Chapter 61

The Old Curiosity Shop

by Charles Dickens

Let moralists and philosophers say what they may, it is very
questionable whether a guilty man would have felt half as much misery
that night, as Kit did, being innocent. The world, being in the
constant commission of vast quantities of injustice, is a little too
apt to comfort itself with the idea that if the victim of its
falsehood and malice have a clear conscience, he cannot fail to be
sustained under his trials, and somehow or other to come right at
last; 'in which case,' say they who have hunted him down, '--though
we certainly don't expect it--nobody will be better pleased than we.'
Whereas, the world would do well to reflect, that injustice is in
itself, to every generous and properly constituted mind, an injury,
of all others the most insufferable, the most torturing, and the most
hard to bear; and that many clear consciences have gone to their
account elsewhere, and many sound hearts have broken, because of this
very reason; the knowledge of their own deserts only aggravating
their sufferings, and rendering them the less endurable.

The world, however, was not in fault in Kit's case. But Kit was
innocent; and knowing this, and feeling that his best friends deemed
him guilty--that Mr and Mrs Garland would look upon him as a monster
of ingratitude--that Barbara would associate him with all that was
bad and criminal--that the pony would consider himself forsaken--and
that even his own mother might perhaps yield to the strong
appearances against him, and believe him to be the wretch he
seemed--knowing and feeling all this, he experienced, at first, an
agony of mind which no words can describe, and walked up and down the
little cell in which he was locked up for the night, almost beside
himself with grief.

Even when the violence of these emotions had in some degree
subsided, and he was beginning to grow more calm, there came into his
mind a new thought, the anguish of which was scarcely less. The
child--the bright star of the simple fellow's life--she, who always
came back upon him like a beautiful dream--who had made the poorest
part of his existence, the happiest and best--who had ever been so
gentle, and considerate, and good--if she were ever to hear of this,
what would she think! As this idea occurred to him, the walls of the
prison seemed to melt away, and the old place to reveal itself in
their stead, as it was wont to be on winter nights--the fireside, the
little supper table, the old man's hat, and coat, and stick--the
half-opened door, leading to her little room--they were all there.
And Nell herself was there, and he-- both laughing heartily as they
had often done--and when he had got as far as this, Kit could go no
farther, but flung himself upon his poor bedstead and wept.

It was a long night, which seemed as though it would have no
end; but he slept too, and dreamed--always of being at liberty, and
roving about, now with one person and now with another, but ever with
a vague dread of being recalled to prison; not that prison, but one
which was in itself a dim idea--not of a place, but of a care and
sorrow: of something oppressive and always present, and yet
impossible to define. At last, the morning dawned, and there was the
jail itself--cold, black, and dreary, and very real indeed. He was
left to himself, however, and there was comfort in that. He had
liberty to walk in a small paved yard at a certain hour, and learnt
from the turnkey, who came to unlock his cell and show him where to
wash, that there was a regular time for visiting, every day, and that
if any of his friends came to see him, he would be fetched down to
the grate. When he had given him this information, and a tin
porringer containing his breakfast, the man locked him up again; and
went clattering along the stone passage, opening and shutting a great
many other doors, and raising numberless loud echoes which resounded
through the building for a long time, as if they were in prison too,
and unable to get out.

This turnkey had given him to understand that he was lodged,
like some few others in the jail, apart from the mass of prisoners;
because he was not supposed to be utterly depraved and irreclaimable,
and had never occupied apartments in that mansion before. Kit was
thankful for this indulgence, and sat reading the church catechism
very attentively (though he had known it by heart from a little
child), until he heard the key in the lock, and the man entered
again.

'Now then,' he said, 'come on!'

'Where to, Sir?' asked Kit.

The man contented himself by briefly replying 'Wisitors;' and
taking him by the arm in exactly the same manner as the constable had
done the day before, led him, through several winding ways and strong
gates, into a passage, where he placed him at a grating and turned
upon his heel. Beyond this grating, at the distance of about four or
five feet, was another exactly like it. In the space between, sat a
turnkey reading a newspaper, and outside the further railing, Kit
saw, with a palpitating heart, his mother with the baby in her arms;
Barbara's mother with her never-failing umbrella; and poor little
Jacob, staring in with all his might, as though he were looking for
the bird, or the wild beast, and thought the men were mere accidents
with whom the bars could have no possible concern.

But when little Jacob saw his brother, and, thrusting his arms
between the rails to hug him, found that he came no nearer, but still
stood afar off with his head resting on the arm by which he held to
one of the bars, he began to cry most piteously; whereupon, Kit's
mother and Barbara's mother, who had restrained themselves as much as
possible, burst out sobbing and weeping afresh. Poor Kit could not
help joining them, and not one of them could speak a word. During
this melancholy pause, the turnkey read his newspaper with a waggish
look (he had evidently got among the facetious paragraphs) until,
happening to take his eyes off for an instant, as if to get by dint
of contemplation at the very marrow of some joke of a deeper sort
than the rest, it appeared to occur to him, for the first time, that
somebody was crying.

'Now, ladies, ladies,' he said, looking round with surprise,
'I'd advise you not to waste time like this. It's allowanced here,
you know. You mustn't let that child make that noise either. It's
against all rules.'

'I'm his poor mother, sir,'--sobbed Mrs Nubbles, curtseying
humbly, 'and this is his brother, sir. Oh dear me, dear me!'

'Well!' replied the turnkey, folding his paper on his knee, so
as to get with greater convenience at the top of the next column.
'It can't be helped you know. He ain't the only one in the same fix.
You mustn't make a noise about it!'

With that he went on reading. The man was not unnaturally cruel
or hard-hearted. He had come to look upon felony as a kind of
disorder, like the scarlet fever or erysipelas: some people had it--
some hadn't--just as it might be.

'Oh! my darling Kit,' said his mother, whom Barbara's mother had
charitably relieved of the baby, 'that I should see my poor boy
here!'

'You don't believe that I did what they accuse me of, mother
dear?' cried Kit, in a choking voice.

'I believe it!' exclaimed the poor woman, 'I that never knew you
tell a lie, or do a bad action from your cradle--that have never had
a moment's sorrow on your account, except it was the poor meals that
you have taken with such good humour and content, that I forgot how
little there was, when I thought how kind and thoughtful you were,
though you were but a child!--I believe it of the son that's been a
comfort to me from the hour of his birth until this time, and that I
never laid down one night in anger with! I believe it of you
Kit!--'

'Why then, thank God!' said Kit, clutching the bars with an
earnestness that shook them, 'and I can bear it, mother! Come what
may, I shall always have one drop of happiness in my heart when I
think that you said that.'

At this the poor woman fell a-crying again, and Barbara's mother
too. And little Jacob, whose disjointed thoughts had by this time
resolved themselves into a pretty distinct impression that Kit
couldn't go out for a walk if he wanted, and that there were no
birds, lions, tigers or other natural curiosities behind those bars--
nothing indeed, but a caged brother--added his tears to theirs with
as little noise as possible.

Kit's mother, drying her eyes (and moistening them, poor soul,
more than she dried them), now took from the ground a small basket,
and submissively addressed herself to the turnkey, saying, would he
please to listen to her for a minute? The turnkey, being in the very
crisis and passion of a joke, motioned to her with his hand to keep
silent one minute longer, for her life. Nor did he remove his hand
into its former posture, but kept it in the same warning attitude
until he had finished the paragraph, when he paused for a few
seconds, with a smile upon his face, as who should say 'this editor
is a comical blade--a funny dog,' and then asked her what she
wanted.

'I have brought him a little something to eat,' said the good
woman. 'If you please, Sir, might he have it?'

'Yes,--he may have it. There's no rule against that. Give it
to me when you go, and I'll take care he has it.'

'No, but if you please sir--don't be angry with me sir--I am his
mother, and you had a mother once--if I might only see him eat a
little bit, I should go away, so much more satisfied that he was all
comfortable.'

And again the tears of Kit's mother burst forth, and of
Barbara's mother, and of little Jacob. As to the baby, it was
crowing and laughing with its might--under the idea, apparently, that
the whole scene had been invented and got up for its particular
satisfaction.

The turnkey looked as if he thought the request a strange one
and rather out of the common way, but nevertheless he laid down his
paper, and coming round where Kit's mother stood, took the basket
from her, and after inspecting its contents, handed it to Kit, and
went back to his place. It may be easily conceived that the prisoner
had no great appetite, but he sat down on the ground, and ate as hard
as he could, while, at every morsel he put into his mouth, his mother
sobbed and wept afresh, though with a softened grief that bespoke the
satisfaction the sight afforded her.

While he was thus engaged, Kit made some anxious inquiries about
his employers, and whether they had expressed any opinion concerning
him; but all he could learn was that Mr Abel had himself broken the
intelligence to his mother, with great kindness and delicacy, late on
the previous night, but had himself expressed no opinion of his
innocence or guilt. Kit was on the point of mustering courage to ask
Barbara's mother about Barbara, when the turnkey who had conducted
him, reappeared, a second turnkey appeared behind his visitors, and
the third turnkey with the newspaper cried 'Time's up!'--adding in
the same breath 'Now for the next party!' and then plunging deep into
his newspaper again. Kit was taken off in an instant, with a blessing
from his mother, and a scream from little Jacob, ringing in his ears.
As he was crossing the next yard with the basket in his hand, under
the guidance of his former conductor, another officer called to them
to stop, and came up with a pint pot of porter in his hand.

'This is Christopher Nubbles, isn't it, that come in last night
for felony?' said the man.

His comrade replied that this was the chicken in question.

'Then here's your beer,' said the other man to Christopher.
'What are you looking at? There an't a discharge in it.'

'I beg your pardon,' said Kit. 'Who sent it me?'

'Why, your friend,' replied the man. 'You're to have it every
day, he says. And so you will, if he pays for it.'

'My friend!' repeated Kit.

'You're all abroad, seemingly,' returned the other man.
'There's his letter. Take hold!'

Kit took it, and when he was locked up again, read as
follows.

'Drink of this cup, you'll find there's a spell in its every
drop 'gainst the ills of mortality. Talk of the cordial that
sparkled for Helen! Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality
(Barclay and Co.'s).--If they ever send it in a flat state, complain
to the Governor. Yours, R. S.'

'R. S.!' said Kit, after some consideration. 'It must be Mr
Richard Swiveller. Well, its very kind of him, and I thank him
heartily.'