Chapter 55

The Old Curiosity Shop

by Charles Dickens

From that time, there sprung 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 can seldom 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 of old--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 bade 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 schoolboys, 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
latticed 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 there 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 favourite 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--save 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 stayed here to be with us. Willy 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 Willy 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 were 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 sexton 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 am 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
monks 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!'