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CHAPTER 12
At length, the crisis of the old man's disorder was past, and he
began to mend. By very slow and feeble degrees his consciousness
came back; but the mind was weakened and its functions were
impaired. He was patient, and quiet; often sat brooding, but not
despondently, for a long space; was easily amused, even by a
sun-beam on the wall or ceiling; made no complaint that the days
were long, or the nights tedious; and appeared indeed to have lost
all count of time, and every sense of care or weariness. He would
sit, for hours together, with Nell's small hand in his, playing
with the fingers and stopping sometimes to smooth her hair or kiss
her brow; and, when he saw that tears were glistening in her eyes,
would look, amazed, about him for the cause, and forget his wonder
even while he looked.
The child and he rode out; the old man propped up with pillows, and
the child beside him. They were hand in hand as usual. The noise
and motion in the streets fatigued his brain at first, but he was
not surprised, or curious, or pleased, or irritated. He was asked
if he remembered this, or that. 'O yes,' he said, 'quite well--why
not?' Sometimes he turned his head, and looked, with earnest gaze
and outstretched neck, after some stranger in the crowd, until he
disappeared from sight; but, to the question why he did this, he
answered not a word.
He was sitting in his easy chair one day, and Nell upon a stool
beside him, when a man outside the door inquired if he might enter.
'Yes,' he said without emotion, 'it was Quilp, he knew. Quilp was
master there. Of course he might come in.' And so he did.
'I'm glad to see you well again at last, neighbour,' said the
dwarf, sitting down opposite him. 'You're quite strong now?'
'Yes,' said the old man feebly, 'yes.'
'I don't want to hurry you, you know, neighbour,' said the dwarf,
raising his voice, for the old man's senses were duller than they
had been; 'but, as soon as you can arrange your future proceedings,
the better.'
'Surely,' said the old man. 'The better for all parties.'
'You see,' pursued Quilp after a short pause, 'the goods being once
removed, this house would be uncomfortable; uninhabitable in fact.'
'You say true,' returned the old man. 'Poor Nell too, what would
she do?'
'Exactly,' bawled the dwarf nodding his head; 'that's very well
observed. Then will you consider about it, neighbour?'
'I will, certainly,' replied the old man. 'We shall not stop here.'
'So I supposed,' said the dwarf. 'I have sold the things. They have
not yielded quite as much as they might have done, but pretty well--
pretty well. To-day's Tuesday. When shall they be moved? There's
no hurry--shall we say this afternoon?'
'Say Friday morning,' returned the old man.
'Very good,' said the dwarf. 'So be it--with the understanding
that I can't go beyond that day, neighbour, on any account.'
'Good,' returned the old man. 'I shall remember it.'
Mr Quilp seemed rather puzzled by the strange, even spiritless way
in which all this was said; but as the old man nodded his head and
repeated 'on Friday morning. I shall remember it,' he had no excuse
for dwelling on the subject any further, and so took a friendly
leave with many expressions of good-will and many compliments to
his friend on his looking so remarkably well; and went below stairs
to report progress to Mr Brass.
All that day, and all the next, the old man remained in this state.
He wandered up and down the house and into and out of the various
rooms, as if with some vague intent of bidding them adieu, but he
referred neither by direct allusions nor in any other manner to the
interview of the morning or the necessity of finding some other
shelter. An indistinct idea he had, that the child was desolate and
in want of help; for he often drew her to his bosom and bade her be
of good cheer, saying that they would not desert each other; but he
seemed unable to contemplate their real position more distinctly,
and was still the listless, passionless creature that suffering of
mind and body had left him.
We call this a state of childishness, but it is the same poor
hollow mockery of it, that death is of sleep. Where, in the dull
eyes of doating men, are the laughing light and life of childhood,
the gaiety that has known no check, the frankness that has felt no
chill, the hope that has never withered, the joys that fade in
blossoming? Where, in the sharp lineaments of rigid and unsightly
death, is the calm beauty of slumber, telling of rest for the
waking hours that are past, and gentle hopes and loves for those
which are to come? Lay death and sleep down, side by side, and say
who shall find the two akin. Send forth the child and childish man
together, and blush for the pride that libels our own old happy
state, and gives its title to an ugly and distorted image.
Thursday arrived, and there was no alteration in the old man. But
a change came upon him that evening as he and the child sat
silently together.
In a small dull yard below his window, there was a tree--green and
flourishing enough, for such a place--and as the air stirred among
its leaves, it threw a rippling shadow on the white wall. The old
man sat watching the shadows as they trembled in this patch of
light, until the sun went down; and when it was night, and the moon
was slowly rising, he still sat in the same spot.
To one who had been tossing on a restless bed so long, even these
few green leaves and this tranquil light, although it languished
among chimneys and house-tops, were pleasant things. They suggested
quiet places afar off, and rest, and peace. The child thought, more
than once that he was moved: and had forborne to speak. But now he
shed tears--tears that it lightened her aching heart to see--and
making as though he would fall upon his knees, besought her to
forgive him.
'Forgive you--what?' said Nell, interposing to prevent his
purpose. 'Oh grandfather, what should I forgive?'
'All that is past, all that has come upon thee, Nell, all that was
done in that uneasy dream,' returned the old man.
'Do not talk so,' said the child. 'Pray do not. Let us speak of
something else.'
'Yes, yes, we will,' he rejoined. 'And it shall be of what we
talked of long ago--many months--months is it, or weeks, or days?
which is it Nell?'
'I do not understand you,' said the child.
'It has come back upon me to-day, it has all come back since we
have been sitting here. I bless thee for it, Nell!'
'For what, dear grandfather?'
'For what you said when we were first made beggars, Nell. Let us
speak softly. Hush! for if they knew our purpose down stairs, they
would cry that I was mad and take thee from me. We will not stop
here another day. We will go far away from here.'
'Yes, let us go,' said the child earnestly. 'Let us begone from
this place, and never turn back or think of it again. Let us wander
barefoot through the world, rather than linger here.'
'We will,' answered the old man, 'we will travel afoot through the
fields and woods, and by the side of rivers, and trust ourselves to
God in the places where He dwells. It is far better to lie down at
night beneath an open sky like that yonder--see how bright it is--
than to rest in close rooms which are always full of care and
weary dreams. Thou and I together, Nell, may be cheerful and happy
yet, and learn to forget this time, as if it had never been.'
'We will be happy,' cried the child. 'We never can be here.'
'No, we never can again--never again--that's truly said,'
rejoined the old man. 'Let us steal away to-morrow morning--early
and softly, that we may not be seen or heard--and leave no trace
or track for them to follow by. Poor Nell! Thy cheek is pale, and
thy eyes are heavy with watching and weeping for me--I know--for
me; but thou wilt be well again, and merry too, when we are far
away. To-morrow morning, dear, we'll turn our faces from this scene
of sorrow, and be as free and happy as the birds.'
And then the old man clasped his hands above her head, and said, in
a few broken words, that from that time forth they would wander up
and down together, and never part more until Death took one or
other of the twain.
The child's heart beat high with hope and confidence. She had no
thought of hunger, or cold, or thirst, or suffering. She saw in
this, but a return of the simple pleasures they had once enjoyed,
a relief from the gloomy solitude in which she had lived, an escape
from the heartless people by whom she had been surrounded in her
late time of trial, the restoration of the old man's health and
peace, and a life of tranquil happiness. Sun, and stream, and
meadow, and summer days, shone brightly in her view, and there was
no dark tint in all the sparkling picture.
The old man had slept, for some hours, soundly in his bed, and she
was yet busily engaged in preparing for their flight. There were a
few articles of clothing for herself to carry, and a few for him;
old garments, such as became their fallen fortunes, laid out to
wear; and a staff to support his feeble steps, put ready for his
use. But this was not all her task; for now she must visit the old
rooms for the last time.
And how different the parting with them was, from any she had
expected, and most of all from that which she had oftenest pictured
to herself. How could she ever have thought of bidding them
farewell in triumph, when the recollection of the many hours she
had passed among them rose to her swelling heart, and made her feel
the wish a cruelty: lonely and sad though many of those hours had
been! She sat down at the window where she had spent so many
evenings--darker far than this--and every thought of hope or
cheerfulness that had occurred to her in that place came vividly
upon her mind, and blotted out all its dull and mournful
associations in an instant.
Her own little room too, where she had so often knelt down and
prayed at night--prayed for the time which she hoped was dawning
now--the little room where she had slept so peacefully, and
dreamed such pleasant dreams! It was hard not to be able to glance
round it once more, and to be forced to leave it without one kind
look or grateful tear. There were some trifles there--poor useless
things--that she would have liked to take away; but that was
impossible.
This brought to mind her bird, her poor bird, who hung there yet.
She wept bitterly for the loss of this little creature--until the
idea occurred to her--she did not know how, or why, it came into
her head--that it might, by some means, fall into the hands of Kit
who would keep it for her sake, and think, perhaps, that she had
left it behind in the hope that he might have it, and as an
assurance that she was grateful to him. She was calmed and
comforted by the thought, and went to rest with a lighter heart.
From many dreams of rambling through light and sunny places, but
with some vague object unattained which ran indistinctly through
them all, she awoke to find that it was yet night, and that the
stars were shining brightly in the sky. At length, the day began to
glimmer, and the stars to grow pale and dim. As soon as she was
sure of this, she arose, and dressed herself for the journey.
The old man was yet asleep, and as she was unwilling to disturb
him, she left him to slumber on, until the sun rose. He was anxious
that they should leave the house without a minute's loss of time,
and was soon ready.
The child then took him by the hand, and they trod lightly and
cautiously down the stairs, trembling whenever a board creaked, and
often stopping to listen. The old man had forgotten a kind of
wallet which contained the light burden he had to carry; and the
going back a few steps to fetch it seemed an interminable delay.
At last they reached the passage on the ground floor, where the
snoring of Mr Quilp and his legal friend sounded more terrible in
their ears than the roars of lions. The bolts of the door were
rusty, and difficult to unfasten without noise. When they were all
drawn back, it was found to be locked, and worst of all, the key
was gone. Then the child remembered, for the first time, one of the
nurses having told her that Quilp always locked both the house-
doors at night, and kept the keys on the table in his bedroom.
It was not without great fear and trepidation that little Nell
slipped off her shoes and gliding through the store-room of old
curiosities, where Mr Brass--the ugliest piece of goods in all the
stock--lay sleeping on a mattress, passed into her own little
chamber.
Here she stood, for a few moments, quite transfixed with terror at
the sight of Mr Quilp, who was hanging so far out of bed that he
almost seemed to be standing on his head, and who, either from the
uneasiness of this posture, or in one of his agreeable habits, was
gasping and growling with his mouth wide open, and the whites (or
rather the dirty yellows) of his eyes distinctly visible. It was no
time, however, to ask whether anything ailed him; so, possessing
herself of the key after one hasty glance about the room, and
repassing the prostrate Mr Brass, she rejoined the old man in
safety. They got the door open without noise, and passing into the
street, stood still.
'Which way?' said the child.
The old man looked, irresolutely and helplessly, first at her, then
to the right and left, then at her again, and shook his head. It
was plain that she was thenceforth his guide and leader. The child
felt it, but had no doubts or misgiving, and putting her hand in
his, led him gently away.
It was the beginning of a day in June; the deep blue sky unsullied
by a cloud, and teeming with brilliant light. The streets were, as
yet, nearly free from passengers, the houses and shops were closed,
and the healthy air of morning fell like breath from angels, on the
sleeping town.
The old man and the child passed on through the glad silence, elate
with hope and pleasure. They were alone together, once again; every
object was bright and fresh; nothing reminded them, otherwise than
by contrast, of the monotony and constraint they had left behind;
church towers and steeples, frowning and dark at other times, now
shone in the sun; each humble nook and corner rejoiced in light;
and the sky, dimmed only by excessive distance, shed its placid
smile on everything beneath.
Forth from the city, while it yet slumbered, went the two poor
adventurers, wandering they knew not whither.
Content of CHAPTER 12 [Charles Dickens' novel: The Old Curiosity Shop]
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