Chapter 15

The Old Curiosity Shop

by Charles Dickens

Often, while they were yet pacing the silent streets of the town
on the morning of their departure, the child trembled with a mingled
sensation of hope and fear as in some far-off figure imperfectly seen
in the clear distance, her fancy traced a likeness to honest Kit.
But although she would gladly have given him her hand and thanked him
for what he had said at their last meeting, it was always a relief to
find, when they came nearer to each other, that the person who
approached was not he, but a stranger; for even if she had not
dreaded the effect which the sight of him might have wrought upon her
fellow-traveller, she felt that to bid farewell to anybody now, and
most of all to him who had been so faithful and so true, was more
than she could bear. It was enough to leave dumb things behind, and
objects that were insensible both to her love and sorrow. To have
parted from her only other friend upon the threshold of that wild
journey, would have wrung her heart indeed.

Why is it that we can better bear to part in spirit than in
body, and while we have the fortitude to act farewell have not the
nerve to say it? On the eve of long voyages or an absence of many
years, friends who are tenderly attached will separate with the usual
look, the usual pressure of the hand, planning one final interview
for the morrow, while each well knows that it is but a poor feint to
save the pain of uttering that one word, and that the meeting will
never be. Should possibilities be worse to bear than certainties?
We do not shun our dying friends; the not having distinctly taken
leave of one among them, whom we left in all kindness and affection,
will often embitter the whole remainder of a life.

The town was glad with morning light; places that had shown ugly
and distrustful all night long, now wore a smile; and sparkling
sunbeams dancing on chamber windows, and twinkling through blind and
curtain before sleepers' eyes, shed light even into dreams, and
chased away the shadows of the night. Birds in hot rooms, covered up
close and dark, felt it was morning, and chafed and grew restless in
their little cells; bright-eyed mice crept back to their tiny homes
and nestled timidly together; the sleek house-cat, forgetful of her
prey, sat winking at the rays of sun starting through keyhole and
cranny in the door, and longed for her stealthy run and warm sleek
bask outside. The nobler beasts confined in dens, stood motionless
behind their bars and gazed on fluttering boughs, and sunshine
peeping through some little window, with eyes in which old forests
gleamed--then trod impatiently the track their prisoned feet had
worn--and stopped and gazed again. Men in their dungeons stretched
their cramp cold limbs and cursed the stone that no bright sky could
warm. The flowers that sleep by night, opened their gentle eyes and
turned them to the day. The light, creation's mind, was everywhere,
and all things owned its power.

The two pilgrims, often pressing each other's hands, or
exchanging a smile or cheerful look, pursued their way in silence.
Bright and happy as it was, there was something solemn in the long,
deserted streets, from which, like bodies without souls, all habitual
character and expression had departed, leaving but one dead uniform
repose, that made them all alike. All was so still at that early
hour, that the few pale people whom they met seemed as much unsuited
to the scene, as the sickly lamp which had been here and there left
burning, was powerless and faint in the full glory of the sun.

Before they had penetrated very far into the labyrinth of men's
abodes which yet lay between them and the outskirts, this aspect
began to melt away, and noise and bustle to usurp its place. Some
straggling carts and coaches rumbling by, first broke the charm, then
others came, then others yet more active, then a crowd. The wonder
was, at first, to see a tradesman's window open, but it was a rare
thing soon to see one closed; then, smoke rose slowly from the
chimneys, and sashes were thrown up to let in air, and doors were
opened, and servant girls, looking lazily in all directions but their
brooms, scattered brown clouds of dust into the eyes of shrinking
passengers, or listened disconsolately to milkmen who spoke of
country fairs, and told of waggons in the mews, with awnings and all
things complete, and gallant swains to boot, which another hour would
see upon their journey.

This quarter passed, they came upon the haunts of commerce and
great traffic, where many people were resorting, and business was
already rife. The old man looked about him with a startled and
bewildered gaze, for these were places that he hoped to shun. He
pressed his finger on his lip, and drew the child along by narrow
courts and winding ways, nor did he seem at ease until they had left
it far behind, often casting a backward look towards it, murmuring
that ruin and self-murder were crouching in every street, and would
follow if they scented them; and that they could not fly too fast.

Again this quarter passed, they came upon a straggling
neighbourhood, where the mean houses parcelled off in rooms, and
windows patched with rags and paper, told of the populous poverty
that sheltered there. The shops sold goods that only poverty could
buy, and sellers and buyers were pinched and griped alike. Here were
poor streets where faded gentility essayed with scanty space and
shipwrecked means to make its last feeble stand, but tax-gatherer and
creditor came there as elsewhere, and the poverty that yet faintly
struggled was hardly less squalid and manifest than that which had
long ago submitted and given up the game.

This was a wide, wide track--for the humble followers of the
camp of wealth pitch their tents round about it for many a mile--but
its character was still the same. Damp rotten houses, many to let,
many yet building, many half-built and mouldering away--lodgings,
where it would be hard to tell which needed pity most, those who let
or those who came to take--children, scantily fed and clothed, spread
over every street, and sprawling in the dust--scolding mothers,
stamping their slipshod feet with noisy threats upon the
pavement--shabby fathers, hurrying with dispirited looks to the
occupation which brought them 'daily bread' and little more--
mangling-women, washer-women, cobblers, tailors, chandlers, driving
their trades in parlours and kitchens and back room and garrets, and
sometimes all of them under the same roof-- brick-fields skirting
gardens paled with staves of old casks, or timber pillaged from
houses burnt down, and blackened and blistered by the flames--mounds
of dock-weed, nettles, coarse grass and oyster-shells, heaped in rank
confusion--small dissenting chapels to teach, with no lack of
illustration, the miseries of Earth, and plenty of new churches,
erected with a little superfluous wealth, to show the way to
Heaven.

At length these streets becoming more straggling yet, dwindled
and dwindled away, until there were only small garden patches
bordering the road, with many a summer house innocent of paint and
built of old timber or some fragments of a boat, green as the tough
cabbage-stalks that grew about it, and grottoed at the seams with
toad-stools and tight-sticking snails. To these succeeded pert
cottages, two and two with plots of ground in front, laid out in
angular beds with stiff box borders and narrow paths between, where
footstep never strayed to make the gravel rough. Then came the
public-house, freshly painted in green and white, with tea-gardens
and a bowling green, spurning its old neighbour with the horse-trough
where the waggons stopped; then, fields; and then, some houses, one
by one, of goodly size with lawns, some even with a lodge where dwelt
a porter and his wife. Then came a turnpike; then fields again with
trees and hay-stacks; then, a hill, and on the top of that, the
traveller might stop, and--looking back at old Saint Paul's looming
through the smoke, its cross peeping above the cloud (if the day were
clear), and glittering in the sun; and casting his eyes upon the
Babel out of which it grew until he traced it down to the furthest
outposts of the invading army of bricks and mortar whose station lay
for the present nearly at his feet--might feel at last that he was
clear of London.

Near such a spot as this, and in a pleasant field, the old man
and his little guide (if guide she were, who knew not whither they
were bound) sat down to rest. She had had the precaution to furnish
her basket with some slices of bread and meat, and here they made
their frugal breakfast.

The freshness of the day, the singing of the birds, the beauty
of the waving grass, the deep green leaves, the wild flowers, and the
thousand exquisite scents and sounds that floated in the air-- deep
joys to most of us, but most of all to those whose life is in a crowd
or who live solitarily in great cities as in the bucket of a human
well--sunk into their breasts and made them very glad. The child had
repeated her artless prayers once that morning, more earnestly
perhaps than she had ever done in all her life, but as she felt all
this, they rose to her lips again. The old man took off his hat--he
had no memory for the words--but he said amen, and that they were
very good.

There had been an old copy of the Pilgrim's Progress, with
strange plates, upon a shelf at home, over which she had often pored
whole evenings, wondering whether it was true in every word, and
where those distant countries with the curious names might be. As
she looked back upon the place they had left, one part of it came
strongly on her mind.

'Dear grandfather,' she said, 'only that this place is prettier
and a great deal better than the real one, if that in the book is
like it, I feel as if we were both Christian, and laid down on this
grass all the cares and troubles we brought with us; never to take
them up again.'

'No--never to return--never to return'--replied the old man,
waving his hand towards the city. 'Thou and I are free of it now,
Nell. They shall never lure us back.'

'Are you tired?' said the child, 'are you sure you don't feel
ill from this long walk?'

'I shall never feel ill again, now that we are once away,' was
his reply. 'Let us be stirring, Nell. We must be further away--a
long, long way further. We are too near to stop, and be at rest.
Come!'

There was a pool of clear water in the field, in which the child
laved her hands and face, and cooled her feet before setting forth to
walk again. She would have the old man refresh himself in this way
too, and making him sit down upon the grass, cast the water on him
with her hands, and dried it with her simple dress.

'I can do nothing for myself, my darling,' said the grandfather;
'I don't know how it is, I could once, but the time's gone. Don't
leave me, Nell; say that thou'lt not leave me. I loved thee all the
while, indeed I did. If I lose thee too, my dear, I must die!'

He laid his head upon her shoulder and moaned piteously. The
time had been, and a very few days before, when the child could not
have restrained her tears and must have wept with him. But now she
soothed him with gentle and tender words, smiled at his thinking they
could ever part, and rallied him cheerfully upon the jest. He was
soon calmed and fell asleep, singing to himself in a low voice, like
a little child.

He awoke refreshed, and they continued their journey. The road
was pleasant, lying between beautiful pastures and fields of corn,
about which, poised high in the clear blue sky, the lark trilled out
her happy song. The air came laden with the fragrance it caught upon
its way, and the bees, upborne upon its scented breath, hummed forth
their drowsy satisfaction as they floated by.

They were now in the open country; the houses were very few and
scattered at long intervals, often miles apart. Occasionally they
came upon a cluster of poor cottages, some with a chair or low board
put across the open door to keep the scrambling children from the
road, others shut up close while all the family were working in the
fields. These were often the commencement of a little village: and
after an interval came a wheelwright's shed or perhaps a blacksmith's
forge; then a thriving farm with sleepy cows lying about the yard,
and horses peering over the low wall and scampering away when
harnessed horses passed upon the road, as though in triumph at their
freedom. There were dull pigs too, turning up the ground in search
of dainty food, and grunting their monotonous grumblings as they
prowled about, or crossed each other in their quest; plump pigeons
skimming round the roof or strutting on the eaves; and ducks and
geese, far more graceful in their own conceit, waddling awkwardly
about the edges of the pond or sailing glibly on its surface. The
farm-yard passed, then came the little inn; the humbler beer-shop;
and the village tradesman's; then the lawyer's and the parson's, at
whose dread names the beer-shop trembled; the church then peeped out
modestly from a clump of trees; then there were a few more cottages;
then the cage, and pound, and not unfrequently, on a bank by the
way-side, a deep old dusty well. Then came the trim-hedged fields on
either hand, and the open road again.

They walked all day, and slept that night at a small cottage
where beds were let to travellers. Next morning they were afoot
again, and though jaded at first, and very tired, recovered before
long and proceeded briskly forward.

They often stopped to rest, but only for a short space at a
time, and still kept on, having had but slight refreshment since the
morning. It was nearly five o'clock in the afternoon, when drawing
near another cluster of labourers' huts, the child looked wistfully
in each, doubtful at which to ask for permission to rest awhile, and
buy a draught of milk.

It was not easy to determine, for she was timid and fearful of
being repulsed. Here was a crying child, and there a noisy wife. In
this, the people seemed too poor; in that, too many. At length she
stopped at one where the family were seated round the table-- chiefly
because there was an old man sitting in a cushioned chair beside the
hearth, and she thought he was a grandfather and would feel for
hers.

There were besides, the cottager and his wife, and three young
sturdy children, brown as berries. The request was no sooner
preferred, than granted. The eldest boy ran out to fetch some milk,
the second dragged two stools towards the door, and the youngest
crept to his mother's gown, and looked at the strangers from beneath
his sunburnt hand.

'God save you, master,' said the old cottager in a thin piping
voice; 'are you travelling far?'

'Yes, Sir, a long way'--replied the child; for her grandfather
appealed to her.

'From London?' inquired the old man.

The child said yes.

Ah! He had been in London many a time--used to go there often
once, with waggons. It was nigh two-and-thirty year since he had
been there last, and he did hear say there were great changes. Like
enough! He had changed, himself, since then. Two-and-thirty year
was a long time and eighty-four a great age, though there was some he
had known that had lived to very hard upon a hundred--and not so
hearty as he, neither--no, nothing like it.

'Sit thee down, master, in the elbow chair,' said the old man,
knocking his stick upon the brick floor, and trying to do so sharply.
'Take a pinch out o' that box; I don't take much myself, for it
comes dear, but I find it wakes me up sometimes, and ye're but a boy
to me. I should have a son pretty nigh as old as you if he'd lived,
but they listed him for a so'ger--he come back home though, for all
he had but one poor leg. He always said he'd be buried near the
sun-dial he used to climb upon when he was a baby, did my poor boy,
and his words come true--you can see the place with your own eyes;
we've kept the turf up, ever since.'

He shook his head, and looking at his daughter with watery eyes,
said she needn't be afraid that he was going to talk about that, any
more. He didn't wish to trouble nobody, and if he had troubled
anybody by what he said, he asked pardon, that was all.

The milk arrived, and the child producing her little basket, and
selecting its best fragments for her grandfather, they made a hearty
meal. The furniture of the room was very homely of course-- a few
rough chairs and a table, a corner cupboard with their little stock
of crockery and delf, a gaudy tea-tray, representing a lady in bright
red, walking out with a very blue parasol, a few common, coloured
scripture subjects in frames upon the wall and chimney, an old dwarf
clothes-press and an eight-day clock, with a few bright saucepans and
a kettle, comprised the whole. But everything was clean and neat,
and as the child glanced round, she felt a tranquil air of comfort
and content to which she had long been unaccustomed.

'How far is it to any town or village?' she asked of the
husband.

'A matter of good five mile, my dear,' was the reply, 'but
you're not going on to-night?'

'Yes, yes, Nell,' said the old man hastily, urging her too by
signs. 'Further on, further on, darling, further away if we walk
till midnight.'

'There's a good barn hard by, master,' said the man, 'or there's
travellers' lodging, I know, at the Plow an' Harrer. Excuse me, but
you do seem a little tired, and unless you're very anxious to get
on--'

'Yes, yes, we are,' returned the old man fretfully. 'Further
away, dear Nell, pray further away.'

'We must go on, indeed,' said the child, yielding to his
restless wish. 'We thank you very much, but we cannot stop so soon.
I'm quite ready, grandfather.'

But the woman had observed, from the young wanderer's gait, that
one of her little feet was blistered and sore, and being a woman and
a mother too, she would not suffer her to go until she had washed the
place and applied some simple remedy, which she did so carefully and
with such a gentle hand--rough-grained and hard though it was, with
work--that the child's heart was too full to admit of her saying more
than a fervent 'God bless you!' nor could she look back nor trust
herself to speak, until they had left the cottage some distance
behind. When she turned her head, she saw that the whole family,
even the old grandfather, were standing in the road watching them as
they went, and so, with many waves of the hand, and cheering nods,
and on one side at least not without tears, they parted company.

They trudged forward, more slowly and painfully than they had
done yet, for another mile or thereabouts, when they heard the sound
of wheels behind them, and looking round observed an empty cart
approaching pretty briskly. The driver on coming up to them stopped
his horse and looked earnestly at Nell.

'Didn't you stop to rest at a cottage yonder?' he said.

'Yes, sir,' replied the child.

'Ah! They asked me to look out for you,' said the man. 'I'm
going your way. Give me your hand--jump up, master.'

This was a great relief, for they were very much fatigued and
could scarcely crawl along. To them the jolting cart was a luxurious
carriage, and the ride the most delicious in the world. Nell had
scarcely settled herself on a little heap of straw in one corner,
when she fell asleep, for the first time that day.

She was awakened by the stopping of the cart, which was about to
turn up a bye-lane. The driver kindly got down to help her out, and
pointing to some trees at a very short distance before them, said
that the town lay there, and that they had better take the path which
they would see leading through the churchyard. Accordingly, towards
this spot, they directed their weary steps.