The Old Curiosity Shop
‘He’s enough to fret a man’s heart out,’ replied the hostler. ‘He is
the most wicious rascal--Woa then, will you?’
‘He’ll never stand still, if you call him names,’ said Mr Abel, getting
in, and taking the reins. ‘He’s a very good fellow if you know how to
manage him. This is the first time he has been out, this long while,
for he has lost his old driver and wouldn’t stir for anybody else, till
this morning. The lamps are right, are they? That’s well. Be here to
take him to-morrow, if you please. Good night!’
And, after one or two strange plunges, quite of his own invention, the
pony yielded to Mr Abel’s mildness, and trotted gently off.
All this time Mr Chuckster had been standing at the door, and the small
servant had been afraid to approach. She had nothing for it now,
therefore, but to run after the chaise, and to call to Mr Abel to stop.
Being out of breath when she came up with it, she was unable to make
him hear. The case was desperate; for the pony was quickening his
pace. The Marchioness hung on behind for a few moments, and, feeling
that she could go no farther, and must soon yield, clambered by a
vigorous effort into the hinder seat, and in so doing lost one of the
shoes for ever.
Mr Abel being in a thoughtful frame of mind, and having quite enough to
do to keep the pony going, went jogging on without looking round:
little dreaming of the strange figure that was close behind him, until
the Marchioness, having in some degree recovered her breath, and the
loss of her shoe, and the novelty of her position, uttered close into
his ear, the words--‘I say, Sir’--
He turned his head quickly enough then, and stopping the pony, cried,
with some trepidation, ‘God bless me, what is this!’
‘Don’t be frightened, Sir,’ replied the still panting messenger. ‘Oh
I’ve run such a way after you!’
‘What do you want with me?’ said Mr Abel. ‘How did you come here?’
‘I got in behind,’ replied the Marchioness. ‘Oh please drive on,
sir--don’t stop--and go towards the City, will you? And oh do please
make haste, because it’s of consequence. There’s somebody wants to see
you there. He sent me to say would you come directly, and that he
knowed all about Kit, and could save him yet, and prove his innocence.’
‘What do you tell me, child?’
‘The truth, upon my word and honour I do. But please to drive on--
quick, please! I’ve been such a time gone, he’ll think I’m lost.’
Mr Abel involuntarily urged the pony forward. The pony, impelled by
some secret sympathy or some new caprice, burst into a great pace, and
neither slackened it, nor indulged in any eccentric performances, until
they arrived at the door of Mr Swiveller’s lodging, where, marvellous
to relate, he consented to stop when Mr Abel checked him.
‘See! It’s the room up there,’ said the Marchioness, pointing to one
where there was a faint light. ‘Come!’
Mr Abel, who was one of the simplest and most retiring creatures in
existence, and naturally timid withal, hesitated; for he had heard of
people being decoyed into strange places to be robbed and murdered,
under circumstances very like the present, and, for anything he knew to
the contrary, by guides very like the Marchioness. His regard for Kit,
however, overcame every other consideration. So, entrusting Whisker to
the charge of a man who was lingering hard by in expectation of the
job, he suffered his companion to take his hand, and to lead him up the
dark and narrow stairs.
He was not a little surprised to find himself conducted into a
dimly-lighted sick chamber, where a man was sleeping tranquilly in bed.
‘An’t it nice to see him lying there so quiet?’ said his guide, in an
earnest whisper. ‘Oh! you’d say it was, if you had only seen him two
or three days ago.’
Mr Abel made no answer, and, to say the truth, kept a long way from the
bed and very near the door. His guide, who appeared to understand his
reluctance, trimmed the candle, and taking it in her hand, approached
the bed. As she did so, the sleeper started up, and he recognised in
the wasted face the features of Richard Swiveller.
‘Why, how is this?’ said Mr Abel kindly, as he hurried towards him.
‘You have been ill?’
‘Very,’ replied Dick. ‘Nearly dead. You might have chanced to hear of
your Richard on his bier, but for the friend I sent to fetch you.
Another shake of the hand, Marchioness, if you please. Sit down, Sir.’
Mr Abel seemed rather astonished to hear of the quality of his guide,
and took a chair by the bedside.
‘I have sent for you, Sir,’ said Dick--‘but she told you on what
account?’
‘She did. I am quite bewildered by all this. I really don’t know what
to say or think,’ replied Mr Abel.
‘You’ll say that presently,’ retorted Dick. ‘Marchioness, take a seat
on the bed, will you? Now, tell this gentleman all that you told me;
and be particular. Don’t you speak another word, Sir.’
The story was repeated; it was, in effect, exactly the same as before,
without any deviation or omission. Richard Swiveller kept his eyes
fixed on his visitor during its narration, and directly it was
concluded, took the word again.
‘You have heard it all, and you’ll not forget it. I’m too giddy and
too queer to suggest anything; but you and your friends will know what
to do. After this long delay, every minute is an age. If ever you
went home fast in your life, go home fast to-night. Don’t stop to say
one word to me, but go. She will be found here, whenever she’s wanted;
and as to me, you’re pretty sure to find me at home, for a week or two.
There are more reasons than one for that. Marchioness, a light! If
you lose another minute in looking at me, sir, I’ll never forgive you!’
Mr Abel needed no more remonstrance or persuasion. He was gone in an
instant; and the Marchioness, returning from lighting him down-stairs,
reported that the pony, without any preliminary objection whatever, had
dashed away at full gallop.
‘That’s right!’ said Dick; ‘and hearty of him; and I honour him from
this time. But get some supper and a mug of beer, for I am sure you
must be tired. Do have a mug of beer. It will do me as much good to
see you take it as if I might drink it myself.’
Nothing but this assurance could have prevailed upon the small nurse to
indulge in such a luxury. Having eaten and drunk to Mr Swiveller’s
extreme contentment, given him his drink, and put everything in neat
order, she wrapped herself in an old coverlet and lay down upon the rug
before the fire.
Mr Swiveller was by that time murmuring in his sleep, ‘Strew then, oh
strew, a bed of rushes. Here will we stay, till morning blushes. Good
night, Marchioness!’
CHAPTER 66
On awaking in the morning, Richard Swiveller became conscious, by slow
degrees, of whispering voices in his room. Looking out between the
curtains, he espied Mr Garland, Mr Abel, the notary, and the single
gentleman, gathered round the Marchioness, and talking to her with
great earnestness but in very subdued tones--fearing, no doubt, to
disturb him. He lost no time in letting them know that this precaution
was unnecessary, and all four gentlemen directly approached his
bedside. Old Mr Garland was the first to stretch out his hand, and
inquire how he felt.
Dick was about to answer that he felt much better, though still as weak
as need be, when his little nurse, pushing the visitors aside and
pressing up to his pillow as if in jealousy of their interference, set
his breakfast before him, and insisted on his taking it before he
underwent the fatigue of speaking or of being spoken to. Mr Swiveller,
who was perfectly ravenous, and had had, all night, amazingly distinct
and consistent dreams of mutton chops, double stout, and similar
delicacies, felt even the weak tea and dry toast such irresistible
temptations, that he consented to eat and drink on one condition.
‘And that is,’ said Dick, returning the pressure of Mr Garland’s hand,
‘that you answer me this question truly, before I take a bit or drop.
Is it too late?’
‘For completing the work you began so well last night?’ returned the
old gentleman. ‘No. Set your mind at rest on that point. It is not,
I assure you.’
Comforted by this intelligence, the patient applied himself to his food
with a keen appetite, though evidently not with a greater zest in the
eating than his nurse appeared to have in seeing him eat. The manner
of this meal was this:--Mr Swiveller, holding the slice of toast or cup
of tea in his left hand, and taking a bite or drink, as the case might
be, constantly kept, in his right, one palm of the Marchioness tight
locked; and to shake, or even to kiss this imprisoned hand, he would
stop every now and then, in the very act of swallowing, with perfect
seriousness of intention, and the utmost gravity. As often as he put
anything into his mouth, whether for eating or drinking, the face of
the Marchioness lighted up beyond all description; but whenever he gave
her one or other of these tokens of recognition, her countenance became
overshadowed, and she began to sob. Now, whether she was in her
laughing joy, or in her crying one, the Marchioness could not help
turning to the visitors with an appealing look, which seemed to say,
‘You see this fellow--can I help this?’--and they, being thus made, as
it were, parties to the scene, as regularly answered by another look,
‘No. Certainly not.’ This dumb-show, taking place during the whole
time of the invalid’s breakfast, and the invalid himself, pale and
emaciated, performing no small part in the same, it may be fairly
questioned whether at any meal, where no word, good or bad, was spoken
from beginning to end, so much was expressed by gestures in themselves
so slight and unimportant.
At length--and to say the truth before very long--Mr Swiveller had
despatched as much toast and tea as in that stage of his recovery it
was discreet to let him have. But the cares of the Marchioness did not
stop here; for, disappearing for an instant and presently returning
with a basin of fair water, she laved his face and hands, brushed his
hair, and in short made him as spruce and smart as anybody under such
circumstances could be made; and all this, in as brisk and
business-like a manner, as if he were a very little boy, and she his
grown-up nurse. To these various attentions, Mr Swiveller submitted in
a kind of grateful astonishment beyond the reach of language. When
they were at last brought to an end, and the Marchioness had withdrawn
into a distant corner to take her own poor breakfast (cold enough by
that time), he turned his face away for some few moments, and shook
hands heartily with the air.
‘Gentlemen,’ said Dick, rousing himself from this pause, and turning
round again, ‘you’ll excuse me. Men who have been brought so low as I
have been, are easily fatigued. I am fresh again now, and fit for
talking. We’re short of chairs here, among other trifles, but if
you’ll do me the favour to sit upon the bed--’
‘What can we do for you?’ said Mr Garland, kindly.
‘If you could make the Marchioness yonder, a Marchioness, in real,
sober earnest,’ returned Dick, ‘I’d thank you to get it done off-hand.
But as you can’t, and as the question is not what you will do for me,
but what you will do for somebody else who has a better claim upon you,
pray sir let me know what you intend doing.’
‘It’s chiefly on that account that we have come just now,’ said the
single gentleman, ‘for you will have another visitor presently. We
feared you would be anxious unless you knew from ourselves what steps
we intended to take, and therefore came to you before we stirred in the
matter.’
‘Gentlemen,’ returned Dick, ‘I thank you. Anybody in the helpless
state that you see me in, is naturally anxious. Don’t let me interrupt