Chapter 26

The Old Curiosity Shop

by Charles Dickens

Almost broken-hearted, Nell withdrew with the schoolmaster from
the bedside and returned to his cottage. In the midst of her grief
and tears she was yet careful to conceal their real cause from the
old man, for the dead boy had been a grandchild, and left but one
aged relative to mourn his premature decay.

She stole away to bed as quickly as she could, and when she was
alone, gave free vent to the sorrow with which her breast was
overcharged. But the sad scene she had witnessed, was not without
its lesson of content and gratitude; of content with the lot which
left her health and freedom; and gratitude that she was spared to the
one relative and friend she loved, and to live and move in a
beautiful world, when so many young creatures--as young and full of
hope as she--were stricken down and gathered to their graves. How
many of the mounds in that old churchyard where she had lately
strayed, grew green above the graves of children! And though she
thought as a child herself, and did not perhaps sufficiently consider
to what a bright and happy existence those who die young are borne,
and how in death they lose the pain of seeing others die around them,
bearing to the tomb some strong affection of their hearts (which
makes the old die many times in one long life), still she thought
wisely enough, to draw a plain and easy moral from what she had seen
that night, and to store it, deep in her mind.

Her dreams were of the little scholar: not coffined and covered
up, but mingling with angels, and smiling happily. The sun darting
his cheerful rays into the room, awoke her; and now there remained
but to take leave of the poor schoolmaster and wander forth once
more.

By the time they were ready to depart, school had begun. In the
darkened room, the din of yesterday was going on again: a little
sobered and softened down, perhaps, but only a very little, if at
all. The schoolmaster rose from his desk and walked with them to the
gate.

It was with a trembling and reluctant hand, that the child held
out to him the money which the lady had given her at the races for
her flowers: faltering in her thanks as she thought how small the sum
was, and blushing as she offered it. But he bade her put it up, and
stooping to kiss her cheek, turned back into his house.

They had not gone half-a-dozen paces when he was at the door
again; the old man retraced his steps to shake hands, and the child
did the same.

'Good fortune and happiness go with you!' said the poor
schoolmaster. 'I am quite a solitary man now. If you ever pass this
way again, you'll not forget the little village-school.'

'We shall never forget it, sir,' rejoined Nell; 'nor ever forget
to be grateful to you for your kindness to us.'

'I have heard such words from the lips of children very often,'
said the schoolmaster, shaking his head, and smiling thoughtfully,
'but they were soon forgotten. I had attached one young friend to
me, the better friend for being young--but that's over--God bless
you!'

They bade him farewell very many times, and turned away, walking
slowly and often looking back, until they could see him no more. At
length they had left the village far behind, and even lost sight of
the smoke among the trees. They trudged onward now, at a quicker
pace, resolving to keep the main road, and go wherever it might lead
them.

But main roads stretch a long, long way. With the exception of
two or three inconsiderable clusters of cottages which they passed,
without stopping, and one lonely road-side public-house where they
had some bread and cheese, this highway had led them to nothing--
late in the afternoon--and still lengthened out, far in the distance,
the same dull, tedious, winding course, that they had been pursuing
all day. As they had no resource, however, but to go forward, they
still kept on, though at a much slower pace, being very weary and
fatigued.

The afternoon had worn away into a beautiful evening, when they
arrived at a point where the road made a sharp turn and struck across
a common. On the border of this common, and close to the hedge which
divided it from the cultivated fields, a caravan was drawn up to
rest; upon which, by reason of its situation, they came so suddenly
that they could not have avoided it if they would.

It was not a shabby, dingy, dusty cart, but a smart little house
upon wheels, with white dimity curtains festooning the windows, and
window-shutters of green picked out with panels of a staring red, in
which happily-contrasted colours the whole concern shone brilliant.
Neither was it a poor caravan drawn by a single donkey or emaciated
horse, for a pair of horses in pretty good condition were released
from the shafts and grazing on the frouzy grass. Neither was it a
gipsy caravan, for at the open door (graced with a bright brass
knocker) sat a Christian lady, stout and comfortable to look upon,
who wore a large bonnet trembling with bows. And that it was not an
unprovided or destitute caravan was clear from this lady's
occupation, which was the very pleasant and refreshing one of taking
tea. The tea-things, including a bottle of rather suspicious
character and a cold knuckle of ham, were set forth upon a drum,
covered with a white napkin; and there, as if at the most convenient
round-table in all the world, sat this roving lady, taking her tea
and enjoying the prospect.

It happened that at that moment the lady of the caravan had her
cup (which, that everything about her might be of a stout and
comfortable kind, was a breakfast cup) to her lips, and that having
her eyes lifted to the sky in her enjoyment of the full flavour of
the tea, not unmingled possibly with just the slightest dash or gleam
of something out of the suspicious bottle--but this is mere
speculation and not distinct matter of history--it happened that
being thus agreeably engaged, she did not see the travellers when
they first came up. It was not until she was in the act of getting
down the cup, and drawing a long breath after the exertion of causing
its contents to disappear, that the lady of the caravan beheld an old
man and a young child walking slowly by, and glancing at her
proceedings with eyes of modest but hungry admiration.

'Hey!' cried the lady of the caravan, scooping the crumbs out of
her lap and swallowing the same before wiping her lips. 'Yes, to be
sure--Who won the Helter-Skelter Plate, child?'

'Won what, ma'am?' asked Nell.

'The Helter-Skelter Plate at the races, child--the plate that
was run for on the second day.'

'On the second day, ma'am?'

'Second day! Yes, second day,' repeated the lady with an air of
impatience. 'Can't you say who won the Helter-Skelter Plate when
you're asked the question civilly?'

'I don't know, ma'am.'

'Don't know!' repeated the lady of the caravan; 'why, you were
there. I saw you with my own eyes.'

Nell was not a little alarmed to hear this, supposing that the
lady might be intimately acquainted with the firm of Short and
Codlin; but what followed tended to reassure her.

'And very sorry I was,' said the lady of the caravan, 'to see
you in company with a Punch; a low, practical, wulgar wretch, that
people should scorn to look at.'

'I was not there by choice,' returned the child; 'we didn't know
our way, and the two men were very kind to us, and let us travel with
them. Do you--do you know them, ma'am?'

'Know 'em, child!' cried the lady of the caravan in a sort of
shriek. 'Know them! But you're young and inexperienced, and that's
your excuse for asking sich a question. Do I look as if I know'd
'em, does the caravan look as if it know'd 'em?'

'No, ma'am, no,' said the child, fearing she had committed some
grievous fault. 'I beg your pardon.'

It was granted immediately, though the lady still appeared much
ruffled and discomposed by the degrading supposition. The child then
explained that they had left the races on the first day, and were
travelling to the next town on that road, where they purposed to
spend the night. As the countenance of the stout lady began to clear
up, she ventured to inquire how far it was. The reply--which the
stout lady did not come to, until she had thoroughly explained that
she went to the races on the first day in a gig, and as an expedition
of pleasure, and that her presence there had no connexion with any
matters of business or profit--was, that the town was eight miles
off.

This discouraging information a little dashed the child, who
could scarcely repress a tear as she glanced along the darkening
road. Her grandfather made no complaint, but he sighed heavily as he
leaned upon his staff, and vainly tried to pierce the dusty
distance.

The lady of the caravan was in the act of gathering her tea
equipage together preparatory to clearing the table, but noting the
child's anxious manner she hesitated and stopped. The child
curtseyed, thanked her for her information, and giving her hand to
the old man had already got some fifty yards or so away, when the
lady of the caravan called to her to return.

'Come nearer, nearer still,' said she, beckoning to her to
ascend the steps. 'Are you hungry, child?'

'Not very, but we are tired, and it's--it is a long way.'

'Well, hungry or not, you had better have some tea,' rejoined
her new acquaintance. 'I suppose you are agreeable to that, old
gentleman?'

The grandfather humbly pulled off his hat and thanked her. The
lady of the caravan then bade him come up the steps likewise, but the
drum proving an inconvenient table for two, they descended again, and
sat upon the grass, where she handed down to them the tea-tray, the
bread and butter, the knuckle of ham, and in short everything of
which she had partaken herself, except the bottle which she had
already embraced an opportunity of slipping into her pocket.

'Set 'em out near the hind wheels, child, that's the best
place,' said their friend, superintending the arrangements from
above. 'Now hand up the teapot for a little more hot water, and a
pinch of fresh tea, and then both of you eat and drink as much as you
can, and don't spare anything; that's all I ask of you.'

They might perhaps have carried out the lady's wish, if it had
been less freely expressed, or even if it had not been expressed at
all. But as this direction relieved them from any shadow of delicacy
or uneasiness, they made a hearty meal and enjoyed it to the
utmost.

While they were thus engaged, the lady of the caravan alighted
on the earth, and with her hands clasped behind her, and her large
bonnet trembling excessively, walked up and down in a measured tread
and very stately manner, surveying the caravan from time to time with
an air of calm delight, and deriving particular gratification from
the red panels and the brass knocker. When she had taken this gentle
exercise for some time, she sat down upon the steps and called
'George'; whereupon a man in a carter's frock, who had been so
shrouded in a hedge up to this time as to see everything that passed
without being seen himself, parted the twigs that concealed him, and
appeared in a sitting attitude, supporting on his legs a baking-dish
and a half-gallon stone bottle, and bearing in his right hand a
knife, and in his left a fork.

'Yes, Missus,' said George.

'How did you find the cold pie, George?'

'It warn't amiss, mum.'

'And the beer,' said the lady of the caravan, with an appearance
of being more interested in this question than the last; 'is it
passable, George?'

'It's more flatterer than it might be,' George returned, 'but it
an't so bad for all that.'

To set the mind of his mistress at rest, he took a sip
(amounting in quantity to a pint or thereabouts) from the stone
bottle, and then smacked his lips, winked his eye, and nodded his
head. No doubt with the same amiable desire, he immediately resumed
his knife and fork, as a practical assurance that the beer had
wrought no bad effect upon his appetite.

The lady of the caravan looked on approvingly for some time, and
then said,

'Have you nearly finished?'

'Wery nigh, mum.' And indeed, after scraping the dish all round
with his knife and carrying the choice brown morsels to his mouth,
and after taking such a scientific pull at the stone bottle that, by
degrees almost imperceptible to the sight, his head went further and
further back until he lay nearly at his full length upon the ground,
this gentleman declared himself quite disengaged, and came forth from
his retreat.

'I hope I haven't hurried you, George,' said his mistress, who
appeared to have a great sympathy with his late pursuit.

'If you have,' returned the follower, wisely reserving himself
for any favourable contingency that might occur, 'we must make up for
it next time, that's all.'

'We are not a heavy load, George?'

'That's always what the ladies say,' replied the man, looking a
long way round, as if he were appealing to Nature in general against
such monstrous propositions. 'If you see a woman a driving, you'll
always perceive that she never will keep her whip still; the horse
can't go fast enough for her. If cattle have got their proper load,
you never can persuade a woman that they'll not bear something more.
What is ' the cause of this here?'

'Would these two travellers make much difference to the horses,
if we took them with us?' asked his mistress, offering no reply to
the philosophical inquiry, and pointing to Nell and the old man, who
were painfully preparing to resume their journey on foot.

'They'd make a difference in course,' said George doggedly.

'Would they make much difference?' repeated his mistress. 'They
can't be very heavy.'

'The weight o' the pair, mum,' said George, eyeing them with the
look of a man who was calculating within half an ounce or so, 'would
be a trifle under that of Oliver Cromwell."

Nell was very much surprised that the man should be so
accurately acquainted with the weight of one whom she had read of in
books as having lived considerably before their time, but speedily
forgot the subject in the joy of hearing that they were to go forward
in the caravan, for which she thanked its lady with unaffected
earnestness. She helped with great readiness and alacrity to put
away the tea-things and other matters that were lying about, and, the
horses being by that time harnessed, mounted into the vehicle,
followed by her delighted grandfather. Their patroness then shut the
door and sat herself down by her drum at an open window; and, the
steps being struck by George and stowed under the carriage, away they
went, with a great noise of flapping and creaking and straining, and
the bright brass knocker, which nobody ever knocked at, knocking one
perpetual double knock of its own accord as they jolted heavily
along.