The Old Curiosity Shop
law. This defeat had its origin in the untoward detection of a new
associate--young Frederick Trent--who thus became the unconscious
instrument of their punishment and his own.
For the young man himself, he rioted abroad for a brief term, living by
his wits--which means by the abuse of every faculty that worthily
employed raises man above the beasts, and so degraded, sinks him far
below them. It was not long before his body was recognised by a
stranger, who chanced to visit that hospital in Paris where the drowned
are laid out to be owned; despite the bruises and disfigurements which
were said to have been occasioned by some previous scuffle. But the
stranger kept his own counsel until he returned home, and it was never
claimed or cared for.
The younger brother, or the single gentleman, for that designation is
more familiar, would have drawn the poor schoolmaster from his lone
retreat, and made him his companion and friend. But the humble village
teacher was timid of venturing into the noisy world, and had become
fond of his dwelling in the old churchyard. Calmly happy in his
school, and in the spot, and in the attachment of Her little mourner,
he pursued his quiet course in peace; and was, through the righteous
gratitude of his friend--let this brief mention suffice for that--a
POOR school-master no more.
That friend--single gentleman, or younger brother, which you will--had
at his heart a heavy sorrow; but it bred in him no misanthropy or
monastic gloom. He went forth into the world, a lover of his kind.
For a long, long time, it was his chief delight to travel in the steps
of the old man and the child (so far as he could trace them from her
last narrative), to halt where they had halted, sympathise where they
had suffered, and rejoice where they had been made glad. Those who had
been kind to them, did not escape his search. The sisters at the
school--they who were her friends, because themselves so
friendless--Mrs Jarley of the wax-work, Codlin, Short--he found them
all; and trust me, the man who fed the furnace fire was not forgotten.
Kit’s story having got abroad, raised him up a host of friends, and
many offers of provision for his future life. He had no idea at first
of ever quitting Mr Garland’s service; but, after serious remonstrance
and advice from that gentleman, began to contemplate the possibility of
such a change being brought about in time. A good post was procured
for him, with a rapidity which took away his breath, by some of the
gentlemen who had believed him guilty of the offence laid to his
charge, and who had acted upon that belief. Through the same kind
agency, his mother was secured from want, and made quite happy. Thus,
as Kit often said, his great misfortune turned out to be the source of
all his subsequent prosperity.
Did Kit live a single man all his days, or did he marry? Of course he
married, and who should be his wife but Barbara? And the best of it
was, he married so soon that little Jacob was an uncle, before the
calves of his legs, already mentioned in this history, had ever been
encased in broadcloth pantaloons,--though that was not quite the best
either, for of necessity the baby was an uncle too. The delight of
Kit’s mother and of Barbara’s mother upon the great occasion is past
all telling; finding they agreed so well on that, and on all other
subjects, they took up their abode together, and were a most harmonious
pair of friends from that time forth. And hadn’t Astley’s cause to
bless itself for their all going together once a quarter--to the
pit--and didn’t Kit’s mother always say, when they painted the outside,
that Kit’s last treat had helped to that, and wonder what the manager
would feel if he but knew it as they passed his house!
When Kit had children six and seven years old, there was a Barbara
among them, and a pretty Barbara she was. Nor was there wanting an
exact facsimile and copy of little Jacob, as he appeared in those
remote times when they taught him what oysters meant. Of course there
was an Abel, own godson to the Mr Garland of that name; and there was a
Dick, whom Mr Swiveller did especially favour. The little group would
often gather round him of a night and beg him to tell again that story
of good Miss Nell who died. This, Kit would do; and when they cried to
hear it, wishing it longer too, he would teach them how she had gone to
Heaven, as all good people did; and how, if they were good, like her,
they might hope to be there too, one day, and to see and know her as he
had done when he was quite a boy. Then, he would relate to them how
needy he used to be, and how she had taught him what he was otherwise
too poor to learn, and how the old man had been used to say ‘she always
laughs at Kit;’ at which they would brush away their tears, and laugh
themselves to think that she had done so, and be again quite merry.
He sometimes took them to the street where she had lived; but new
improvements had altered it so much, it was not like the same. The old
house had been long ago pulled down, and a fine broad road was in its
place. At first he would draw with his stick a square upon the ground
to show them where it used to stand. But he soon became uncertain of
the spot, and could only say it was thereabouts, he thought, and these
alterations were confusing.
Such are the changes which a few years bring about, and so do things
pass away, like a tale that is told!