Chapter 68

The Old Curiosity Shop

by Charles Dickens

Lighted rooms, bright fires, cheerful faces, the music of glad
voices, words of love and welcome, warm hearts, and tears of
happiness--what a change is this! But it is to such delights that
Kit is hastening. They are awaiting him, he knows. He fears he will
die of joy, before he gets among them.

They have prepared him for this, all day. He is not to be
carried off to-morrow with the rest, they tell him first. By degrees
they let him know that doubts have arisen, that inquiries are to be
made, and perhaps he may be pardoned after all. At last, the evening
being come, they bring him to a room where some gentlemen are
assembled. Foremost among them is his good old master, who comes and
takes him by the hand. He hears that his innocence is established,
and that he is pardoned. He cannot see the speaker, but he turns
towards the voice, and in trying to answer, falls down insensible.

They recover him again, and tell him he must be composed, and
bear this like a man. Somebody says he must think of his poor
mother. It is because he does think of her so much, that the happy
news had overpowered him. They crowd about him, and tell him that
the truth has gone abroad, and that all the town and country ring
with sympathy for his misfortunes. He has no ears for this. His
thoughts, as yet, have no wider range than home. Does she know it?
what did she say? who told her? He can speak of nothing else.

They make him drink a little wine, and talk kindly to him for a
while, until he is more collected, and can listen, and thank them. He
is free to go. Mr Garland thinks, if he feels better, it is time
they went away. The gentlemen cluster round him, and shake hands
with him. He feels very grateful to them for the interest they have
in him, and for the kind promises they make; but the power of speech
is gone again, and he has much ado to keep his feet, even though
leaning on his master's arm.

As they come through the dismal passages, some officers of the
jail who are in waiting there, congratulate him, in their rough way,
on his release. The newsmonger is of the number, but his manner is
not quite hearty--there is something of surliness in his compliments.
He looks upon Kit as an intruder, as one who has obtained admission
to that place on false pretences, who has enjoyed a privilege without
being duly qualified. He may be a very good sort of young man, he
thinks, but he has no business there, and the sooner he is gone, the
better.

The last door shuts behind them. They have passed the outer
wall, and stand in the open air--in the street he has so often
pictured to himself when hemmed in by the gloomy stones, and which
has been in all his dreams. It seems wider and more busy than it
used to be. The night is bad, and yet how cheerful and gay in his
eyes! One of the gentlemen, in taking leave of him, pressed some
money into his hand. He has not counted it; but when they have gone
a few paces beyond the box for poor Prisoners, he hastily returns and
drops it in.

Mr Garland has a coach waiting in a neighbouring street, and,
taking Kit inside with him, bids the man drive home. At first, they
can only travel at a foot pace, and then with torches going on
before, because of the heavy fog. But, as they get farther from the
river, and leave the closer portions of the town behind, they are
able to dispense with this precaution and to proceed at a brisker
rate. On the road, hard galloping would be too slow for Kit; but,
when they are drawing near their journey's end, he begs they may go
more slowly, and, when the house appears in sight, that they may
stop--only for a minute or two, to give him time to breathe.

But there is no stopping then, for the old gentleman speaks
stoutly to him, the horses mend their pace, and they are already at
the garden-gate. Next minute, they are at the door. There is a
noise of tongues, and tread of feet, inside. It opens. Kit rushes
in, and finds his mother clinging round his neck.

And there, too, is the ever faithful Barbara's mother, still
holding the baby as if she had never put it down since that sad day
when they little hoped to have such joy as this--there she is, Heaven
bless her, crying her eyes out, and sobbing as never woman sobbed
before; and there is little Barbara--poor little Barbara, so much
thinner and so much paler, and yet so very pretty-- trembling like a
leaf and supporting herself against the wall; and there is Mrs
Garland, neater and nicer than ever, fainting away stone dead with
nobody to help her; and there is Mr Abel, violently blowing his nose,
and wanting to embrace everybody; and there is the single gentleman
hovering round them all, and constant to nothing for an instant; and
there is that good, dear, thoughtful little Jacob, sitting all alone
by himself on the bottom stair, with his hands on his knees like an
old man, roaring fearfully without giving any trouble to anybody; and
each and all of them are for the time clean out of their wits, and do
jointly and severally commit all manner of follies.

And even when the rest have in some measure come to themselves
again, and can find words and smiles, Barbara--that soft-hearted,
gentle, foolish little Barbara--is suddenly missed, and found to be
in a swoon by herself in the back parlour, from which swoon she falls
into hysterics, and from which hysterics into a swoon again, and is,
indeed, so bad, that despite a mortal quantity of vinegar and cold
water she is hardly a bit better at last than she was at first.
Then, Kit's mother comes in and says, will he come and speak to her;
and Kit says 'Yes,' and goes; and he says in a kind voice 'Barbara!'
and Barbara's mother tells her that 'it's only Kit;' and Barbara says
(with her eyes closed all the time) 'Oh! but is it him indeed?' and
Barbara's mother says 'To be sure it is, my dear; there's nothing the
matter now.' And in further assurance that he's safe and sound, Kit
speaks to her again; and then Barbara goes off into another fit of
laughter, and then into another fit of crying; and then Barbara's
mother and Kit's mother nod to each other and pretend to scold
her--but only to bring her to herself the faster, bless you!--and
being experienced matrons, and acute at perceiving the first dawning
symptoms of recovery, they comfort Kit with the assurance that
'she'll do now,' and so dismiss him to the place from whence he
came.

Well! In that place (which is the next room) there are
decanters of wine, and all that sort of thing, set out as grand as if
Kit and his friends were first-rate company; and there is little
Jacob, walking, as the popular phrase is, into a home-made plum-cake,
at a most surprising pace, and keeping his eye on the figs and
oranges which are to follow, and making the best use of his time, you
may believe. Kit no sooner comes in, than that single gentleman
(never was such a busy gentleman) charges all the
glasses--bumpers--and drinks his health, and tells him he shall never
want a friend while he lives; and so does Mr Garland, and so does Mrs
Garland, and so does Mr Abel. But even this honour and distinction
is not all, for the single gentleman forthwith pulls out of his
pocket a massive silver watch--going hard, and right to half a
second--and upon the back of this watch is engraved Kit's name, with
flourishes all over; and in short it is Kit's watch, bought expressly
for him, and presented to him on the spot. You may rest assured that
Mr and Mrs Garland can't help hinting about their present, in store,
and that Mr Abel tells outright that he has his; and that Kit is the
happiest of the happy.

There is one friend he has not seen yet, and as he cannot be
conveniently introduced into the family circle, by reason of his
being an iron-shod quadruped, Kit takes the first opportunity of
slipping away and hurrying to the stable. The moment he lays his
hand upon the latch, the pony neighs the loudest pony's greeting;
before he has crossed the threshold, the pony is capering about his
loose box (for he brooks not the indignity of a halter), mad to give
him welcome; and when Kit goes up to caress and pat him, the pony
rubs his nose against his coat, and fondles him more lovingly than
ever pony fondled man. It is the crowning circumstance of his
earnest, heartfelt reception; and Kit fairly puts his arm round
Whisker's neck and hugs him.

But how comes Barbara to trip in there? and how smart she is
again! she has been at her glass since she recovered. How comes
Barbara in the stable, of all places in the world? Why, since Kit
has been away, the pony would take his food from nobody but her, and
Barbara, you see, not dreaming that Christopher was there, and just
looking in, to see that everything was right, has come upon him
unawares. Blushing little Barbara!

It may be that Kit has caressed the pony enough; it may be that
there are even better things to caress than ponies. He leaves him
for Barbara at any rate, and hopes she is better. Yes. Barbara is a
great deal better. She is afraid--and here Barbara looks down and
blushes more--that he must have thought her very foolish. 'Not at
all,' says Kit. Barbara is glad of that, and coughs--Hem!-- just the
slightest cough possible--not more than that.

What a discreet pony when he chooses! He is as quiet now as if
he were of marble. He has a very knowing look, but that he always
has. 'We have hardly had time to shake hands, Barbara,' says Kit.
Barbara gives him hers. Why, she is trembling now! Foolish,
fluttering Barbara!

Arm's length? The length of an arm is not much. Barbara's was
not a long arm, by any means, and besides, she didn't hold it out
straight, but bent a little. Kit was so near her when they shook
hands, that he could see a small tiny tear, yet trembling on an
eyelash. It was natural that he should look at it, unknown to
Barbara. It was natural that Barbara should raise her eyes
unconsciously, and find him out. Was it natural that at that
instant, without any previous impulse or design, Kit should kiss
Barbara? He did it, whether or no. Barbara said 'for shame,' but
let him do it too--twice. He might have done it thrice, but the pony
kicked up his heels and shook his head, as if he were suddenly taken
with convulsions of delight, and Barbara being frightened, ran
away--not straight to where her mother and Kit's mother were, though,
lest they should see how red her cheeks were, and should ask her why.
Sly little Barbara!

When the first transports of the whole party had subsided, and
Kit and his mother, and Barbara and her mother, with little Jacob and
the baby to boot, had had their suppers together--which there was no
hurrying over, for they were going to stop there all night--Mr
Garland called Kit to him, and taking him into a room where they
could be alone, told him that he had something yet to say, which
would surprise him greatly. Kit looked so anxious and turned so pale
on hearing this, that the old gentleman hastened to add, he would be
agreeably surprised; and asked him if he would be ready next morning
for a journey.

'For a journey, sir!' cried Kit.

'In company with me and my friend in the next room. Can you
guess its purpose?'

Kit turned paler yet, and shook his head.

'Oh yes. I think you do already,' said his master. 'Try.'

Kit murmured something rather rambling and unintelligible, but
he plainly pronounced the words 'Miss Nell,' three or four times--
shaking his head while he did so, as if he would add that there was
no hope of that.

But Mr Garland, instead of saying 'Try again,' as Kit had made
sure he would, told him very seriously, that he had guessed right.

'The place of their retreat is indeed discovered,' he said, 'at
last. And that is our journey's end.'

Kit faltered out such questions as, where was it, and how had it
been found, and how long since, and was she well and happy?

'Happy she is, beyond all doubt,' said Mr Garland. 'And well,
I-- I trust she will be soon. She has been weak and ailing, as I
learn, but she was better when I heard this morning, and they were
full of hope. Sit you down, and you shall hear the rest.'

Scarcely venturing to draw his breath, Kit did as he was told.
Mr Garland then related to him, how he had a brother (of whom he
would remember to have heard him speak, and whose picture, taken when
he was a young man, hung in the best room), and how this brother
lived a long way off, in a country-place, with an old clergyman who
had been his early friend. How, although they loved each other as
brothers should, they had not met for many years, but had
communicated by letter from time to time, always looking forward to
some period when they would take each other by the hand once more,
and still letting the Present time steal on, as it was the habit for
men to do, and suffering the Future to melt into the Past. How this
brother, whose temper was very mild and quiet and retiring-- such as
Mr Abel's--was greatly beloved by the simple people among whom he
dwelt, who quite revered the Bachelor (for so they called him), and
had every one experienced his charity and benevolence. How even those
slight circumstances had come to his knowledge, very slowly and in
course of years, for the Bachelor was one of those whose goodness
shuns the light, and who have more pleasure in discovering and
extolling the good deeds of others, than in trumpeting their own, be
they never so commendable. How, for that reason, he seldom told them
of his village friends; but how, for all that, his mind had become so
full of two among them--a child and an old man, to whom he had been
very kind--that, in a letter received a few days before, he had dwelt
upon them from first to last, and had told such a tale of their
wandering, and mutual love, that few could read it without being
moved to tears. How he, the recipient of that letter, was directly
led to the belief that these must be the very wanderers for whom so
much search had been made, and whom Heaven had directed to his
brother's care. How he had written for such further information as
would put the fact beyond all doubt; how it had that morning arrived;
had confirmed his first impression into a certainty; and was the
immediate cause of that journey being planned, which they were to
take to-morrow.

'In the meantime,' said the old gentleman rising, and laying his
hand on Kit's shoulder, 'you have a great need of rest; for such a
day as this would wear out the strongest man. Good night, and Heaven
send our journey may have a prosperous ending!'