciliate his friendship. Relieving the boy of his burden at the door, and charging his little companion to fasten it to prevent surprise, Mr Swivler followed her into the kitchen. There, said Richard, putting the plate before her, first of all, clear that off, and then you'll see what's next. The small servant needed no second bidding, and the plate was soon empty. Next, said Dick, handing the pearl, tight a pull at that, but moderate your transport, you know, for you're not used to it. Well, is it good? Oh, isn't it? said the small servant. Mr Swivler appeared gratified beyond all expression by this reply, and took a long draft himself, steadfastly regarding his companion while he did so. These preliminaries disposed of, he applied himself to teaching her the game, which he soon learnt tolerably well, being both sharp-witted and cunning. Now, said Mr Swivler, putting two six-months into a saucer, and trimming the wretched candle when the cards had been cut and dealt, those are the stakes. If you win, you get them all. If I win, I get them. To make it seem more real and pleasant, I shall call you the Marchioness. Do you hear? The small servant nodded. Then, Marchioness, said Mr Swivler, fire away. The Marchioness, holding a card very tight in both hands, considered which to play, and Mr Swivler, assuming the gay and fashionable air which such society required, took another pull at the tankard and waited for her lead. End of Chapter 57 Chapter 58 of The Old Curiosity Shop This Libremark's recording is in the public domain. Recorded by Mill Nicholson The Old Curiosity Shop by Charles Dickens Chapter 58 Mr Swivler and his partner played several rubbers with varying success, until the loss of three expenses, the gradual sinking of the pearl, and the striking of ten o'clock, combined to render that gentleman mindful of the flight of time, and the expediency of withdrawing before Mr Samson and Miss Sally Brass returned. With which object in view, Marchioness, said Mr Swivler gravely, I shall ask your ladyship's permission to put the board in my pocket, and to retire from the presence when I finish this tankard. Mealy observe him, Marchioness, that since life, like a river, is flowing, I cannot have fast it rolls on, ma'am, on, while such pearl on the bank still is growing, and such eyes light the waves as they run. Marchioness, your elf, you will excuse my wear in my hat, but the palace is damp, and the marble floor is, if I may be allowed the expression, sloppy. As a precaution against this latter inconvenience, Mr Swivler had been sitting for some time with his feet on the hob, in which attitude he now gave utterance to these apologetic observations, and slowly sipped the last choice-drops of nectar. The Baron Sampsono Brass, so, and his fair sister, are, you tell me, at the play, said Mr Swivler, leaning his left arm heavily upon the table, and raising his voice and his right leg after the manner of a theatrical bandit. The Marchioness nodded. Ha-ha! said Mr Swivler, with a portentous frown. Tease well, Marchioness, but no matter. Some wine there! Ho! he illustrated these melodramatic morsels by handing the tango to himself with great humility, receiving it haughtily, drinking from it thirstily, and smacking his lips fiercely. The small servant, who is not so well acquainted with theatrical conventionalities, as Mr Swivler, having indeed never seen a play or heard one spoken of, except by chance through chinks of doors and in other forbidden places, was rather alarmed by demonstrations so novel in their nature, and showed her concern so plainly in her looks that Mr Swivler felt it necessary to discharge his brigand manner for one more suitable to private life, as he asked. Do they often go where glory whitesome and leave you here? Oh, yes! I'll believe you, they do! return the small servant. Miss Sally, such a warner for that, she is. Such a what? said Dick. Such a warner! returned the Marchioness. After a moment's reflection Mr Swivler determined to forego his responsible duty of setting her right, and to suffer her to talk on, as it was evident that her tongue was loosened by the pearl, and her opportunities for conversation were not so frequent as to render a momentary check of little consequence. They sometimes go to see Mr Quilp, said the small servant, with a shrewd look. They go to a many places, bless you. Is Mr Brass a warner? said Dick. Not off what Miss Sally is, he isn't, replied the small servant, shaking her head. Bless you, he'd never do anything without her. Oh! he wouldn't, wouldn't he? said Dick. Miss Sally keeps him in such order, said the small servant. He always asks her advice, he does, and he catches it sometimes. Bless you, he wouldn't believe how much he catches it. I, uh, suppose, said Dick, that they consult together a good deal, and talk about a great many people, about me, for instance, sometimes, eh, Martianess? The Martianess nodded amazingly. Complimentary, said Mr Swibbler, the Martianess changed the motion of her head, which had not yet left off nodding, and suddenly began to shake it from side to side with the vehemence which threatened to dislocate her neck. Hmm! Dick muttered. Would it be any breach of confidence, Martianess, to relate what they say of the humble individual who has now the honour to Miss Sally says you're a funny chap? replied his friend. Well, Martianess, said Mr Swibbler, that's not uncomplementary. Merriment, Martianess, is not a bad or a degrading quality. Old King Cole was himself a merry old soul, if we may put any faith in the pages of history. But she says, pursues his companion, that you ant to be trusted. Why, really, Martianess? said Mr Swibbler thoughtfully. Several ladies and gentlemen, not exactly professional persons, but tradespeople, mom, tradespeople, have made the same remark. The obscure citizen who keeps the hotel over the way inclined strongly to that opinion tonight when I ordered him to repair the banquet. It's a popular prejudice, Martianess. And yet I am sure I don't know why, for I've been trusted in my time to a considerable amount, and I can safely say that I never forsook my trust until it deserted me. Never. Mr Brass, is of the same opinion I was about? His friend nodded again, with a cunning look which seemed to hint that Mr Brass held stronger opinions on the subject than his sister, and seemed to recollect herself, adding imploringly, But don't you ever tell upon me, or I shall be beat to death? Martianess, said Mr Swibbler, rising, the word of a gentleman is as good as his bond. Sometimes better, as in the present case, where his bond might prove a doubtful sort of security. I am your friend, and I hope we shall play many more rabbis together in the same saloon. But, Martianess, added Richard, stopping in his way to the door, and wheeling slowly round upon the small servant who was following with the candle, it occurs to me that you must be in the constant habit of airing your eye at key-holes to know all this. I only wanted, replied the trembling Martianess, to know where the key of the safe was hid, that was all, and I wouldn't have taken match if I'd found it, only enough to squinch me hunger. You didn't find it then, said Dick, but of course you didn't, or you'd be plumper. Good night, Martianess, fair thee well, and if forever, in forever fair thee well, and put up the chain, Martianess, in case of accidents. With this parting injunction, Mr. Swivola emerged from the house, and feeling that he had had by this time taken quite as much to drink as promised to be good for his constitution, Pearl being a rather strong and heady compound, wisely resolved to but take himself to his lodgings and to bed at once. Homeward he went, therefore, and his apartments, for he still retained the plural fiction, being at no great distance from the office, he was soon seated in his own bed-chamber, where, having pulled off one boot, and forgotten the other, he fell into deep cogitation. This, Martianess, said Mr. Swivola, folding his arms, is a very extraordinary person, surrounded by mysteries, ignorant of the taste of beer, unacquainted with her own name, which is less remarkable, and take in a limited view of society through the key-holes of doors. Can these things be a destiny? Or, as some unknown person started an opposition to the decrease of fate, it is a most inscrutable and unmitigated staggerer. When his meditations had attained this satisfactory point, he became aware of his remaining boot, of which, with unimpaired solemnity, he proceeded to divest himself, shaking his head with exceeding gravity all the time, and sighing deeply. These rubbers, said Mr. Swivola, putting on his night-cap in exactly the same style as he wore his hat, remind me of the matrimonial fireside. Chegg's wife plays cribbage, all falls likewise. She rings the changes on him now. From sport to sport they hurry her to banish her regrets, and when they win a smile from her they think that she forgets. That she don't. By this time, I should say, added Richard, getting his left cheek into profile, and looking complacently at the reflection of a very little scrap of whisker in the looking-glass, by this time, I should say, the iron has entered into her soul. It serves her right. Melting from this stern and obdurate into the tender and pathetic mood, Mr. Swivola groaned a little, walked wildly up and down, and even made a show of tearing his hair, which, however, he thought better of, and wrenched the tassel from his night-cap instead. At last, undressing himself for the gloomy resolution, he got into bed. Some men, in his blighted position, would have taken to drinking. But as Mr. Swivola had taken to that before, he only took on receiving the news that Sophie Whackles was lost to him forever to playing the flute. Thinking after mature consideration that it was a good sound dismal occupation, not only in unison with his own sad thoughts, but calculated to awaken a fellow feeling in the bosoms of his neighbours. In pursuance of this resolution, he now drew a little table to his bedside, and arranging the light and a small oblong music-book to the best advantage, took his flute from its box, and began to play most mournfully. The air was away with melancholy, a composition which, when it has played very slowly on the flute, in bed, with the further disadvantage of being performed by a gentleman but imperfectly acquainted with the instrument, who repeats one note a great many times before he can find the next, has not a lively effect. Yet, for half the night, or more, Mr. Swivola lying sometimes on his back with his eyes upon the ceiling, and sometimes half out of bed, to correct himself by the book, played this unhappy tune over and over again, never leaving off, save for a minute or two at a time, to take breath and soliloquies about the Martianess, and then beginning again with renewed vigor. It was not until he had quite exhausted his several subjects of meditation, and had breathed into the flute the whole sentiment of the pearl down to its very drags, and had nearly maddened the people of the house, and at both the next doors and over the way, that he shut up the music-book, extinguished the candle, and finding himself greatly lightened and relieved in his mind, turned round and fell asleep. He awoke in the morning much refreshed, and having taken half an hour's exercise of the flute, and graciously received a notice to quit from his landlady, who had been waiting on the stairs for that purpose since the dawn of day, repaired to beavis marks, where the beautiful Sally was already at her post, bearing in her looks a radiance, mild as that which beamoth from the virgin moon. Mr. Swivler acknowledged her presence by a nod, and exchanged his coat for the aquatic jacket, which usually took some time fitting on, for in consequence of a tightness in the sleeves, it was only to be got into by a series of struggles. This difficulty overcome, he took a seat at the desk. I say, quote Miss Brass, abruptly breaking silence, you haven't seen a silver pencil case this morning, have you? I didn't meet many in the street, rejoined Mr. Swivler, I saw one, a stout pencil case of respectable appearance, but as he was in company with an elderly penknife and a young toothpick with whom he was in earnest conversation, I felt a delicacy in speaking to him. No, but have you? returned Miss Brass, seriously, you know? What dull dog you must be to ask me such a question seriously, said Mr. Swivler, haven't I this moment, Cam? Well, all I know is, replied Miss Sally, that it's not to be found, and that it disappeared one day this week, when I left it on the desk. Hello, thought Richard, I hope the Martianess hasn't been at work here. There was a knife, too, said Miss Sally, of the same pattern they were given to me by my father years ago, and are both gone. You haven't missed anything yourself, have you? Mr. Swivler involuntarily clapped his hands to the jacket to be quite sure that it was a jacket and not a skirted coat, and having satisfied himself of the safety of this, his only movable in beavers' marks, made answer in the negative. It's a very unpleasant thing, Dick, said Miss Brass, pulling out the tin box and refreshing herself of the pinch of snuff. But between you and me, between friends, you know, for if Sammy knew it, I should never hear the last of it. Some of the office money, too, that has been left about, has gone in the same way. In particular, I've missed three half-crowns at three different times. You don't mean that, cried Dick. Be careful what you say, old boy. Oh, this is a serious matter. Are you quite sure? Is there no mistake? It is so, and there can't be any mistake at all. Rejoined Miss Brass emphatically. Then by Jove, thought Richard, laying down his pen, I'm afraid the Martianess he's done for. The more he discussed the subject in his thoughts, the more probable it appeared to Dick that the miserable little servant was the culprit. When he considered on what a spare allowance of food she lived, how neglected and untouched she was, and how her natural cunning had been sharpened by necessity and privation, he scarcely doubted it. And yet he pitied her so much, and felt so unwilling to have a matter of such gravity disturbing the oddity of their acquaintance, that he thought, and thought truly, that rather than receive fifty pounds down, he would have the Martianess proved innocent. While he was plunged in very profound and serious meditation upon this theme, Miss Sally sat shaking her head with an air of great mystery and doubt, and the voice of her brother Sampson, caroling a cheerful strain, was heard in the passage, and that gentleman himself, beaming with virtuous smiles, appeared. Mr. Richard, sir, good morning. Here we are again, sir, entering upon another day, with our bodies strengthened by slumber and breakfast, and our spirits fresh and flowing. Here we are, Mr. Richard, rising with the sun to run our little course, our course of duty, sir, and like him, to get through our days work with credit to ourselves, and advantage to our fellow creatures, a charming reflection, sir, very charming. While he addressed his clerk in these words, Mr. Brass was, somewhat ostentatiously, engaged in minutely examining and holding up against the light a five-pound banknote, which he had brought in in his hand. Mr. Richard, not receiving his remarks with anything like enthusiasm, his employer turned his eyes to his face, and observed that it wore a troubled expression. You're out of spirit, sir, said Brass. Mr. Richard, sir, we should fall to work cheerfully, and not in a despondent state. It becomes us, Mr. Richard, sir, to hear the chaste Sarah heaved a loud sigh. Dear me, said Mr. Samson, you too. Is anything the matter, Mr. Richard, sir? Dick, glancing at Miss Sally, saw that she was making signals to him, to acquaint her brother with the subject at their recent conversation. As his own position was not a very pleasant one, until the matter was said to rest one way or another, he did so, and Miss Brass, plying her snuff-box at a most wasteful rate, corroborated his account. The countenance of Samson fell, and anxiety overspent his features. Instead of passionately bewailing the loss of his money, as Miss Sally had expected, he walked on tiptoe to the door, opened it, looked outside, shut it softly, returned on tiptoe, and said in a whisper, This is a most extraordinary and painful circumstance, Mr. Richard, sir, a most painful circumstance. The fact is that I myself have missed several small sums from the desk of late, and have refrained from mentioning it, hoping that accident would discover the offender. But it has not done so. It has not done so. Sally, Mr. Richard, sir, this is a puthiculely distressing affair. As Samson spoke, he laid the banknote upon the desk, among some papers, in an absent manner, and thrust his hands into his pockets. Richard Swivler pointed to it, and admonished him to take it up. No, Mr. Richard, sir. Rejoined Brass with emotion. I will not take it up. I will let it lie there, sir. To take it up, Mr. Richard, sir, would imply a doubt of you, and in you, sir, I have unlimited confidence. We will let it lie there, sir, if you please, and we will not take it up by any means. With that, Mr. Brass patted him twice or thrice on the shoulder in a most friendly manner, and untreated him to believe that he had as much faith in his honesty as he had in his own. Although at another time Mr. Swivler might have looked upon this as a doubtful compliment, he felt it under the then existing circumstances a great relief to be assured that he was not wrongfully suspected. When he had made a suitable reply, Mr. Brass wrung him by the hand and fell into a brown study, as did Miss Sally likewise. Richard, too, remained in a thoughtful state, fearing every moment to hear the Marchioness impeached, and unable to resist the conviction that she must be guilty. When they had severally remained in this condition for some minutes, Miss Sally, all at once, gave a loud wrap upon the desk with her clenched fist, and cried, I've hit it! As indeed she had, and chipped a piece out of it, too, but that was not her meaning. Well, cried Brass anxiously, go on, will you. Why, replied his sister with an air of triumph, hasn't there been somebody always coming in and out of this office for the last three or four weeks? Hasn't that somebody been left alone in it sometimes, thanks to you, and do you mean to tell me that that somebody isn't the thief? What somebody? Blustered Brass. Why, what do you call him, kid? Mr. Garden's young man? To be sure. Never! cried Brass. Never! I'll not hear of it. Don't tell me! said Samson, shaking his head and working with both hands, as if he were clearing away ten thousand cobwebs. I'll never believe it of him. Never! I say, repeated Miss Brass, taking another pinch of snuff, that he's the thief. I say, returned Samson violently, that he is not. What do you mean? How dare you! Are characters to be whispered away like this? Do you know that he's the honestest and faithfulist fellow that ever lived, and that he has an irreproachable good name? Come in! Come in! These last words were not addressed to Miss Sally, though they partook of the tone in which the indignant remonstances that preceded them had been uttered. They were addressed to some person who had knocked at the office door, and they had hardly passed the lips of Mr. Brass, when this very kit himself looked in. You sit down on the upstairs, sir, if you please. Yes, Kit, said Brass, still fired with an honest indignation, and frowning with knotted brows upon his sister. Yes, Kit, he is. I'm glad to see you, Kit. I'm rejoiced to see you. Look in again as you come downstairs, Kit. That lad, a robber, cried Brass when he had withdrawn. With that frank and open countenance, I trust him with untold gold. Mr. Richard, sir, have the goodness to step directly to rasp and cozy in Broad Street, and inquire if they had instructions to appear in Karkham and Painter. That lad, a robber! Sneered Samson, flushed and heated with his wrath. Am I blind, deaf, silly? Do I know nothing of human nature when I see it before me? Kit, a robber? Ha! Flinging this final interjection at Miss Sally, with a measurable scorn and contempt, Samson Brass thrust his head into his desk, as if to shut the base world from his view, and breathe defiance from under its half-closed lid. End of Chapter Fifty-Eight