The Old Curiosity Shop
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!’
CHAPTER 69
Kit was no sluggard next morning, but, springing from his bed some time
before day, began to prepare for his welcome expedition. The hurry of
spirits consequent upon the events of yesterday, and the unexpected
intelligence he had heard at night, had troubled his sleep through the
long dark hours, and summoned such uneasy dreams about his pillow that
it was best to rise.
But, had it been the beginning of some great labour with the same end
in view--had it been the commencement of a long journey, to be
performed on foot in that inclement season of the year, to be pursued
under very privation and difficulty, and to be achieved only with great
distress, fatigue, and suffering--had it been the dawn of some painful
enterprise, certain to task his utmost powers of resolution and
endurance, and to need his utmost fortitude, but only likely to end, if
happily achieved, in good fortune and delight to Nell--Kit’s cheerful
zeal would have been as highly roused: Kit’s ardour and impatience
would have been, at least, the same.
Nor was he alone excited and eager. Before he had been up a quarter of
an hour the whole house were astir and busy. Everybody hurried to do
something towards facilitating the preparations. The single gentleman,
it is true, could do nothing himself, but he overlooked everybody else
and was more locomotive than anybody. The work of packing and making
ready went briskly on, and by daybreak every preparation for the
journey was completed. Then Kit began to wish they had not been quite
so nimble; for the travelling-carriage which had been hired for the
occasion was not to arrive until nine o’clock, and there was nothing
but breakfast to fill up the intervening blank of one hour and a half.
Yes there was, though. There was Barbara. Barbara was busy, to be
sure, but so much the better--Kit could help her, and that would pass
away the time better than any means that could be devised. Barbara had
no objection to this arrangement, and Kit, tracking out the idea which
had come upon him so suddenly overnight, began to think that surely
Barbara was fond of him, and surely he was fond of Barbara.
Now, Barbara, if the truth must be told--as it must and ought to
be--Barbara seemed, of all the little household, to take least pleasure
in the bustle of the occasion; and when Kit, in the openness of his
heart, told her how glad and overjoyed it made him, Barbara became more
downcast still, and seemed to have even less pleasure in it than before!
‘You have not been home so long, Christopher,’ said Barbara--and it is
impossible to tell how carelessly she said it--‘You have not been home
so long, that you need to be glad to go away again, I should think.’
‘But for such a purpose,’ returned Kit. ‘To bring back Miss Nell! To
see her again! Only think of that! I am so pleased too, to think that
you will see her, Barbara, at last.’
Barbara did not absolutely say that she felt no gratification on this
point, but she expressed the sentiment so plainly by one little toss of
her head, that Kit was quite disconcerted, and wondered, in his
simplicity, why she was so cool about it.
‘You’ll say she has the sweetest and beautifullest face you ever saw, I
know,’ said Kit, rubbing his hands. ‘I’m sure you’ll say that.’
Barbara tossed her head again.
‘What’s the matter, Barbara?’ said Kit.
‘Nothing,’ cried Barbara. And Barbara pouted--not sulkily, or in an
ugly manner, but just enough to make her look more cherry-lipped than
ever.
There is no school in which a pupil gets on so fast, as that in which
Kit became a scholar when he gave Barbara the kiss. He saw what
Barbara meant now--he had his lesson by heart all at once--she was the
book--there it was before him, as plain as print.
‘Barbara,’ said Kit, ‘you’re not cross with me?’
Oh dear no! Why should Barbara be cross? And what right had she to be
cross? And what did it matter whether she was cross or not? Who
minded her!
‘Why, I do,’ said Kit. ‘Of course I do.’
Barbara didn’t see why it was of course, at all.
Kit was sure she must. Would she think again?
Certainly, Barbara would think again. No, she didn’t see why it was of
course. She didn’t understand what Christopher meant. And besides she
was sure they wanted her up stairs by this time, and she must go,
indeed--
‘No, but Barbara,’ said Kit, detaining her gently, ‘let us part
friends. I was always thinking of you, in my troubles. I should have
been a great deal more miserable than I was, if it hadn’t been for you.’
Goodness gracious, how pretty Barbara was when she coloured--and when
she trembled, like a little shrinking bird!
‘I am telling you the truth, Barbara, upon my word, but not half so
strong as I could wish,’ said Kit. ‘When I want you to be pleased to
see Miss Nell, it’s only because I like you to be pleased with what
pleases me--that’s all. As to her, Barbara, I think I could almost die
to do her service, but you would think so too, if you knew her as I do.
I am sure you would.’
Barbara was touched, and sorry to have appeared indifferent.
‘I have been used, you see,’ said Kit, ‘to talk and think of her,
almost as if she was an angel. When I look forward to meeting her
again, I think of her smiling as she used to do, and being glad to see
me, and putting out her hand and saying, “It’s my own old Kit,” or some
such words as those--like what she used to say. I think of seeing her
happy, and with friends about her, and brought up as she deserves, and
as she ought to be. When I think of myself, it’s as her old servant,
and one that loved her dearly, as his kind, good, gentle mistress; and
who would have gone--yes, and still would go--through any harm to serve
her. Once, I couldn’t help being afraid that if she came back with
friends about her she might forget, or be ashamed of having known, a
humble lad like me, and so might speak coldly, which would have cut me,
Barbara, deeper than I can tell. But when I came to think again, I
felt sure that I was doing her wrong in this; and so I went on, as I
did at first, hoping to see her once more, just as she used to be.
Hoping this, and remembering what she was, has made me feel as if I
would always try to please her, and always be what I should like to
seem to her if I was still her servant. If I’m the better for
that--and I don’t think I’m the worse--I am grateful to her for it, and
love and honour her the more. That’s the plain honest truth, dear
Barbara, upon my word it is!’
Little Barbara was not of a wayward or capricious nature, and, being
full of remorse, melted into tears. To what more conversation this
might have led, we need not stop to inquire; for the wheels of the
carriage were heard at that moment, and, being followed by a smart ring
at the garden gate, caused the bustle in the house, which had laid
dormant for a short time, to burst again into tenfold life and vigour.
Simultaneously with the travelling equipage, arrived Mr Chuckster in a
hackney cab, with certain papers and supplies of money for the single
gentleman, into whose hands he delivered them. This duty discharged,
he subsided into the bosom of the family; and, entertaining himself
with a strolling or peripatetic breakfast, watched, with genteel
indifference, the process of loading the carriage.
‘Snobby’s in this, I see, Sir?’ he said to Mr Abel Garland. ‘I thought
he wasn’t in the last trip because it was expected that his presence
wouldn’t be acceptable to the ancient buffalo.’
‘To whom, Sir?’ demanded Mr Abel.
‘To the old gentleman,’ returned Mr Chuckster, slightly abashed.
‘Our client prefers to take him now,’ said Mr Abel, drily. ‘There is
no longer any need for that precaution, as my father’s relationship to
a gentleman in whom the objects of his search have full confidence,
will be a sufficient guarantee for the friendly nature of their errand.’
‘Ah!’ thought Mr Chuckster, looking out of window, ‘anybody but me!
Snobby before me, of course. He didn’t happen to take that particular
five-pound note, but I have not the smallest doubt that he’s always up
to something of that sort. I always said it, long before this came
out. Devilish pretty girl that! ‘Pon my soul, an amazing little
creature!’
Barbara was the subject of Mr Chuckster’s commendations; and as she was
lingering near the carriage (all being now ready for its departure),
that gentleman was suddenly seized with a strong interest in the
proceedings, which impelled him to swagger down the garden, and take up
his position at a convenient ogling distance. Having had great
experience of the sex, and being perfectly acquainted with all those
little artifices which find the readiest road to their hearts, Mr
Chuckster, on taking his ground, planted one hand on his hip, and with
the other adjusted his flowing hair. This is a favourite attitude in
the polite circles, and, accompanied with a graceful whistling, has
been known to do immense execution.
Such, however, is the difference between town and country, that nobody
took the smallest notice of this insinuating figure; the wretches being
wholly engaged in bidding the travellers farewell, in kissing hands to
each other, waving handkerchiefs, and the like tame and vulgar
practices. For now the single gentleman and Mr Garland were in the
carriage, and the post-boy was in the saddle, and Kit, well wrapped and
muffled up, was in the rumble behind; and Mrs Garland was there, and Mr
Abel was there, and Kit’s mother was there, and little Jacob was there,
and Barbara’s mother was visible in remote perspective, nursing the
ever-wakeful baby; and all were nodding, beckoning, curtseying, or
crying out, ‘Good bye!’ with all the energy they could express. In