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CHAPTER 41
Kit made his way through the crowded streets, dividing the stream
of people, dashing across the busy road-ways, diving into lanes and
alleys, and stopping or turning aside for nothing, until he came in
front of the Old Curiosity Shop, when he came to a stand; partly
from habit and partly from being out of breath.
It was a gloomy autumn evening, and he thought the old place had
never looked so dismal as in its dreary twilight. The windows
broken, the rusty sashes rattling in their frames, the deserted
house a dull barrier dividing the glaring lights and bustle of the
street into two long lines, and standing in the midst, cold, dark,
and empty--presented a cheerless spectacle which mingled harshly
with the bright prospects the boy had been building up for its late
inmates, and came like a disappointment or misfortune. Kit would
have had a good fire roaring up the empty chimneys, lights
sparkling and shining through the windows, people moving briskly to
and fro, voices in cheerful conversation, something in unison with
the new hopes that were astir. He had not expected that the house
would wear any different aspect--had known indeed that it could
not--but coming upon it in the midst of eager thoughts and
expectations, it checked the current in its flow, and darkened it
with a mournful shadow.
Kit, however, fortunately for himself, was not learned enough or
contemplative enough to be troubled with presages of evil afar off,
and, having no mental spectacles to assist his vision in this
respect, saw nothing but the dull house, which jarred uncomfortably
upon his previous thoughts. So, almost wishing that he had not
passed it, though hardly knowing why, he hurried on again, making
up by his increased speed for the few moments he had lost.
'Now, if she should be out,' thought Kit, as he approached the poor
dwelling of his mother, 'and I not able to find her, this impatient
gentleman would be in a pretty taking. And sure enough there's no
light, and the door's fast. Now, God forgive me for saying so, but
if this is Little Bethel's doing, I wish Little Bethel was--was
farther off,' said Kit checking himself, and knocking at the door.
A second knock brought no reply from within the house; but caused
a woman over the way to look out and inquire who that was, awanting
Mrs Nubbles.
'Me,' said Kit. 'She's at--at Little Bethel, I suppose?'--getting
out the name of the obnoxious conventicle with some reluctance, and
laying a spiteful emphasis upon the words.
The neighbour nodded assent.
'Then pray tell me where it is,' said Kit, 'for I have come on a
pressing matter, and must fetch her out, even if she was in the
pulpit.'
It was not very easy to procure a direction to the fold in
question, as none of the neighbours were of the flock that resorted
thither, and few knew anything more of it than the name. At last,
a gossip of Mrs Nubbles's, who had accompanied her to chapel on one
or two occasions when a comfortable cup of tea had preceded her
devotions, furnished the needful information, which Kit had no
sooner obtained than he started off again.
Little Bethel might have been nearer, and might have been in a
straighter road, though in that case the reverend gentleman who
presided over its congregation would have lost his favourite
allusion to the crooked ways by which it was approached, and which
enabled him to liken it to Paradise itself, in contradistinction to
the parish church and the broad thoroughfare leading thereunto.
Kit found it, at last, after some trouble, and pausing at the door
to take breath that he might enter with becoming decency, passed
into the chapel.
It was not badly named in one respect, being in truth a
particularly little Bethel--a Bethel of the smallest dimensions--
with a small number of small pews, and a small pulpit, in which a
small gentleman (by trade a Shoemaker, and by calling a Divine) was
delivering in a by no means small voice, a by no means small
sermon, judging of its dimensions by the condition of his audience,
which, if their gross amount were but small, comprised a still
smaller number of hearers, as the majority were slumbering.
Among these was Kit's mother, who, finding it matter of extreme
difficulty to keep her eyes open after the fatigues of last night,
and feeling their inclination to close strongly backed and seconded
by the arguments of the preacher, had yielded to the drowsiness
that overpowered her, and fallen asleep; though not so soundly but
that she could, from time to time, utter a slight and almost
inaudible groan, as if in recognition of the orator's doctrines.
The baby in her arms was as fast asleep as she; and little Jacob,
whose youth prevented him from recognising in this prolonged
spiritual nourishment anything half as interesting as oysters, was
alternately very fast asleep and very wide awake, as his
inclination to slumber, or his terror of being personally alluded
to in the discourse, gained the mastery over him.
'And now I'm here,' thought Kit, gliding into the nearest empty pew
which was opposite his mother's, and on the other side of the
little aisle, 'how am I ever to get at her, or persuade her to come
out! I might as well be twenty miles off. She'll never wake till
it's all over, and there goes the clock again! If he would but
leave off for a minute, or if they'd only sing!'
But there was little encouragement to believe that either event
would happen for a couple of hours to come. The preacher went on
telling them what he meant to convince them of before he had done,
and it was clear that if he only kept to one-half of his promises
and forgot the other, he was good for that time at least.
In his desperation and restlessness Kit cast his eyes about the
chapel, and happening to let them fall upon a little seat in front
of the clerk's desk, could scarcely believe them when they showed
him--Quilp!
He rubbed them twice or thrice, but still they insisted that Quilp
was there, and there indeed he was, sitting with his hands upon his
knees, and his hat between them on a little wooden bracket, with
the accustomed grin on his dirty face, and his eyes fixed upon the
ceiling. He certainly did not glance at Kit or at his mother, and
appeared utterly unconscious of their presence; still Kit could not
help feeling, directly, that the attention of the sly little fiend
was fastened upon them, and upon nothing else.
But, astounded as he was by the apparition of the dwarf among the
Little Bethelites, and not free from a misgiving that it was the
forerunner of some trouble or annoyance, he was compelled to subdue
his wonder and to take active measures for the withdrawal of his
parent, as the evening was now creeping on, and the matter grew
serious. Therefore, the next time little Jacob woke, Kit set
himself to attract his wandering attention, and this not being a
very difficult task (one sneeze effected it), he signed to him to
rouse his mother.
Ill-luck would have it, however, that, just then, the preacher, in
a forcible exposition of one head of his discourse, leaned over
upon the pulpit-desk so that very little more of him than his legs
remained inside; and, while he made vehement gestures with his
right hand, and held on with his left, stared, or seemed to stare,
straight into little Jacob's eyes, threatening him by his strained
look and attitude--so it appeared to the child--that if he so
much as moved a muscle, he, the preacher, would be literally, and
not figuratively, 'down upon him' that instant. In this fearful
state of things, distracted by the sudden appearance of Kit, and
fascinated by the eyes of the preacher, the miserable Jacob sat
bolt upright, wholly incapable of motion, strongly disposed to cry
but afraid to do so, and returning his pastor's gaze until his
infant eyes seemed starting from their sockets.
'If I must do it openly, I must,' thought Kit. With that he walked
softly out of his pew and into his mother's, and as Mr Swiveller
would have observed if he had been present, 'collared' the baby
without speaking a word.
'Hush, mother!' whispered Kit. 'Come along with me, I've got
something to tell you.'
'Where am I?' said Mrs Nubbles.
'In this blessed Little Bethel,' returned her son, peevishly.
'Blessed indeed!' cried Mrs Nubbles, catching at the word. 'Oh,
Christopher, how have I been edified this night!'
'Yes, yes, I know,' said Kit hastily; 'but come along, mother,
everybody's looking at us. Don't make a noise--bring Jacob--
that's right!'
'Stay, Satan, stay!' cried the preacher, as Kit was moving off.
'This gentleman says you're to stay, Christopher,' whispered his
mother.
'Stay, Satan, stay!' roared the preacher again. 'Tempt not the
woman that doth incline her ear to thee, but harken to the voice of
him that calleth. He hath a lamb from the fold!' cried the
preacher, raising his voice still higher and pointing to the baby.
'He beareth off a lamb, a precious lamb! He goeth about, like a
wolf in the night season, and inveigleth the tender lambs!'
Kit was the best-tempered fellow in the world, but considering this
strong language, and being somewhat excited by the circumstances in
which he was placed, he faced round to the pulpit with the baby in
his arms, and replied aloud, 'No, I don't. He's my brother.'
'He's MY brother!' cried the preacher.
'He isn't,' said Kit indignantly. 'How can you say such a thing?
And don't call me names if you please; what harm have I done? I
shouldn't have come to take 'em away, unless I was obliged, you may
depend upon that. I wanted to do it very quiet, but you wouldn't
let me. Now, you have the goodness to abuse Satan and them, as
much as you like, Sir, and to let me alone if you please.'
So saying, Kit marched out of the chapel, followed by his mother
and little Jacob, and found himself in the open air, with an
indistinct recollection of having seen the people wake up and look
surprised, and of Quilp having remained, throughout the
interruption, in his old attitude, without moving his eyes from the
ceiling, or appearing to take the smallest notice of anything that
passed.
'Oh Kit!' said his mother, with her handkerchief to her eyes, 'what
have you done! I never can go there again--never!'
'I'm glad of it, mother. What was there in the little bit of
pleasure you took last night that made it necessary for you to be
low-spirited and sorrowful tonight? That's the way you do. If
you're happy or merry ever, you come here to say, along with that
chap, that you're sorry for it. More shame for you, mother, I was
going to say.'
'Hush, dear!' said Mrs Nubbles; 'you don't mean what you say I
know, but you're talking sinfulness.'
'Don't mean it? But I do mean it!' retorted Kit. 'I don't
believe, mother, that harmless cheerfulness and good humour are
thought greater sins in Heaven than shirt-collars are, and I
do believe that those chaps are just about as right and sensible in
putting down the one as in leaving off the other--that's my
belief. But I won't say anything more about it, if you'll promise
not to cry, that's all; and you take the baby that's a lighter
weight, and give me little Jacob; and as we go along (which we must
do pretty quick) I'll give you the news I bring, which will
surprise you a little, I can tell you. There--that's right. Now
you look as if you'd never seen Little Bethel in all your life, as
I hope you never will again; and here's the baby; and little Jacob,
you get atop of my back and catch hold of me tight round the neck,
and whenever a Little Bethel parson calls you a precious lamb or
says your brother's one, you tell him it's the truest things he's
said for a twelvemonth, and that if he'd got a little more of the
lamb himself, and less of the mint-sauce--not being quite so sharp
and sour over it--I should like him all the better. That's what
you've got to say to him, Jacob.'
Talking on in this way, half in jest and half in earnest, and
cheering up his mother, the children, and himself, by the one
simple process of determining to be in a good humour, Kit led them
briskly forward; and on the road home, he related what had passed
at the Notary's house, and the purpose with which he had intruded
on the solemnities of Little Bethel.
His mother was not a little startled on learning what service was
required of her, and presently fell into a confusion of ideas, of
which the most prominent were that it was a great honour and
dignity to ride in a post-chaise, and that it was a moral
impossibility to leave the children behind. But this objection,
and a great many others, founded on certain articles of dress being
at the wash, and certain other articles having no existence in the
wardrobe of Mrs Nubbles, were overcome by Kit, who opposed to each
and every of them, the pleasure of recovering Nell, and the delight
it would be to bring her back in triumph.
'There's only ten minutes now, mother,' said Kit when they reached
home. 'There's a bandbox. Throw in what you want, and we'll be
off directly.'
To tell how Kit then hustled into the box all sorts of things which
could, by no remote contingency, be wanted, and how he left out
everything likely to be of the smallest use; how a neighbour was
persuaded to come and stop with the children, and how the children
at first cried dismally, and then laughed heartily on being
promised all kinds of impossible and unheard-of toys; how Kit's
mother wouldn't leave off kissing them, and how Kit couldn't make
up his mind to be vexed with her for doing it; would take more time
and room than you and I can spare. So, passing over all such
matters, it is sufficient to say that within a few minutes after
the two hours had expired, Kit and his mother arrived at the
Notary's door, where a post-chaise was already waiting.
'With four horses I declare!' said Kit, quite aghast at the
preparations. 'Well you ARE going to do it, mother! Here she is,
Sir. Here's my mother. She's quite ready, sir.'
'That's well,' returned the gentleman. 'Now, don't be in a
flutter, ma'am; you'll be taken great care of. Where's the box
with the new clothing and necessaries for them?'
'Here it is,' said the Notary. 'In with it, Christopher.'
'All right, Sir,' replied Kit. 'Quite ready now, sir.'
'Then come along,' said the single gentleman. And thereupon he
gave his arm to Kit's mother, handed her into the carriage as
politely as you please, and took his seat beside her.
Up went the steps, bang went the door, round whirled the wheels,
and off they rattled, with Kit's mother hanging out at one window
waving a damp pocket-handkerchief and screaming out a great many
messages to little Jacob and the baby, of which nobody heard a
word.
Kit stood in the middle of the road, and looked after them with
tears in his eyes--not brought there by the departure he
witnessed, but by the return to which he looked forward. 'They
went away,' he thought, 'on foot with nobody to speak to them or
say a kind word at parting, and they'll come back, drawn by four
horses, with this rich gentleman for their friend, and all their
troubles over! She'll forget that she taught me to write--'
Whatever Kit thought about after this, took some time to think of,
for he stood gazing up the lines of shining lamps, long after the
chaise had disappeared, and did not return into the house until the
Notary and Mr Abel, who had themselves lingered outside till the
sound of the wheels was no longer distinguishable, had several
times wondered what could possibly detain him.
Content of CHAPTER 41 [Charles Dickens' novel: The Old Curiosity Shop]
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