Chapter 52

The Old Curiosity Shop

by Charles Dickens

After a long time, the schoolmaster appeared at the wicket-gate
of the churchyard, and hurried towards them, Tingling in his hand, as
he came along, a bundle of rusty keys. He was quite breathless with
pleasure and haste when he reached the porch, and at first could only
point towards the old building which the child had been contemplating
so earnestly.

'You see those two old houses,' he said at last.

'Yes, surely,' replied Nell. 'I have been looking at them
nearly all the time you have been away.'

'And you would have looked at them more curiously yet, if you
could have guessed what I have to tell you,' said her friend. 'One
of those houses is mine.'

Without saying any more, or giving the child time to reply, the
schoolmaster took her hand, and, his honest face quite radiant with
exultation, led her to the place of which he spoke.

They stopped before its low arched door. After trying several
of the keys in vain, the schoolmaster found one to fit the huge lock,
which turned back, creaking, and admitted them into the house.

The room into which they entered was a vaulted chamber once
nobly ornamented by cunning architects, and still retaining, in its
beautiful groined roof and rich stone tracery, choice remnants of its
ancient splendour. Foliage carved in the stone, and emulating the
mastery of Nature's hand, yet remained to tell how many times the
leaves outside had come and gone, while it lived on unchanged. The
broken figures supporting the burden of the chimney-piece, though
mutilated, were still distinguishable for what they had been--far
different from the dust without--and showed sadly by the empty
hearth, like creatures who had outlived their kind, and mourned their
own too slow decay.

In some old time--for even change was old in that old place--a
wooden partition had been constructed in one part of the chamber to
form a sleeping-closet, into which the light was admitted at the same
period by a rude window, or rather niche, cut in the solid wall.
This screen, together with two seats in the broad chimney, had at
some forgotten date been part of the church or convent; for the oak,
hastily appropriated to its present purpose, had been little altered
from its former shape, and presented to the eye a pile of fragments
of rich carving from old monkish stalls.

An open door leading to a small room or cell, dim with the light
that came through leaves of ivy, completed the interior of this
portion of the ruin. It was not quite destitute of furniture. A few
strange chairs, whose arms and legs looked as though they had
dwindled away with age; a table, the very spectre of its race: a
great old chest that had once held records in the church, with other
quaintly-fashioned domestic necessaries, and store of fire-wood for
the winter, were scattered around, and gave evident tokens of its
occupation as a dwelling-place at no very distant time.

The child looked around her, with that solemn feeling with which
we contemplate the work of ages that have become but drops of water
in the great ocean of eternity. The old man had followed them, but
they were all three hushed for a space, and drew their breath softly,
as if they feared to break the silence even by so slight a sound.

'It is a very beautiful place!' said the child, in a low
voice.

'I almost feared you thought otherwise,' returned the
schoolmaster. 'You shivered when we first came in, as if you felt it
cold or gloomy.'

'It was not that,' said Nell, glancing round with a slight
shudder. 'Indeed I cannot tell you what it was, but when I saw the
outside, from the church porch, the same feeling came over me. It is
its being so old and grey perhaps.'

'A peaceful place to live in, don't you think so)' said her
friend.

'Oh yes,' rejoined the child, clasping her hands earnestly. 'A
quiet, happy place--a place to live and learn to die in!' She would
have said more, but that the energy of her thoughts caused her voice
to falter, and come in trembling whispers from her lips.

'A place to live, and learn to live, and gather health of mind
and body in,' said the schoolmaster; 'for this old house is
yours.'

'Ours!' cried the child.

'Ay,' returned the schoolmaster gaily, 'for many a merry year to
come, I hope. I shall be a close neighbour--only next door--but this
house is yours.'

Having now disburdened himself of his great surprise, the
schoolmaster sat down, and drawing Nell to his side, told her how he
had learnt that ancient tenement had been occupied for a very long
time by an old person, nearly a hundred years of age, who kept the
keys of the church, opened and closed it for the services, and showed
it to strangers; how she had died not many weeks ago, and nobody had
yet been found to fill the office; how, learning all this in an
interview with the sexton, who was confined to his bed by rheumatism,
he had been bold to make mention of his fellow-traveller, which had
been so favourably received by that high authority, that he had taken
courage, acting on his advice, to propound the matter to the
clergyman. In a word, the result of his exertions was, that Nell and
her grandfather were to be carried before the last-named gentleman
next day; and, his approval of their conduct and appearance reserved
as a matter of form, that they were already appointed to the vacant
post.

'There's a small allowance of money,' said the schoolmaster.
'It is not much, but still enough to live upon in this retired spot.
By clubbing our funds together, we shall do bravely; no fear of
that.'

'Heaven bless and prosper you!' sobbed the child.

'Amen, my dear,' returned her friend cheerfully; 'and all of us,
as it will, and has, in leading us through sorrow and trouble to this
tranquil life. But we must look at my house now. Come!'

They repaired to the other tenement; tried the rusty keys as
before; at length found the right one; and opened the worm-eaten
door. It led into a chamber, vaulted and old, like that from which
they had come, but not so spacious, and having only one other little
room attached. It was not difficult to divine that the other house
was of right the schoolmaster's, and that he had chosen for himself
the least commodious, in his care and regard for them. Like the
adjoining habitation, it held such old articles of furniture as were
absolutely necessary, and had its stack of fire-wood.

To make these dwellings as habitable and full of comfort as they
could, was now their pleasant care. In a short time, each had its
cheerful fire glowing and crackling on the hearth, and reddening the
pale old wall with a hale and healthy blush. Nell, busily plying her
needle, repaired the tattered window-hangings, drew together the
rents that time had worn in the threadbare scraps of carpet, and made
them whole and decent. The schoolmaster swept and smoothed the
ground before the door, trimmed the long grass, trained the ivy and
creeping plants which hung their drooping heads in melancholy
neglect; and gave to the outer walls a cheery air of home. The old
man, sometimes by his side and sometimes with the child, lent his aid
to both, went here and there on little patient services, and was
happy. Neighbours, too, as they came from work, proffered their
help; or sent their children with such small presents or loans as the
strangers needed most. It was a busy day; and night came on, and
found them wondering that there was yet so much to do, and that it
should be dark so soon.

They took their supper together, in the house which may be
henceforth called the child's; and, when they had finished their
meal, drew round the fire, and almost in whispers--their hearts were
too quiet and glad for loud expression--discussed their future plans.
Before they separated, the schoolmaster read some prayers aloud; and
then, full of gratitude and happiness, they parted for the night.

At that silent hour, when her grandfather was sleeping
peacefully in his bed, and every sound was hushed, the child lingered
before the dying embers, and thought of her past fortunes as if they
had been a dream And she only now awoke. The glare of the sinking
flame, reflected in the oaken panels whose carved tops were dimly
seen in the dusky roof--the aged walls, where strange shadows came
and went with every flickering of the fire--the solemn presence,
within, of that decay which falls on senseless things the most
enduring in their nature: and, without, and round about on every
side, of Death--filled her with deep and thoughtful feelings, but
with none of terror or alarm. A change had been gradually stealing
over her, in the time of her loneliness and sorrow. With failing
strength and heightening resolution, there had sprung up a purified
and altered mind; there had grown in her bosom blessed thoughts and
hopes, which are the portion of few but the weak and drooping. There
were none to see the frail, perishable figure, as it glided from the
fire and leaned pensively at the open casement; none but the stars,
to look into the upturned face and read its history. The old church
bell rang out the hour with a mournful sound, as if it had grown sad
from so much communing with the dead and unheeded warning to the
living; the fallen leaves rustled; the grass stirred upon the graves;
all else was still and sleeping.

Some of those dreamless sleepers lay close within the shadow of
the church--touching the wall, as if they clung to it for comfort and
protection. Others had chosen to lie beneath the changing shade of
trees; others by the path, that footsteps might come near them;
others, among the graves of little children. Some had desired to
rest beneath the very ground they had trodden in their daily walks;
some, where the setting sun might shine upon their beds; some, where
its light would fall upon them when it rose. Perhaps not one of the
imprisoned souls had been able quite to separate itself in living
thought from its old companion. If any had, it had still felt for it
a love like that which captives have been known to bear towards the
cell in which they have been long confined, and, even at parting,
hung upon its narrow bounds affectionately.

It was long before the child closed the window, and approached
her bed. Again something of the same sensation as before--an
involuntary chill--a momentary feeling akin to fear--but vanishing
directly, and leaving no alarm behind. Again, too, dreams of the
little scholar; of the roof opening, and a column of bright faces,
rising far away into the sky, as she had seen in some old scriptural
picture once, and looking down on her, asleep. It was a sweet and
happy dream. The quiet spot, outside, seemed to remain the same,
saving that there was music in the air, and a sound of angels' wings.
After a time the sisters came there, hand in hand, and stood among
the graves. And then the dream grew dim, and faded.

With the brightness and joy of morning, came the renewal of
yesterday's labours, the revival of its pleasant thoughts, the
restoration of its energies, cheerfulness, and hope. They worked
gaily in ordering and arranging their houses until noon, and then
went to visit the clergyman.

He was a simple-hearted old gentleman, of a shrinking, subdued
spirit, accustomed to retirement, and very little acquainted with the
world, which he had left many years before to come and settle in that
place. His wife had died in the house in which he still lived, and
he had long since lost sight of any earthly cares or hopes beyond
it.

He received them very kindly, and at once showed an interest in
Nell; asking her name, and age, her birthplace, the circumstances
which had led her there, and so forth. The schoolmaster had already
told her story. They had no other friends or home to leave, he said,
and had come to share his fortunes. He loved the child as though she
were his own.

'Well, well,' said the clergyman. 'Let it be as you desire.
She is very young.' 'Old in adversity and trial, sir,' replied the
schoolmaster.

'God help her. Let her rest, and forget them,' said the old
gentleman. 'But an old church is a dull and gloomy place for one so
young as you, my child.'

'Oh no, sir,' returned Nell. 'I have no such thoughts,
indeed.'

'I would rather see her dancing on the green at nights,' said
the old gentleman, laying his hand upon her head, and smiling sadly,
'than have her sitting in the shadow of our mouldering arches. You
must look to this, and see that her heart does not grow heavy among
these solemn ruins. Your request is granted, friend.'

After more kind words, they withdrew, and repaired to the
child's house; where they were yet in conversation on their happy
fortune, when another friend appeared.

This was a little old gentleman, who lived in the
parsonage-house, and had resided there (so they learnt soon
afterwards) ever since the death of the clergyman's wife, which had
happened fifteen years before. He had been his college friend and
always his close companion; in the first shock of his grief he had
come to console and comfort him; and from that time they had never
parted company. The little old gentleman was the active spirit of the
place, the adjuster of all differences, the promoter of all
merry-makings, the dispenser of his friend's bounty, and of no small
charity of his own besides; the universal mediator, comforter, and
friend. None of the simple villagers had cared to ask his name, or,
when they knew it, to store it in their memory. Perhaps from some
vague rumour of his college honours which had been whispered abroad
on his first arrival, perhaps because he was an unmarried,
unencumbered gentleman, he had been called the bachelor. The name
pleased him, or suited him as well as any other, and the Bachelor he
had ever since remained. And the bachelor it was, it may be added,
who with his own hands had laid in the stock of fuel which the
wanderers had found in their new habitation.

The bachelor, then--to call him by his usual appellation--lifted
the latch, showed his little round mild face for a moment at the
door, and stepped into the room like one who was no stranger to
it.

'You are Mr Marton, the new schoolmaster?' he said, greeting
Nell's kind friend.

'I am, sir.'

'You come well recommended, and I am glad to see you. I should
have been in the way yesterday, expecting you, but I rode across the
country to carry a message from a sick mother to her daughter in
service some miles off, and have but just now returned. This is our
young church-keeper? You are not the less welcome, friend, for her
sake, or for this old man's; nor the worse teacher for having learnt
humanity.' 'She has been ill, sir, very lately,' said the
schoolmaster, in answer to the look with which their visitor regarded
Nell when he had kissed her cheek.

'Yes, yes. I know she has,' he rejoined. 'There have been
suffering and heartache here.'

'Indeed there have, sir.'

The little old gentleman glanced at the grandfather, and back
again at the child, whose hand he took tenderly in his, and held.

'You will be happier here,' he said; 'we will try, at least, to
make you so. You have made great improvements here already. Are
they the work of your hands?'

'Yes, sir.'

'We may make some others--not better in themselves, but with
better means perhaps,' said the bachelor. 'Let us see now, let us
see.'

Nell accompanied him into the other little rooms, and over both
the houses, in which he found various small comforts wanting, which
he engaged to supply from a certain collection of odds and ends he
had at home, and which must have been a very miscellaneous and
extensive one, as it comprehended the most opposite articles
imaginable. They all came, however, and came without loss of time;
for the little old gentleman, disappearing for some five or ten
minutes, presently returned, laden with old shelves, rugs, blankets,
and other household gear, and followed by a boy bearing a similar
load. These being cast on the floor in a promiscuous heap, yielded a
quantity of occupation in arranging, erecting, and putting away; the
superintendence of which task evidently afforded the old gentleman
extreme delight, and engaged him for some time with great briskness
and activity. When nothing more was left to be done, he charged the
boy to run off and bring his schoolmates to be marshalled before
their new master, and solemnly reviewed.

'As good a set of fellows, Marton, as you'd wish to see,' he
said, turning to the schoolmaster when the boy was gone; 'but I don't
let 'em know I think so. That wouldn't do, at all.'

The messenger soon returned at the head of a long row of
urchins, great and small, who, being confronted by the bachelor at
the house door, fell into various convulsions of politeness;
clutching their hats and caps, squeezing them into the smallest
possible dimensions, and making all manner of bows and scrapes, which
the little old gentleman contemplated with excessive satisfaction,
and expressed his approval of by a great many nods and smiles.
Indeed, his approbation of the boys was by no means so scrupulously
disguised as he had led the schoolmaster to suppose, inasmuch as it
broke out in sundry loud whispers and confidential remarks which were
perfectly audible to them every one. 'This first boy, schoolmaster,'
said the bachelor, 'is John Owen; a lad of good parts, sir, and
frank, honest temper; but too thoughtless, too playful, too
light-headed by far. That boy, my good sir, would break his neck
with pleasure, and deprive his parents of their chief comfort--and
between ourselves, when you come to see him at hare and hounds,
taking the fence and ditch by the finger-post, and sliding down the
face of the little quarry, you'll never forget it. It's
beautiful!'

John Owen having been thus rebuked, and being in perfect
possession of the speech aside, the bachelor singled out another
boy.

'Now, look at that lad, sir,' said the bachelor. 'You see that
fellow? Richard Evans his name is, sir. An amazing boy to learn,
blessed with a good memory, and a ready understanding, and moreover
with a good voice and ear for psalm-singing, in which he is the best
among us. Yet, sir, that boy will come to a bad end; he'll never die
in his bed; he's always falling asleep in sermon-time-- and to tell
you the truth, Mr Marton, I always did the same at his age, and feel
quite certain that it was natural to my constitution and I couldn't
help it.'

This hopeful pupil edified by the above terrible reproval, the
bachelor turned to another.

'But if we talk of examples to be shunned,' said he, 'if we come
to boys that should be a warning and a beacon to all their fellows,
here's the one, and I hope you won't spare him. This is the lad,
sir; this one with the blue eyes and light hair. This is a swimmer,
sir, this fellow--a diver, Lord save us! This is a boy, sir, who had
a fancy for plunging into eighteen feet of water, with his clothes
on, and bringing up a blind man's dog, who was being drowned by the
weight of his chain and collar, while his master stood wringing his
hands upon the bank, bewailing the loss of his guide and friend. I
sent the boy two guineas anonymously, sir,' added the bachelor, in
his peculiar whisper, 'directly I heard of it; but never mention it
on any account, for he hasn't the least idea that it came from me.
'

Having disposed of this culprit, the bachelor turned to another,
and from him to another, and so on through the whole array, laying,
for their wholesome restriction within due bounds, the same cutting
emphasis on such of their propensities as were dearest to his heart
and were unquestionably referrable to his own precept and example.
Thoroughly persuaded, in the end, that he had made them miserable by
his severity, he dismissed them with a small present, and an
admonition to walk quietly home, without any leapings, scufflings, or
turnings out of the way; which injunction, he informed the
schoolmaster in the same audible confidence, he did not think he
could have obeyed when he was a boy, had his life depended on it.

Hailing these little tokens of the bachelor's disposition as so
many assurances of his own welcome course from that time, the
schoolmaster parted from him with a light heart and joyous spirits,
and deemed himself one of the happiest men on earth. The windows of
the two old houses were ruddy again, that night, with the reflection
of the cheerful fires that burnt within; and the bachelor and his
friend, pausing to look upon them as they returned from their evening
walk, spoke softly together of the beautiful child, and looked round
upon the churchyard with a sigh.