Chapter 9

The Old Curiosity Shop

by Charles Dickens

The child, in her confidence with Mrs Quilp, had but feebly
described the sadness and sorrow of her thoughts, or the heaviness of
the cloud which overhung her home, and cast dark shadows on its
hearth. Besides that it was very difficult to impart to any person
not intimately acquainted with the life she led, an adequate sense of
its gloom and loneliness, a constant fear of in some way committing
or injuring the old man to whom she was so tenderly attached, had
restrained her, even in the midst of her heart's overflowing, and
made her timid of allusion to the main cause of her anxiety and
distress.

For, it was not the monotonous days unchequered by variety and
uncheered by pleasant companionship, it was not the dark dreary
evenings or the long solitary nights, it was not the absence of every
slight and easy pleasure for which young hearts beat high, or the
knowing nothing of childhood but its weakness and its easily wounded
spirit, that had wrung such tears from Nell. To see the old man
struck down beneath the pressure of some hidden grief, to mark his
wavering and unsettled state, to be agitated at times with a dreadful
fear that his mind was wandering, and to trace in his words and looks
the dawning of despondent madness; to watch and wait and listen for
confirmation of these things day after day, and to feel and know
that, come what might, they were alone in the world with no one to
help or advise or care about them--these were causes of depression
and anxiety that might have sat heavily on an older breast with many
influences at work to cheer and gladden it, but how heavily on the
mind of a young child to whom they were ever present, and who was
constantly surrounded by all that could keep such thoughts in
restless action!

And yet, to the old man's vision, Nell was still the same. When
he could, for a moment, disengage his mind from the phantom that
haunted and brooded on it always, there was his young companion with
the same smile for him, the same earnest words, the same merry laugh,
the same love and care that, sinking deep into his soul, seemed to
have been present to him through his whole life. And so he went on,
content to read the book of her heart from the page first presented
to him, little dreaming of the story that lay hidden in its other
leaves, and murmuring within himself that at least the child was
happy.

She had been once. She had gone singing through the dim rooms,
and moving with gay and lightsome step among their dusty treasures,
making them older by her young life, and sterner and more grim by her
gay and cheerful presence. But, now, the chambers were cold and
gloomy, and when she left her own little room to while away the
tedious hours, and sat in one of them, she was still and motionless
as their inanimate occupants, and had no heart to startle the
echoes--hoarse from their long silence--with her voice.

In one of these rooms, was a window looking into the street,
where the child sat, many and many a long evening, and often far into
the night, alone and thoughtful. None are so anxious as those who
watch and wait; at these times, mournful fancies came flocking on her
mind, in crowds.

She would take her station here, at dusk, and watch the people
as they passed up and down the street, or appeared at the windows of
the opposite houses; wondering whether those rooms were as lonesome
as that in which she sat, and whether those people felt it company to
see her sitting there, as she did only to see them look out and draw
in their heads again. There was a crooked stack of chimneys on one
of the roofs, in which, by often looking at them, she had fancied
ugly faces that were frowning over at her and trying to peer into the
room; and she felt glad when it grew too dark to make them out,
though she was sorry too, when the man came to light the lamps in the
street--for it made it late, and very dull inside. Then, she would
draw in her head to look round the room and see that everything was
in its place and hadn't moved; and looking out into the street again,
would perhaps see a man passing with a coffin on his back, and two or
three others silently following him to a house where somebody lay
dead; which made her shudder and think of such things until they
suggested afresh the old man's altered face and manner, and a new
train of fears and speculations. If he were to die--if sudden illness
had happened to him, and he were never to come home again, alive--if,
one night, he should come home, and kiss and bless her as usual, and
after she had gone to bed and had fallen asleep and was perhaps
dreaming pleasantly, and smiling in her sleep, he should kill himself
and his blood come creeping, creeping, on the ground to her own
bed-room door! These thoughts were too terrible to dwell upon, and
again she would have recourse to the street, now trodden by fewer
feet, and darker and more silent than before. The shops were closing
fast, and lights began to shine from the upper windows, as the
neighbours went to bed. By degrees, these dwindled away and
disappeared or were replaced, here and there, by a feeble rush-candle
which was to burn all night. Still, there was one late shop at no
great distance which sent forth a ruddy glare upon the pavement even
yet, and looked bright and companionable. But, in a little time,
this closed, the light was extinguished, and all was gloomy and
quiet, except when some stray footsteps sounded on the pavement, or a
neighbour, out later than his wont, knocked lustily at his house-door
to rouse the sleeping inmates.

When the night had worn away thus far (and seldom now until it
had) the child would close the window, and steal softly down stairs,
thinking as she went that if one of those hideous faces below, which
often mingled with her dreams, were to meet her by the way, rendering
itself visible by some strange light of its own, how terrified she
would be. But these fears vanished before a well-trimmed lamp and
the familiar aspect of her own room. After praying fervently, and
with many bursting tears, for the old man, and the restoration of his
peace of mind and the happiness they had once enjoyed, she would lay
her head upon the pillow and sob herself to sleep: often starting up
again, before the day-light came, to listen for the bell and respond
to the imaginary summons which had roused her from her slumber.

One night, the third after Nelly's interview with Mrs Quilp, the
old man, who had been weak and ill all day, said he should not leave
home. The child's eyes sparkled at the intelligence, but her joy
subsided when they reverted to his worn and sickly face.

'Two days,' he said, 'two whole, clear, days have passed, and
there is no reply. What did he tell thee, Nell?'

'Exactly what I told you, dear grandfather, indeed.'

'True,' said the old man, faintly. 'Yes. But tell me again,
Nell. My head fails me. What was it that he told thee? Nothing more
than that he would see me to-morrow or next day? That was in the
note.'

'Nothing more,' said the child. 'Shall I go to him again to-
morrow, dear grandfather? Very early? I will be there and back,
before breakfast.'

The old man shook his head, and sighing mournfully, drew her
towards him.

''Twould be of no use, my dear, no earthly use. But if he
deserts me, Nell, at this moment--if he deserts me now, when I
should, with his assistance, be recompensed for all the time and
money I have lost, and all the agony of mind I have undergone, which
makes me what you see, I am ruined, and--worse, far worse than that--
have ruined thee, for whom I ventured all. If we are beggars--!'

'What if we are?' said the child boldly. 'Let us be beggars,
and be happy.'

'Beggars--and happy!' said the old man. 'Poor child!'

'Dear grandfather,' cried the girl with an energy which shone in
her flushed face, trembling voice, and impassioned gesture, 'I am not
a child in that I think, but even if I am, oh hear me pray that we
may beg, or work in open roads or fields, to earn a scanty living,
rather than live as we do now.'

'Nelly!' said the old man.

'Yes, yes, rather than live as we do now,' the child repeated,
more earnestly than before. 'If you are sorrowful, let me know why
and be sorrowful too; if you waste away and are paler and weaker
every day, let me be your nurse and try to comfort you. If you are
poor, let us be poor together; but let me be with you, do let me be
with you; do not let me see such change and not know why, or I shall
break my heart and die. Dear grandfather, let us leave this sad
place to-morrow, and beg our way from door to door.'

The old man covered his face with his hands, and hid it in the
pillow of the couch on which he lay.

'Let us be beggars,' said the child passing an arm round his
neck, 'I have no fear but we shall have enough, I am sure we shall.
Let us walk through country places, and sleep in fields and under
trees, and never think of money again, or anything that can make you
sad, but rest at nights, and have the sun and wind upon our faces in
the day, and thank God together! Let us never set foot in dark rooms
or melancholy houses, any more, but wander up and down wherever we
like to go; and when you are tired, you shall stop to rest in the
pleasantest place that we can find, and I will go and beg for
both.'

The child's voice was lost in sobs as she dropped upon the old
man's neck; nor did she weep alone.

These were not words for other ears, nor was it a scene for
other eyes. And yet other ears and eyes were there and greedily
taking in all that passed, and moreover they were the ears and eyes
of no less a person than Mr Daniel Quilp, who, having entered unseen
when the child first placed herself at the old man's side,
refrained-- actuated, no doubt, by motives of the purest
delicacy--from interrupting the conversation, and stood looking on
with his accustomed grin. Standing, however, being a tiresome
attitude to a gentleman already fatigued with walking, and the dwarf
being one of that kind of persons who usually make themselves at
home, he soon cast his eyes upon a chair, into which he skipped with
uncommon agility, and perching himself on the back with his feet upon
the seat, was thus enabled to look on and listen with greater comfort
to himself, besides gratifying at the same time that taste for doing
something fantastic and monkey-like, which on all occasions had
strong possession of him. Here, then, he sat, one leg cocked
carelessly over the other, his chin resting on the palm of his hand,
his head turned a little on one side, and his ugly features twisted
into a complacent grimace. And in this position the old man,
happening in course of time to look that way, at length chanced to
see him: to his unbounded astonishment.

The child uttered a suppressed shriek on beholding this
agreeable figure; in their first surprise both she and the old man,
not knowing what to say, and half doubting its reality, looked
shrinkingly at it. Not at all disconcerted by this reception, Daniel
Quilp preserved the same attitude, merely nodding twice or thrice
with great condescension. At length, the old man pronounced his
name, and inquired how he came there.

'Through the door,' said Quilp pointing over his shoulder with
his thumb. 'I'm not quite small enough to get through key-holes. I
wish I was. I want to have some talk with you, particularly, and in
private. With nobody present, neighbour. Good-bye, little
Nelly.'

Nell looked at the old man, who nodded to her to retire, and
kissed her cheek.

'Ah!' said the dwarf, smacking his lips, 'what a nice kiss that
was-- just upon the rosy part. What a capital kiss!'

Nell was none the slower in going away, for this remark. Quilp
looked after her with an admiring leer, and when she had closed the
door, fell to complimenting the old man upon her charms.

'Such a fresh, blooming, modest little bud, neighbour,' said
Quilp, nursing his short leg, and making his eyes twinkle very much;
'such a chubby, rosy, cosy, little Nell!'

The old man answered by a forced smile, and was plainly
struggling with a feeling of the keenest and most exquisite
impatience. It was not lost upon Quilp, who delighted in torturing
him, or indeed anybody else, when he could.

'She's so,' said Quilp, speaking very slowly, and feigning to be
quite absorbed in the subject, 'so small, so compact, so beautifully
modelled, so fair, with such blue veins and such a transparent skin,
and such little feet, and such winning ways-- but bless me, you're
nervous! Why neighbour, what's the matter? I swear to you,'
continued the dwarf dismounting from the chair and sitting down in
it, with a careful slowness of gesture very different from the
rapidity with which he had sprung up unheard, 'I swear to you that I
had no idea old blood ran so fast or kept so warm. I thought it was
sluggish in its course, and cool, quite cool. I am pretty sure it
ought to be. Yours must be out of order, neighbour.'

'I believe it is,' groaned the old man, clasping his head with
both hands. 'There's burning fever here, and something now and then
to which I fear to give a name.'

The dwarf said never a word, but watched his companion as he
paced restlessly up and down the room, and presently returned to his
seat. Here he remained, with his head bowed upon his breast for some
time, and then suddenly raising it, said,

'Once, and once for all, have you brought me any money?'

'No!' returned Quilp.

'Then,' said the old man, clenching his hands desperately, and
looking upwards, 'the child and I are lost!'

'Neighbour,' said Quilp glancing sternly at him, and beating his
hand twice or thrice upon the table to attract his wandering
attention, 'let me be plain with you, and play a fairer game than
when you held all the cards, and I saw but the backs and nothing
more. You have no secret from me now.'

The old man looked up, trembling.

'You are surprised,' said Quilp. 'Well, perhaps that's natural.
You have no secret from me now, I say; no, not one. For now, I
know, that all those sums of money, that all those loans, advances,
and supplies that you have had from me, have found their way
to--shall I say the word?'

'Aye!' replied the old man, 'say it, if you will.'

'To the gaming-table,' rejoined Quilp, 'your nightly haunt.
This was the precious scheme to make your fortune, was it; this was
the secret certain source of wealth in which I was to have sunk my
money (if I had been the fool you took me for); this was your
inexhaustible mine of gold, your El Dorado, eh?'

'Yes,' cried the old man, turning upon him with gleaming eyes,
'it was. It is. It will be, till I die.'

'That I should have been blinded,' said Quilp looking
contemptuously at him, 'by a mere shallow gambler!'

'I am no gambler,' cried the old man fiercely. 'I call Heaven
to witness that I never played for gain of mine, or love of play;
that at every piece I staked, I whispered to myself that orphan's
name and called on Heaven to bless the venture;--which it never did.
Whom did it prosper? Who were those with whom I played? Men who
lived by plunder, profligacy, and riot; squandering their gold in
doing ill, and propagating vice and evil. My winnings would have
been from them, my winnings would have been bestowed to the last
farthing on a young sinless child whose life they would have
sweetened and made happy. What would they have contracted? The
means of corruption, wretchedness, and misery. Who would not have
hoped in such a cause? Tell me that! Who would not have hoped as I
did?'

'When did you first begin this mad career?' asked Quilp, his
taunting inclination subdued, for a moment, by the old man's grief
and wildness.

'When did I first begin?' he rejoined, passing his hand across
his brow. 'When was it, that I first began? When should it be, but
when I began to think how little I had saved, how long a time it took
to save at all, how short a time I might have at my age to live, and
how she would be left to the rough mercies of the world, with barely
enough to keep her from the sorrows that wait on poverty; then it was
that I began to think about it.'

'After you first came to me to get your precious grandson packed
off to sea?' said Quilp.

'Shortly after that,' replied the old man. 'I thought of it a
long time, and had it in my sleep for months. Then I began. I found
no pleasure in it, I expected none. What has it ever brought me but
anxious days and sleepless nights; but loss of health and peace of
mind, and gain of feebleness and sorrow!'

'You lost what money you had laid by, first, and then came to
me. While I thought you were making your fortune (as you said you
were) you were making yourself a beggar, eh? Dear me! And so it
comes to pass that I hold every security you could scrape together,
and a bill of sale upon the--upon the stock and property,' said Quilp
standing up and looking about him, as if to assure himself that none
of it had been taken away. 'But did you never win?'

'Never!' groaned the old man. 'Never won back my loss!'

'I thought,' sneered the dwarf, 'that if a man played long
enough he was sure to win at last, or, at the worst, not to come off
a loser.'

'And so he is,' cried the old man, suddenly rousing himself from
his state of despondency, and lashed into the most violent
excitement, 'so he is; I have felt that from the first, I have always
known it, I've seen it, I never felt it half so strongly as I feel it
now. Quilp, I have dreamed, three nights, of winning the same large
sum, I never could dream that dream before, though I have often
tried. Do not desert me, now I have this chance. I have no resource
but you, give me some help, let me try this one last hope.'

The dwarf shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.

'See, Quilp, good tender-hearted Quilp,' said the old man,
drawing some scraps of paper from his pocket with a trembling hand,
and clasping the dwarf's arm, 'only see here. Look at these figures,
the result of long calculation, and painful and hard experience. I
must win. I only want a little help once more, a few pounds, but two
score pounds, dear Quilp.'

'The last advance was seventy,' said the dwarf; 'and it went in
one night.'

'I know it did,' answered the old man, 'but that was the very
worst fortune of all, and the time had not come then. Quilp,
consider, consider,' the old man cried, trembling so much the while,
that the papers in his hand fluttered as if they were shaken by the
wind, 'that orphan child! If I were alone, I could die with
gladness-- perhaps even anticipate that doom which is dealt out so
unequally: coming, as it does, on the proud and happy in their
strength, and shunning the needy and afflicted, and all who court it
in their despair--but what I have done, has been for her. Help me
for her sake I implore you; not for mine; for hers!'

'I'm sorry I've got an appointment in the city,' said Quilp,
looking at his watch with perfect self-possession, 'or I should have
been very glad to have spent half an hour with you while you composed
yourself, very glad.'

'Nay, Quilp, good Quilp,' gasped the old man, catching at his
skirts, 'you and I have talked together, more than once, of her poor
mother's story. The fear of her coming to poverty has perhaps been
bred in me by that. Do not be hard upon me, but take that into
account. You are a great gainer by me. Oh spare me the money for
this one last hope!'

'I couldn't do it really,' said Quilp with unusual politeness,
'though I tell you what--and this is a circumstance worth bearing in
mind as showing how the sharpest among us may be taken in
sometimes--I was so deceived by the penurious way in which you lived,
alone with Nelly--'

'All done to save money for tempting fortune, and to make her
triumph greater,' cried the old man.

'Yes, yes, I understand that now,' said Quilp; 'but I was going
to say, I was so deceived by that, your miserly way, the reputation
you had among those who knew you of being rich, and your repeated
assurances that you would make of my advances treble and quadruple
the interest you paid me, that I'd have advanced you, even now, what
you want, on your simple note of hand, if I hadn't unexpectedly
become acquainted with your secret way of life.'

'Who is it,' retorted the old man desperately, 'that,
notwithstanding all my caution, told you? Come. Let me know the
name--the person.'

The crafty dwarf, bethinking himself that his giving up the
child would lead to the disclosure of the artifice he had employed,
which, as nothing was to be gained by it, it was well to conceal,
stopped short in his answer and said, 'Now, who do you think?'

'It was Kit, it must have been the boy; he played the spy, and
you tampered with him?' said the old man.

'How came you to think of him?' said the dwarf in a tone of
great commiseration. 'Yes, it was Kit. Poor Kit!'

So saying, he nodded in a friendly manner, and took his leave:
stopping when he had passed the outer door a little distance, and
grinning with extraordinary delight.

'Poor Kit!' muttered Quilp. 'I think it was Kit who said I was
an uglier dwarf than could be seen anywhere for a penny, wasn't it.
Ha ha ha! Poor Kit!' And with that he went his way, still chuckling
as he went.