The Old Curiosity Shop
‘Anything that Mr Witherden can say of me,’ observed a small quiet
voice, ‘I can say, with interest, of him, I am sure.’
‘It’s a happy circumstance, a truly happy circumstance,’ said the
Notary, ‘to happen too upon his eight-and-twentieth birthday, and I
hope I know how to appreciate it. I trust, Mr Garland, my dear Sir,
that we may mutually congratulate each other upon this auspicious
occasion.’
To this the old gentleman replied that he felt assured they might.
There appeared to be another shaking of hands in consequence, and when
it was over, the old gentleman said that, though he said it who should
not, he believed no son had ever been a greater comfort to his parents
than Abel Garland had been to his.
‘Marrying as his mother and I did, late in life, sir, after waiting for
a great many years, until we were well enough off--coming together when
we were no longer young, and then being blessed with one child who has
always been dutiful and affectionate--why, it’s a source of great
happiness to us both, sir.’
‘Of course it is, I have no doubt of it,’ returned the Notary in a
sympathising voice. ‘It’s the contemplation of this sort of thing,
that makes me deplore my fate in being a bachelor. There was a young
lady once, sir, the daughter of an outfitting warehouse of the first
respectability--but that’s a weakness. Chuckster, bring in Mr Abel’s
articles.’
‘You see, Mr Witherden,’ said the old lady, ‘that Abel has not been
brought up like the run of young men. He has always had a pleasure in
our society, and always been with us. Abel has never been absent from
us, for a day; has he, my dear?’
‘Never, my dear,’ returned the old gentleman, ‘except when he went to
Margate one Saturday with Mr Tomkinley that had been a teacher at that
school he went to, and came back upon the Monday; but he was very ill
after that, you remember, my dear; it was quite a dissipation.’
‘He was not used to it, you know,’ said the old lady, ‘and he couldn’t
bear it, that’s the truth. Besides he had no comfort in being there
without us, and had nobody to talk to or enjoy himself with.’
‘That was it, you know,’ interposed the same small quiet voice that had
spoken once before. ‘I was quite abroad, mother, quite desolate, and
to think that the sea was between us--oh, I never shall forget what I
felt when I first thought that the sea was between us!’
‘Very natural under the circumstances,’ observed the Notary. ‘Mr
Abel’s feelings did credit to his nature, and credit to your nature,
ma’am, and his father’s nature, and human nature. I trace the same
current now, flowing through all his quiet and unobtrusive
proceedings.--I am about to sign my name, you observe, at the foot of
the articles which Mr Chuckster will witness; and placing my finger
upon this blue wafer with the vandyked corners, I am constrained to
remark in a distinct tone of voice--don’t be alarmed, ma’am, it is
merely a form of law--that I deliver this, as my act and deed. Mr Abel
will place his name against the other wafer, repeating the same
cabalistic words, and the business is over. Ha ha ha! You see how
easily these things are done!’
There was a short silence, apparently, while Mr Abel went through the
prescribed form, and then the shaking of hands and shuffling of feet
were renewed, and shortly afterwards there was a clinking of
wine-glasses and a great talkativeness on the part of everybody. In
about a quarter of an hour Mr Chuckster (with a pen behind his ear and
his face inflamed with wine) appeared at the door, and condescending to
address Kit by the jocose appellation of ‘Young Snob,’ informed him
that the visitors were coming out.
Out they came forthwith; Mr Witherden, who was short, chubby,
fresh-coloured, brisk, and pompous, leading the old lady with extreme
politeness, and the father and son following them, arm in arm. Mr
Abel, who had a quaint old-fashioned air about him, looked nearly of
the same age as his father, and bore a wonderful resemblance to him in
face and figure, though wanting something of his full, round,
cheerfulness, and substituting in its place a timid reserve. In all
other respects, in the neatness of the dress, and even in the
club-foot, he and the old gentleman were precisely alike.
Having seen the old lady safely in her seat, and assisted in the
arrangement of her cloak and a small basket which formed an
indispensable portion of her equipage, Mr Abel got into a little box
behind which had evidently been made for his express accommodation, and
smiled at everybody present by turns, beginning with his mother and
ending with the pony. There was then a great to-do to make the pony
hold up his head that the bearing-rein might be fastened; at last even
this was effected; and the old gentleman, taking his seat and the
reins, put his hand in his pocket to find a sixpence for Kit.
He had no sixpence, neither had the old lady, nor Mr Abel, nor the
Notary, nor Mr Chuckster. The old gentleman thought a shilling too
much, but there was no shop in the street to get change at, so he gave
it to the boy.
‘There,’ he said jokingly, ‘I’m coming here again next Monday at the
same time, and mind you’re here, my lad, to work it out.’
‘Thank you, Sir,’ said Kit. ‘I’ll be sure to be here.’
He was quite serious, but they all laughed heartily at his saying so,
especially Mr Chuckster, who roared outright and appeared to relish the
joke amazingly. As the pony, with a presentiment that he was going
home, or a determination that he would not go anywhere else (which was
the same thing) trotted away pretty nimbly, Kit had no time to justify
himself, and went his way also. Having expended his treasure in such
purchases as he knew would be most acceptable at home, not forgetting
some seed for the wonderful bird, he hastened back as fast as he could,
so elated with his success and great good fortune, that he more than
half expected Nell and the old man would have arrived before him.
CHAPTER 15
Often, while they were yet pacing the silent streets of the town on the
morning of their departure, the child trembled with a mingled sensation
of hope and fear as in some far-off figure imperfectly seen in the
clear distance, her fancy traced a likeness to honest Kit. But
although she would gladly have given him her hand and thanked him for
what he had said at their last meeting, it was always a relief to find,
when they came nearer to each other, that the person who approached was
not he, but a stranger; for even if she had not dreaded the effect
which the sight of him might have wrought upon her fellow-traveller,
she felt that to bid farewell to anybody now, and most of all to him
who had been so faithful and so true, was more than she could bear. It
was enough to leave dumb things behind, and objects that were
insensible both to her love and sorrow. To have parted from her only
other friend upon the threshold of that wild journey, would have wrung
her heart indeed.
Why is it that we can better bear to part in spirit than in body, and
while we have the fortitude to act farewell have not the nerve to say
it? On the eve of long voyages or an absence of many years, friends
who are tenderly attached will separate with the usual look, the usual
pressure of the hand, planning one final interview for the morrow,
while each well knows that it is but a poor feint to save the pain of
uttering that one word, and that the meeting will never be. Should
possibilities be worse to bear than certainties? We do not shun our
dying friends; the not having distinctly taken leave of one among them,
whom we left in all kindness and affection, will often embitter the
whole remainder of a life.
The town was glad with morning light; places that had shown ugly and
distrustful all night long, now wore a smile; and sparkling sunbeams
dancing on chamber windows, and twinkling through blind and curtain
before sleepers’ eyes, shed light even into dreams, and chased away the
shadows of the night. Birds in hot rooms, covered up close and dark,
felt it was morning, and chafed and grew restless in their little
cells; bright-eyed mice crept back to their tiny homes and nestled
timidly together; the sleek house-cat, forgetful of her prey, sat
winking at the rays of sun starting through keyhole and cranny in the
door, and longed for her stealthy run and warm sleek bask outside. The
nobler beasts confined in dens, stood motionless behind their bars and
gazed on fluttering boughs, and sunshine peeping through some little
window, with eyes in which old forests gleamed--then trod impatiently
the track their prisoned feet had worn--and stopped and gazed again.
Men in their dungeons stretched their cramp cold limbs and cursed the
stone that no bright sky could warm. The flowers that sleep by night,
opened their gentle eyes and turned them to the day. The light,
creation’s mind, was everywhere, and all things owned its power.
The two pilgrims, often pressing each other’s hands, or exchanging a
smile or cheerful look, pursued their way in silence. Bright and happy
as it was, there was something solemn in the long, deserted streets,
from which, like bodies without souls, all habitual character and
expression had departed, leaving but one dead uniform repose, that made
them all alike. All was so still at that early hour, that the few pale
people whom they met seemed as much unsuited to the scene, as the
sickly lamp which had been here and there left burning, was powerless
and faint in the full glory of the sun.
Before they had penetrated very far into the labyrinth of men’s abodes
which yet lay between them and the outskirts, this aspect began to melt
away, and noise and bustle to usurp its place. Some straggling carts
and coaches rumbling by, first broke the charm, then others came, then
others yet more active, then a crowd. The wonder was, at first, to see
a tradesman’s window open, but it was a rare thing soon to see one
closed; then, smoke rose slowly from the chimneys, and sashes were
thrown up to let in air, and doors were opened, and servant girls,
looking lazily in all directions but their brooms, scattered brown
clouds of dust into the eyes of shrinking passengers, or listened
disconsolately to milkmen who spoke of country fairs, and told of
waggons in the mews, with awnings and all things complete, and gallant
swains to boot, which another hour would see upon their journey.
This quarter passed, they came upon the haunts of commerce and great
traffic, where many people were resorting, and business was already
rife. The old man looked about him with a startled and bewildered
gaze, for these were places that he hoped to shun. He pressed his
finger on his lip, and drew the child along by narrow courts and
winding ways, nor did he seem at ease until they had left it far
behind, often casting a backward look towards it, murmuring that ruin
and self-murder were crouching in every street, and would follow if
they scented them; and that they could not fly too fast.
Again this quarter passed, they came upon a straggling neighbourhood,
where the mean houses parcelled off in rooms, and windows patched with
rags and paper, told of the populous poverty that sheltered there. The
shops sold goods that only poverty could buy, and sellers and buyers
were pinched and griped alike. Here were poor streets where faded
gentility essayed with scanty space and shipwrecked means to make its
last feeble stand, but tax-gatherer and creditor came there as
elsewhere, and the poverty that yet faintly struggled was hardly less
squalid and manifest than that which had long ago submitted and given
up the game.
This was a wide, wide track--for the humble followers of the camp of
wealth pitch their tents round about it for many a mile--but its