_
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 rest 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 another minute, the carriage was
out of sight; and Mr Chuckster remained alone on the spot where it
had lately been, with a vision of Kit standing up in the rumble
waving his hand to Barbara, and of Barbara in the full light and
lustre of his eyes--his eyes--Chuckster's--Chuckster the
successful--on whom ladies of quality had looked with favour from
phaetons in the parks on Sundays--waving hers to Kit!
How Mr Chuckster, entranced by this monstrous fact, stood for some
time rooted to the earth, protesting within himself that Kit was
the Prince of felonious characters, and very Emperor or Great Mogul
of Snobs, and how he clearly traced this revolting circumstance
back to that old villany of the shilling, are matters foreign to
our purpose; which is to track the rolling wheels, and bear the
travellers company on their cold, bleak journey.
It was a bitter day. A keen wind was blowing, and rushed against
them fiercely: bleaching the hard ground, shaking the white frost
from the trees and hedges, and whirling it away like dust. But
little cared Kit for weather. There was a freedom and freshness in
the wind, as it came howling by, which, let it cut never so sharp,
was welcome. As it swept on with its cloud of frost, bearing down
the dry twigs and boughs and withered leaves, and carrying them
away pell-mell, it seemed as though some general sympathy had got
abroad, and everything was in a hurry, like themselves. The harder
the gusts, the better progress they appeared to make. It was a
good thing to go struggling and fighting forward, vanquishing them
one by one; to watch them driving up, gathering strength and fury
as they came along; to bend for a moment, as they whistled past;
and then to look back and see them speed away, their hoarse noise
dying in the distance, and the stout trees cowering down before
them.
All day long, it blew without cessation. The night was clear and
starlight, but the wind had not fallen, and the cold was piercing.
Sometimes--towards the end of a long stage--Kit could not help
wishing it were a little warmer: but when they stopped to change
horses, and he had had a good run, and what with that, and the
bustle of paying the old postilion, and rousing the new one, and
running to and fro again until the horses were put to, he was so
warm that the blood tingled and smarted in his fingers' ends--
then, he felt as if to have it one degree less cold would be to
lose half the delight and glory of the journey: and up he jumped
again, right cheerily, singing to the merry music of the wheels as
they rolled away, and, leaving the townspeople in their warm beds,
pursued their course along the lonely road.
Meantime the two gentlemen inside, who were little disposed to
sleep, beguiled the time with conversation. As both were anxious
and expectant, it naturally turned upon the subject of their
expedition, on the manner in which it had been brought about, and
on the hopes and fears they entertained respecting it. Of the
former they had many, of the latter few--none perhaps beyond that
indefinable uneasiness which is inseparable from suddenly awakened
hope, and protracted expectation.
In one of the pauses of their discourse, and when half the night
had worn away, the single gentleman, who had gradually become more
and more silent and thoughtful, turned to his companion and said
abruptly:
'Are you a good listener?'
'Like most other men, I suppose,' returned Mr Garland, smiling. 'I
can be, if I am interested; and if not interested, I should still
try to appear so. Why do you ask?'
'I have a short narrative on my lips,' rejoined his friend, 'and
will try you with it. It is very brief.'
Pausing for no reply, he laid his hand on the old gentleman's
sleeve, and proceeded thus:
'There were once two brothers, who loved each other dearly. There
was a disparity in their ages--some twelve years. I am not sure
but they may insensibly have loved each other the better for that
reason. Wide as the interval between them was, however, they
became rivals too soon. The deepest and strongest affection of
both their hearts settled upon one object.
'The youngest--there were reasons for his being sensitive and
watchful--was the first to find this out. I will not tell you
what misery he underwent, what agony of soul he knew, how great his
mental struggle was. He had been a sickly child. His brother,
patient and considerate in the midst of his own high health and
strength, had many and many a day denied himself the sports he
loved, to sit beside his couch, telling him old stories till his
pale face lighted up with an unwonted glow; to carry him in his
arms to some green spot, where he could tend the poor pensive boy
as he looked upon the bright summer day, and saw all nature healthy
but himself; to be, in any way, his fond and faithful nurse. I may
not dwell on all he did, to make the poor, weak creature love him,
or my tale would have no end. But when the time of trial came, the
younger brother's heart was full of those old days. Heaven
strengthened it to repay the sacrifices of inconsiderate youth by
one of thoughtful manhood. He left his brother to be happy. The
truth never passed his lips, and he quitted the country, hoping to
die abroad.
'The elder brother married her. She was in Heaven before long, and
left him with an infant daughter.
'If you have seen the picture-gallery of any one old family, you
will remember how the same face and figure--often the fairest and
slightest of them all--come upon you in different generations; and
how you trace the same sweet girl through a long line of portraits--
never growing old or changing--the Good Angel of the race--
abiding by them in all reverses--redeeming all their sins--
'In this daughter the mother lived again. You may judge with what
devotion he who lost that mother almost in the winning, clung to
this girl, her breathing image. She grew to womanhood, and gave
her heart to one who could not know its worth. Well! Her fond
father could not see her pine and droop. He might be more
deserving than he thought him. He surely might become so, with a
wife like her. He joined their hands, and they were married.
'Through all the misery that followed this union; through all the
cold neglect and undeserved reproach; through all the poverty he
brought upon her; through all the struggles of their daily life,
too mean and pitiful to tell, but dreadful to endure; she toiled
on, in the deep devotion of her spirit, and in her better nature,
as only women can. Her means and substance wasted; her father
nearly beggared by her husband's hand, and the hourly witness (for
they lived now under one roof) of her ill-usage and unhappiness,--
she never, but for him, bewailed her fate. Patient, and upheld by
strong affection to the last, she died a widow of some three weeks'
date, leaving to her father's care two orphans; one a son of ten or
twelve years old; the other a girl--such another infant child--
the same in helplessness, in age, in form, in feature--as she had
been herself when her young mother died.
'The elder brother, grandfather to these two children, was now a
broken man; crushed and borne down, less by the weight of years
than by the heavy hand of sorrow. With the wreck of his
possessions, he began to trade--in pictures first, and then in
curious ancient things. He had entertained a fondness for such
matters from a boy, and the tastes he had cultivated were now to
yield him an anxious and precarious subsistence.
'The boy grew like his father in mind and person; the girl so like
her mother, that when the old man had her on his knee, and looked
into her mild blue eyes, he felt as if awakening from a wretched
dream, and his daughter were a little child again. The wayward boy
soon spurned the shelter of his roof, and sought associates more
congenial to his taste. The old man and the child dwelt alone
together.
'It was then, when the love of two dead people who had been nearest
and dearest to his heart, was all transferred to this slight
creature; when her face, constantly before him, reminded him, from
hour to hour, of the too early change he had seen in such another--
of all the sufferings he had watched and known, and all his child
had undergone; when the young man's profligate and hardened course
drained him of money as his father's had, and even sometimes
occasioned them temporary privation and distress; it was then that
there began to beset him, and to be ever in his mind, a gloomy
dread of poverty and want. He had no thought for himself in this.
His fear was for the child. It was a spectre in his house, and
haunted him night and day.
'The younger brother had been a traveller in many countries, and
had made his pilgrimage through life alone. His voluntary
banishment had been misconstrued, and he had borne (not without
pain) reproach and slight for doing that which had wrung his heart,
and cast a mournful shadow on his path. Apart from this,
communication between him and the elder was difficult, and
uncertain, and often failed; still, it was not so wholly broken off
but that he learnt--with long blanks and gaps between each
interval of information--all that I have told you now.
'Then, dreams of their young, happy life--happy to him though
laden with pain and early care--visited his pillow yet oftener
than before; and every night, a boy again, he was at his brother's
side. With the utmost speed he could exert, he settled his
affairs; converted into money all the goods he had; and, with
honourable wealth enough for both, with open heart and hand, with
limbs that trembled as they bore him on, with emotion such as men
can hardly bear and live, arrived one evening at his brother's
door!'
The narrator, whose voice had faltered lately, stopped.
'The rest,' said Mr Garland, pressing his hand after a pause, 'I
know.'
'Yes,' rejoined his friend, 'we may spare ourselves the sequel.
You know the poor result of all my search. Even when by dint of
such inquiries as the utmost vigilance and sagacity could set on
foot, we found they had been seen with two poor travelling showmen--
and in time discovered the men themselves--and in time, the
actual place of their retreat; even then, we were too late. Pray
God, we are not too late again!'
'We cannot be,' said Mr Garland. 'This time we must succeed.'
'I have believed and hoped so,' returned the other. 'I try to
believe and hope so still. But a heavy weight has fallen on my
spirits, my good friend, and the sadness that gathers over me, will
yield to neither hope nor reason.'
'That does not surprise me,' said Mr Garland; 'it is a natural
consequence of the events you have recalled; of this dreary time
and place; and above all, of this wild and dismal night. A dismal
night, indeed! Hark! how the wind is howling!'
Content of CHAPTER 69 [Charles Dickens' novel: The Old Curiosity Shop]
_