Chapter 41 of The Old Curiosity Shop Kit made his way through the crowded streets, dividing the stream of people, dashing across the busy roadways, 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, nothing in unison with the new hopes that were a stir. 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 the 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. Oh, now, God, forgive me for saying so, but if this is little Bethel's doing, I wish little Bethel 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 a wanting Mrs. Nobles.  The neighbour nodded, assent, then pray, tell me where it is, said Kit, for I have come on a pressy 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. Nobles'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 contra-distinction 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, and 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 recognizing 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 isle. 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 clock'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.  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 were fastened upon them, and upon nothing else. But astounded as he was by the apparition of the dwarf among the little battle-lights, and not free from 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 affected it, he signed to him to rouse his mother. Still 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 arm at 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 set 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. Swivler 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—where am I?' said Mrs. Nobles. "'In this blessed little Bethel,' returned her son, peevishly. "'Blessed indeed,' cried Mrs. Nobles, 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 ought 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 hearken 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 of a lamb, a precious lamb. He goeth about like a wolf in the night season, and in weagleth 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, "'Now I doubt. 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 him 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 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 a 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 to-night? 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. Knubbles. "'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 leaving off the other. That's my belief. But I won't say anything more about it. If you 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'll bring, which will surprise you a little, I can tell you. There, that's right.  And here's the baby, a little Jacob, you get a top of my back, and a catch hold of me, tight round the neck.  And if he 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 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-chase, 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. Knubbles, were overcome by kit, who were posed 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 the band-box, throw in what you want, and we'll be off directing.' 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-shays was already waiting. "'With four horses, are they clear?' 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-marm. 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.  Up went the steps, bang went the door, round world wheels, and off they rattled, with kit's mother hanging out at one window, waving a damp pocket-hanker-chief, 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, was 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 out of this, took some time to think of, for he stood gazing up the lines of shining lamps, long after the shays 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. It behoves us to leave Kit for a while, thoughtful and expectant, and to follow the fortunes of little Nell, resuming the thread of the narrative at the point where it was left, some chapters back. In one of those wanderings in the evening time, when, following the two sisters at a humble distance, she felt in her sympathy with them, and her recognition in their trials, of something akin to her own loneliness of spirit, a comfort and consolation which made such moments a time of deep delight, though the softened pleasures they yielded was of that kind which lives and dies in tears. In one of those wanderings of the quiet hour of twilight, when sky and earth and air and rippling water and sound of distant bells claimed kindred with the emotions of the solitary child, and inspired her with soothing thoughts, but not of a child's world, or its easy joys. In one of those rambles, which had now become her only pleasure or relief from care, light had faded into darkness and evening deepened into night, and still the young creature lingered in the gloom, feeling a companionship in nature so serene and still, when noise of tongues and glare of garish lights would have been solitude indeed. The sisters had gone home, and she was alone. She raised her eyes to the bright stars, looking down so mildly from the wide worlds of air, and gazing on them found new stars burst upon her view, and more beyond, and more beyond again, until the whole great expanse sparkled with shining spheres rising higher and higher in immeasurable space, eternal in their numbers as in changeless and incorruptible existence. She bent over the calm river, and saw them shining in the same majestic order as when the dove beheld them gleaming through the swollen waters upon the mountaintops down far below, and dead mankind a million fathoms deep. The child sat silently beneath a tree, hushed in her very breath by the stillness of the night, and all its attendant wonders. The time and place awoke reflection, and she thought with a quiet hope, less hope perhaps than resignation, and the past and present, and what was yet before her. Between the old man and herself, there had come a gradual separation, harder to bear than any former sorrow. Every evening, and often in the day-time too, he was absent alone, and although she well knew where he went and why, too well from the constant drain upon her scanty purse and from his haggard looks, he evaded all inquiry, maintained a strict reserve, and even shunned her presence. She sat meditating sorrowfully upon this change, and mingling it, as it were, with everything about her, when the distant church-clock bell struck nine. Rising at the sound, she retraced her steps and turned thoughtfully towards the town. She had gained a little wooden bridge, which, thrown across the stream, led into a meadow in her way, when she came suddenly upon a ruddy light, and, looking forward more attentively, discerned that it proceeded from what appeared to be an encampment of gypsies, who had made a fire in one corner at no great distance from the path, and were sitting or lying round it. As she was too poor to have any fear of them, she did not alter her course, which, indeed, she could not have done without going a long way round, but quickened her pace a little and kept straight on. A movement of timid curiosity impelled her, when she approached the spot, to glance towards the fire. There was a form between it and her, the outline strongly developed against the light, which caused her to stop abruptly. Then, as if she had reasoned with herself and were assured that it could not be, or had satisfied herself that it was not that of the person she had supposed, she went on again. But at that instant the conversation, whatever it was, which had been carrying on near this fire, was resumed, and the tones of the voice that spoke, she could not distinguish the words, sounded as familiar to her as her own. She turned and looked back. The person had been seated before, but was now in a standing posture, and leaning forward on a stick on which she rested both hands. The attitude was no less familiar to her than the tone of voice had been. It was her grandfather. Her first impulse was to call to him, her next to wonder who his associates could be, and for what purpose they were together. Some vague apprehension succeeded, and yielding to the strong inclination it awakened, she drew nearer to the place, not advancing across the open field, however, but creeping towards it by the hedge. In this way she advanced within a few feet of the fire, and standing among a few young trees could both see and hear without much danger of being observed. There were no women or children, as she had seen in other gypsy camps they had passed in their wayfaring, and but one gypsy, a tall, athletic man who stood with his arms folded, leaning against a tree at a little distance off, looking now at the fire, and now under his black eyelashes, at three other men who were there, with a watchful but half-concealed interest in their conversation. Of these her grandfather was one, the others she recognized as the first card-players at the public house on the eventful night of the storm, the man whom they had called Isaac List and his gruff companion. One of the low-arched gypsy tents common to that people was pitched hard by, but it either was or appeared to be empty. Well, are you going? said the stout man, looking up from the ground, where he was lying at his ease into her grandfather's face. You in a mighty hurry a minute ago. Go, if you like. You're your own master, I hope. Don't vex him! returned Isaac List, who was squatting like a frog on the other side of the fire, and had so screwed himself up that he seemed to be squinting all over. He didn't mean any offence. You keep me poor, and plunder me, and make a sport and jest of me besides! said the old man, turning from one to the other, yield drive me mad among ye. The utter irresolution and feebleness of the grey-haired child, contrasted with the keen and cunning looks of those in whose hands he was, smote upon the little listener's heart. But she constrained herself to attend to all the past, and to note each look and word. Confound ye! What do you mean? said the stout man, rising a little and supporting himself on his elbow. Keep ye poor! You keep us poor, if ye could, wouldn't ye? That's a way with you whining, puny, pitiful players, when ye lose your martyrs. But I don't find that when ye win. You look upon the other, losers in that light, as to plunder, cried the fellow, raising his voice, damn! What do you mean by such un-gently language as plunder, eh? The speaker laid himself down again at full length, and gave one or two short, angry kicks, as if in further expression of his unbounded indignation. It was quite plain that he acted the bully, and his friend the peacemaker. For some particular purpose, or rather it would have been to any one but the weak old man, for they exchanged glances quite openly, both with each other and with the gypsy, who grinned his approval of the jest until his white teeth shone again.  Don't be so violent with me. You were, were you not? Not of plundering, among present company. Honor among gentlemen, sir. Returned the other, who seemed to have been very near giving an awkward termination to the sentence. Don't be hard about him, Joe! said Isaac List. He's very sorry for giving offence. There! Go on with what you're saying. Go on. I'm a jolly old tender-hearted lamb, I am, cried Joe, to be sitting here at my time alive giving advice, when I know it won't be taken, and that I shall get nothing but abuse from our pains. But that's the way I've gone through life. Experience has never put a chill upon my warm-heartedness. I tell you he's very sorry, don't I?  Does he wish it? said the other. I, groaned the old man, sitting down, and rocking himself to and fro. Go on. Go on. It's in vain to fight with it. I can't do it. Go on. I go on, then, said Joe. Where are left off when you got up so quick? If you're persuaded that it's time for luck to turn, as it certainly is, and find that you haven't means enough to try it, and that's where it is, for you know yourself that you never have the fans to keep one long enough at a sitting, help yourself to what seems put in your way on purpose. Borrow it, I say, and when you're able, pay it back again. Certainly, Isaac List struck in, if this good lady has keeps the waxworks as money, and does keep it in a tin box when she goes to bed, and doesn't lock her door for fear of fire, it seems a easy thing, quite a providence, I should call it, but then I've been religiously brought up. You see, Isaac, said his friend, growing more eager and drawing himself closer to the old man, while he signed to the gypsy not to come between them. You see, Isaac, strangers are going in and out every hour of the day. Nothing would be more heartling than for one of these strangers to get under the good lady's bed, or lock himself in a cupboard. Suspicion would be very wide, and would fall a long way from the mark, and how doubt. I'd give him his revenge to the last fall, and he brought, whatever the amount was. That could you, urged Isaac List. Is your bank strong enough? Strong enough, answered the other, with assumed disdain. Here, you, sir, give me that box out of the straw. This was addressed to the gypsy, who crawled into the low tent on all fours, and after some rummaging and wrestling returned with the cash box, which the man who had spoken opened with the key he wore about his person. Do you see this? He said, gathering up the money in his hand and letting it drop back into the box between his fingers, like water. Do you hear it? Do you know the sound of gold? There, put it back, and don't talk about banks again, Isaac, till you've got one of your own. Isaac List, with great apparent humility, protested that he had never doubted the credit of a gentleman so notorious for his honourable dealing as Mr. Jowell, and that he had hinted at the production of the box, not for the satisfaction of his doubts, for he could have none, but with a view to being regaled with a sight of so much wealth, which though it might be deemed by some but an unsubstantial and visionary pleasure, was to warn in his circumstances a source of extreme delight, only to be surpassed by its safe depository in his own personal pockets. Although Mr. List and Mr. Jowell addressed themselves to each other, it was remarkable that they both looked narrowly at the old man, who, with his eyes fixed upon the fire, sat brooding over it, yet listening eagerly, as it seemed from a certain involuntary motion of the head, or twitching of the face from time to time, to all they said. My advice, said Jowell, lying down again with the careless air, is plain. I have given it, in fact. I act as a friend. Why should I help a man to the means perhaps of winning all I have, unless I consider him my friend? It's foolish, I dare say, to be so thoughtful of the welfare of other people, but that's my constitution, and I can't help it, so don't blame me, I's a glist. I blame you, returned the person addressed. Not for the world, Mr. Jowell! I wish I could have fought to be as liberal as you, and as you say, he might pay it back if he won, and if he lost. You're not to take that into consideration at all. Said Jowell. I suppose he did, and nothing's less likely from all I know of chances. Why, it's better to lose other people's money than one's own, I hope. Ah! cried Isaac List rapturously. The pleasures of winning, the delight of picking up the money, the bright, shining yellow boys, and sweeping them into one's pocket, the deliciousness of having a triumph at last, and thinking that one didn't stop short and turn back, but went off way to meet it, that—but you're not going now, gentlemen. I'll do it, said the old man, who had risen and taken two or three hurried steps away, and now returned as hurriedly. I'll have it, every penny. Why, that's brave! cried Isaac, jumping up and slapping him on the shoulder, and our respect for having so much young blood left. Oh, Jowell's off! Sorry he advised you now. We've got the laugh against him. He gives me my revenge, mind, said the old man, pointing to him eagerly with a shriveled hand. Mind, he stakes coin against coin. Down to the last one in the box, be there many or few. Remember that. I'm witness, returned Isaac. I'll see fair between you. I've passed me word, said Jowell, with famed reluctance, and I'll keep it. When does this match come off? I wish it was over. Tonight? I must have the money first, said the old man, and that I'll have tomorrow. Why not tonight? urged Jowell. It's late now, and I should be flushed and flurried, said the old man. It must be softly done. No, tomorrow night. Then tomorrow be it, said Jowell. A drop of comfort here? Luck to the best man! Fill! The gypsy produced three tin cups, and filled them to the brim with brandy. The old man turned aside and muttered to himself before he drank. Her own name struck upon the listener's ear, coupled with some wish so fervent that he seemed to breathe it in an agony of supplication. God be merciful to us! cried the child within herself, and help us in this trying hour. What shall I do to save him? The remainder of their conversation was carried on in a lower tone of voice, and was sufficiently concise, relating merely to the execution of the project, and the best precautions for diverting suspicion. The old man then shook hands of his tempters and withdrew. They watched his bowed and stooping figure as it retreated slowly, and when he turned his head to look back, which he often did, waved their hands or shouted some brief encouragement. It was not until they had seen him gradually diminish into a mere speck upon the distant road that they turned to each other and ventured to laugh out loud. So, said Jowell, warming his hands at the fire, it's done at last. He wanted more brus wide in the night, expected. It's three weeks ago since we first put this in his head. What will he bring, do you think? Whatever he brings, it's halved between us, returned Isaac List. The other man nodded. We must make quick work of it, he said, and then cut his acquaintance, or we might be suspected, sharp as a word. List and the gypsy acquiesced. When they had all three amused themselves a little with their victims infatuation, they dismissed the subject as one which had been sufficiently discussed, and began to talk in a jargon which the child did not understand. As their discourse appeared to relate to matters in which they were warmly interested, however, she deemed it the best time for escaping unobserved, and crept away with slow and cautious steps, keeping in the shadow of the hedges, or forcing a path through them, or the dry ditches, until she could emerge upon the road at a point beyond their range of vision. Then she fled homeward as quickly as she could, torn and bleeding from the wounds of thorns and briars, but more lacerated in mind, and threw herself upon her bed, distracted. The first idea that flashed upon her mind was flight, instant flight, dragging him from that place, and rather dying of want upon the roadside, than ever exposing him again to such terrible temptations. Then she remembered that the crime was not to be committed until next night, and there was the intermediate time for thinking and resolving what to do. Then she was distracted with a horrible fear that he might be committing at that moment, with a dread of hearing shrieks and cries piercing the silence of the night, with fearful thoughts of what he might be tempted and led on to do, if he were detected in the act and had but a woman to struggle with, it was impossible to bear such torture. She stole to the room where the money was, opened the door, and looked in. God be praised! He was not there, and she was sleeping soundly. She went back to her own room, and tried to repair herself for bed. But who could sleep? Sleep! Who could lie passively down, distracted by such terrors? There came upon her more and more strongly yet. Half undressed and with her hair in wild disorder, she flew to the old man's bedside, clasped him by the wrist, and roused him from his sleep. What! What's this? He cried, starting up in bed and fixing his eyes upon her spectral face. I have had a dreadful dream, said the child, with an energy that nothing but such terrors could have inspired. A dreadful, horrible dream! I have had it once before. It is a dream of grey-haired men like you, in darkened rooms by night, robbing sleepers of their gold. Up! Up! The old man shook in every joint, and folded his hands like one who prays. Not to me, said the child, not to me, to heaven, to save us from such deeds. This dream is too real. I cannot sleep. I cannot stay here. I cannot leave you alone under the roof of where such dreams come. Up! We must fly! He looked at her as if she were a spirit. She might have been for all the look of earth she had, and trembled more and more. There is no time to lose. I will not lose one minute, said the child. Up! And away with me. To-night? murmured the old man. Yes, to-night, replied the child. Tomorrow night will be too late. The dream will have come again. Nothing but flight can save us. Up! The old man rose from his bed, his forehead bedued with the cold sweat of fear, and, bending before the child, as if she had been an angel messenger sent to lead him where she would, made ready to follow her. She took him by the hand and led him on. As he passed the door of the room he had proposed to Rob, she shuddered, and looked up into his face.  And with what a look did he meet hers. She took him to her own chamber, and, still holding him by the hand, as if she feared to lose him for an instant, gathered together the little stock she had, and hung her basket on her arm. The old man took his wallet from her hands, and strapped it on his shoulders, his staff, too, she had brought away, and then she led him forth. Through the straight streets, and narrow, crooked outskirts, their trembling feet passed quickly. Up the steep hill, too, crowned by the old grey castle, they toiled with rapid steps, and had not once looked behind. But as they drew nearer the ruined walls, the moon rose in all her gentle glory, and, from their venerable age, garlanded with ivy, moss, and waving grass, the child looked back upon the sleeping town, deep in the valley's shade, and on the far-off river, with its winding track of light, and on the distant hills, and, as she did so, she clasped the hand she held less firmly, and bursting into tears fell upon the old man's neck. End of Chapter 42 Chapter 43 OF THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP Her momentary weakness passed, the child again summoned the resolution, which had until now sustained her, and endeavouring to keep steadily in her view the one idea that they were flying from disgrace and crime, and that her grandfather's preservation must depend solely on her firmness, unaided by one word of advice, or any helping hand, urged him onward, and looked back no more. While he, subdued and abashed, seemed to crouch before her, and to shrink and cower down, as if in the presence of some superior creature, the child herself was sensible of a new feeling within her, which elevated her nature, and inspired her with an energy and confidence she had never known. There was no divided responsibility now. The whole burden of their two lives had fallen upon her, and henceforth she must think and act for both. I have saved him, she thought. In all dangers and distresses I will remember that. At any other time the recollection of having deserted the friend who had shown them so much homely kindness, without a word of justification, the thought that they were guilty in appearance of treachery and ingratitude, even the having parted from the two sisters, would have filled her with sorrow and regret. But now all other considerations were lost in the new uncertainties and anxieties of their wild and wandering life, and the very desperation of their condition roused and stimulated her. In the pale moonlight, which lent a oneness of its own to the delicate face, where thoughtful care already mingled with the winning grace and loveliness of youth, the too bright eye, the spiritual head, the lips that pressed each other with such high resolve and courage of the heart, the slight figure firm in its bearing, and yet so very weak, told their silent tale, but told it only to the wind that rustled by, which, taking up its burden, carried, perhaps to some mother's pillow, faint dreams of childhood fading in its bloom, and resting in the sleep that knows no waking. The night crept on a pace. The moon went down, the stars grew pale and dim, and morning cold as they, slowly approached. Then from behind a distant hill, the noble sun rose up, driving the mists in phantom shapes before it, and clearing the earth of their ghostly forms till darkness came again. When it had climbed higher into the sky, and there was warmth in its cheerful beams, they laid them down to sleep upon a bank, hard by some water. But now retained her grasp upon the old man's arm, and long after he was slumbering soundly, watched him with untiring eyes. Fatigue stole over her at last, her grasp relaxed, tightened, relaxed again, and they slept side by side. A confused sound of voices mingling with her dreams awoke her. A man of very uncouth and rough appearance was standing over them, and two of his companions were looking on from a long heavy boat which had come close to the bank while they were sleeping. The boat had neither oar nor sail, but was towed by a couple of horses, who, with a rope to which they were harnessed, slack and dripping in the water, were resting on the path. Hello! said the man roughly. What's the matter here? We were only asleep, sir, said Nell. We have been walking all night.  Observed the man who had first accosted them.  Where are you going? Nell faltered, and pointed at hazard towards the west, upon which the man inquired if she meant a certain town which he named. Nell, to avoid more questioning, said yes, that was the place. Where have you come from? was the next question, and this being an easier one to answer, Nell mentioned the name of the village in which their friend the schoolmaster dwelt, as being less likely to be known to the men or to provoke further inquiry. I thought somebody had been robbing an ill-using you might be. Said the man. That's all. Good day! Returning his salute, and feeling greatly relieved by his departure, Nell looked after him as he mounted one of the horses, and the boat went on. It had not gone very far when it stopped again, and she saw the men beckoning to her. Did you call to me? said Nell, running up to them. You may go with us if you like. replied one of those in the boat. We're going of the same place. The child hesitated for a moment, thinking as she had thought with great trepitation more than once before, at the men whom she had seen with her grandfather might, perhaps in their eagerness for the booty, follow them, and regaining their influence over him, set hers at nought, and that if they went with these men, all traces of them must surely be lost at that spot, determined to accept the offer. The boat came close to the bank again, and before she had had any more time for consideration, she and her grandfather were on board, and gliding smoothly down the canal. The sun shone pleasantly on the bright water, which was sometimes shaded by trees, and sometimes open to a wide extent of country, intersected by running streams, and rich with wooded hills, cultivated land, and sheltered farms. Now and then a village with its modest spire, thatched roofs, and gable ends would peep out from among the trees, and more than once a distant town with great church towers looming through its smoke, and high factories or workshops rising above the massive houses would come in view, and by the length of time it lingered in the distance, show them how slowly they travelled. Their way lay, for the most part, through the low grounds and open plains, and accept these distant places and occasionally some men working in the fields or lounging on the bridges under which they passed to see them creep along, nothing encroached on their monotonous and secluded track. Nell was rather disheartened when they stopped at a kind of wharf late in the afternoon, to learn from one of the men that they would not reach their pace of destination until next day, and that if she had no provision with her she had better buy it there. She had but a few pence, having already bargained with them for some bread, but even of these it was necessary to be very careful, as they were on their way to an utterly strange place with no resource whatever. A small loaf and a morsel of cheese, therefore, were all she could afford, and with these she took her place in the boat again, and after half an hour's delay, sure in which the men were drinking at the public house, proceeded on the journey. They brought some beer and spirits into the boat with them, and what with drinking freely before, and again now, was soon in a fair way of being quarrelsome and intoxicated. Avoiding the small cabin, therefore, which was very dark and filthy, and which they often invited both her and her grandfather, Nell sat in the open air with the old man by her side, listening to their boisterous hosts with a palpitating heart, and almost wishing herself safe on shore again, though she should have to walk all night. They were, in truth, very rugged, noisy fellows, and quite brutal among themselves, though civil enough to their two passengers. Thus, when a quarrel rose between the man who was steering and his friend in the cabin, upon the question who had first suggested the propriety of offering Nell some beer, and when the quarrel led to a scuffle in which they beat each other fearfully to her inexpressible terror, neither visited his displeasure upon her, but each contented himself with venting it on his adversary, on whom, in addition to blows, he bestowed a variety of compliments, which, happily for the child, were conveyed in terms to her quite unintelligible. The difference was finally adjusted by the man who had come out of the cabin knocking the other into it head first, and taking the helm into his own hands, without evincing the least discomposure himself or causing any in his friend, who, being of a tolerably strong constitution and perfectly anewed to such trifles, went to sleep as he was, with his heels upwards, and in a couple of minutes or so, was snoring comfortably. By this time it was night again, and though the child felt cold, being but poorly clad, her anxious thoughts were far removed from her own suffering or uneasiness, and busily engaged in endeavouring to devise some scheme for their joint subsistence. The same spirit which had supported her on the previous night upheld and sustained her now. Her grandfather lay sleeping safely at her side, and the crime to which his madness urged him was not committed. That was her comfort. How every circumstance of her short, eventful life came thronging into her mind as they travelled on. Slight incidents, never thought of or remembered until now, faces seen once and ever since forgotten, words scarcely heeded at the time, scenes of a year ago and those of yesterday, mixing up and linking themselves together, familiar places shaping themselves out in the darkness from things which, when approached, were of all others the most remote and most unlike them. Sometimes a strange confusion in her mind, relative to the occasion of her being there, and the place to which she was going, and the people she was with, and imagination suggesting remarks and questions which sounded so plainly in her ears that she would start, and turn, and be almost tempted to reply. All the fancies and contradictions common in watching and excitement and restless change of place beset the child. She happened, while she was thus engaged, to encounter the face of the man on deck, in whom the sentimental stage of drunkenness had now succeeded to the boisterous, and who, taking from his mouth a short pipe, quilted over with string for its longer preservation, requested that you would oblige him with the song. You've got a very pretty voice, a very soft eye, and a very strong memory, said this gentleman. The voice and eye I've got evidence for, and the memories and opinion of me own, and I'm never wrong. Let me hear a song this minute. I don't think I know one, sir, returned Nell. You know forty-seven songs, said the man, but the gravity which admitted of no altercation on the subject. Forty-seven's your number. Let me hear one of them, the best. Give me a song this minute. Not knowing what might be the consequences of irritating her friend, and trembling with the fear of doing so, poor Nell sang him some little ditty which he had learnt in happier times, and which was so agreeable to his ear that on its conclusion he in the same peremptory manner requested to be favoured with another, to which he was so obliging as to roar a chorus who no particular tune, and with no words at all, but which amply made up in its amazing energy for its deficiency in other respects. The noise of this vocal performance awakened the other man, who, staggering upon deck, and shaking his late opponent by the hand, swore that singing was his pride and joy and chief delight, and that he desired no better entertainment. With a third call, more imperative than either of the two former, Nell felt obliged to comply, and this time a chorus was maintained not only by the two men together, but also by the third man on horseback, who, being by his position, debarred from a nearer participation in the revels of the night, roared when his companions roared and rent the very air. In this way, with little cessation, and singing the same songs again and again, the tired and exhausted child kept them in good humour all that night, and many a cottageer who was roused from his soundest sleep by the discordant chorus as it floated away upon the wind, hid his head beneath the bed-clothes, and trembled at the sounds. At length the morning dawned. It was no sooner light than it began to rain heavily. As the child could not endure the intolerable vapours of the cabin, they covered her, in return for her exertions, with some pieces of sailcloth and ends of tarpaulin, which sufficed to keep her tolerably dry and to shelter her grandfather besides. As the day advanced the rain increased. At noon it poured down more hopelessly and heavily than ever without the faintest promise of abatement. They had for some time been gradually approaching the place for which they were bound. The water had become thicker and dirtier, other barges coming from it passed them frequently, the paths of coal ash and huts of staring brick marked the vicinity of some great manufacturing town, while scattered streets and houses and smoke from distant furnaces indicated that they were already in the outskirts. Now the clustered roofs and piles of buildings trembling with the working of engines, and dimly resounding with their shrieks and throbbing, the tall chimneys vomiting forth a black vapour which hung in a dense ill-favoured cloud above the housetops, and filled the air with gloom, the clank of hammers beating upon iron, the roar of busy streets and noisy crowds gradually augmenting until all the various sounds blended into one, and none was distinguishable for itself, announced the termination of their journey. The boat floated into the wharf to which it belonged. The men were occupied directly. The child and her grandfather, after waiting in vain to thank them or ask them whether they should go, passed through a dirty lane into a crowded street, and stood amid its din and tumult, and in the pouring rain a strange bewildered and confused as if they had lived a thousand years before, and were raised from the dead and placed there by a miracle. End of Chapter 43 Chapter 44 of The Old Curiosity Shop This Libra Box recording is in the public domain. Recorded by Mill Nicholson The Old Curiosity Shop by Charles Dickens Chapter 44 The throng of people hurried by, in two opposite streams, with no symptom of cessation or exhaustion, intent upon their own affairs, and undisturbed in their business speculations by the roar of carts and wagons laden with clashing wares, the slipping of horses feet upon the wet and greasy pavement, the rattling of the rain on windows and umbrella tops, the jostling of the more impatient passengers, and all the noise and tumult of a crowded street in the high tide of its occupation. While the two poor strangers, stunned and bewildered by the hurry they beheld, but had no part in, looked mournfully on, feeling amidst the crowd a solitude which has no parallel but in the thirst of the shipwrecked mariner, who, tossed to and fro upon the billows of a mighty ocean, his red eyes blinded by looking on the water which hems him in on every side, has not one drop to cool his burning tongue. They withdrew into a low archway for shelter from the rain, and watched the faces of those who passed, to find in one among them a rave encouragement or hope, some frowned, some smiled, some muttered to themselves, some made slight gestures as if anticipating the conversation in which they would shortly be engaged, some wore the cunning look of bargaining and plotting, some wore anxious and eager, some slow and dull, in some countenances were written gain, in others loss. It was like being in the confidence of all these people to stand quietly there, looking into their faces as they flitted past. In busy places where each man has an object of his own, and feels assured that every other man has his, his character and purpose are written broadly in his face. In the public walks and lounges of a town people go to see and to be seen, and there the same expression, but little variety, is repeated a hundred times. The working-day faces come nearer to the truth, and let it out more plainly. Falling into that kind of abstraction which such a solitude awakens, the child continued to gaze upon the passing crowd with a wondering interest, amounting almost to a temporary forgetfulness of her own condition. But cold, wet, hunger, want of rest, and lack of any place in which to lay her aching head, soon brought her thoughts back to the point whence they had strayed. No one passed who seemed to notice them, or to whom she durst appeal. After some time they left their place of refuge from the weather, and mingled with the concourse. Evening came on. They were still wandering up and down, with fewer people about them, but with the same sense of solitude in their own breasts, and the same indifference from all around. The lights in the streets and shops made them feel yet more desolate, for with their help night and darkness seemed to come on faster. Shivering with the cold and damp, ill in body, and sick to death at heart, the child needed her utmost firmness and resolution even to creep along. Why had they ever come to this noisy town, when there were peaceful country places, in which at least they might have hungered and thirsted with less suffering than in its squalid strife? They were but an atom, here in a mountain heap of misery, the very sight of which increased their hopelessness and suffering. The child had not only to endure the accumulated hardships of their destitute condition, but to bear the reproaches of her grandfather, who began to murmur at having been led away from their later bowed, and demand that they should return to it. Being now penniless, and no relief or prospect of relief appearing, they retraced their steps through the deserted streets, and went back to the wharf, hoping to find the boat in which they had come, and be allowed to sleep on board that night. But here again they were disappointed, for the gate was closed, and some fierce dogs, barking at their approach, obliged them to retreat. We must sleep in the open air to-night, dear," said the child in a weak voice, as they turned away from this last repulse. And to-morrow we will beg our way to some quiet part of the country and try to earn our bread in very humble work. Why did you bring me here? We turned the old man fiercely. I cannot bear these close eternal streets. We came from a quiet part. Why did you force me to leave it? Because I must have that dream I told you of no more," said the child, with a momentary firmness, had lost itself in tears. And we must live among poor people, or it will come again. Dear grandfather, you are old and weak, I know, but look at me. I never will complain, if you will not. But I have some suffering indeed. Ah! poor, houseless, wandering, motherless child! cried the old man, clasping his hands and gazing as if for the first time upon her anxious face, her travel-stained dress, and bruised and swollen feet. As all my agony of care brought her to this at last, what was I a happy man once, and have I lost happiness and all I had for this? If we were in the country now, said the child, with assumed cheerfulness, as they walked on looking about them for a shelter, we should find some good old tree, stretching out his green arms as if he loved us, and nodding and rustling as if he would have us fall asleep, thinking of him while he watched. Please, God, we shall be there soon, to-morrow or next day at the farthest, and in the meantime let us think, dear, that it was a good thing we came here, for we are lost in the crowd and hurry of this place, and if any cruel people should pursue us, they could surely never trace us further. There's comfort in that, and here's a deep old doorway, very dark, but quite dry and warm, too, for the wind don't blow in here. What's that? Aftering a half-shrink, she recoiled from a black figure which came suddenly out of the dark recess in which they were about to take refuge, and stood still, looking at them. Speak again! it said. Do I know the voice? No, replied the child timidly. We are strangers, and having no money for a night's lodging, we're going to rest here. There was a feeble lamp at no great distance, the only one in the place, which was a kind of square yard, but sufficient to show how poor and mean it was. To this the figure beckoned them, at the same time drawing within its rays, as if to show that it had no desire to conceal itself or take them at an advantage. The form was that of a man, miserably clad and begrimed with smoke, which, perhaps by its contrast with the natural colour of his skin, made him look paler than he really was. That he was naturally of a very worn and pallid aspect, however, his hollow cheeks, sharp features, and sunken eyes, no less than a certain look of patient endurance sufficiently testified. His voice was harsh by nature, but not brutal, and though his face, besides possessing the characteristics already mentioned, was overshadowed by a quantity of long dark hair, its expression was neither ferocious nor bad. Oh, game you, to think of rest in there! He said, or how? He added, looking more attentively at the child.  Oh, misfortunes! the grandfather answered. Oh, the cause! Do you know? said the man, looking still more earnestly at Nell. How wet she is! and at the damp streets are not a place for her. I know it well! God help me! he replied. What can I do? The man looked at Nell again, and gently touched her garments, from which the rain was running off in little streams. I can give you warmth, he said after a pause. Nothing else? Such lodging as I have is in that house, pointing to the doorway from which he had emerged, but she is safer and better there than here. The fire is in a rough place, but you can pass a night beside it safely if you trust yourselves to me. You see that red light yonder? They raised their eyes, and saw a lurid glare hanging in the dark sky, the dull reflection of some distant fire. It's not far, said the man. Shall I take you there? You are going to sleep upon cold bricks. I can give you a bed of warm ashes. Nothing better? Without waiting for any further reply than he saw in their looks, he took Nell in his arms and obeyed the old man's follow. Carrying her as tenderly and as easily to as if she had been an infant, and showing himself both swift and sure of foot, he led the way through what appeared to be the poorest and most wretched quarter of the town, and turning aside to avoid the overflowing kennels or running waterspouts, but holding his course regardless of such obstructions and making his way straight through them. They had proceeded thus in silence for some quarter of an hour, and had lost sight of the glare to which he had pointed, in the dark and narrow ways by which they had come, when it suddenly burst upon them again, streaming up from the high chimney of a building close before them. This is the place, he said, pausing at a door, to put Nell down and take her hand. Don't be afraid, there is nobody here who will harm you. It needed a strong confidence in this assurance to induce them to enter, and what they saw inside did not diminish their apprehension and alarm. In a large and lofty building, supported by pillars of iron, with great black apertures in the upper walls, open to the external air, echoing to the roof with the beating of hammers and raw furnaces, mingled with the hissing of red-hot metal plunged in water, and a hundred strange unearthly noises never heard elsewhere, in this gloomy place, moving like demons among the flames and smoke, dimly and fitfully seen, flushed and tormented by the burning fires, and wielding great weapons, a faulty blow from any one of which must have crushed some workman's skull, a number of men laboured like giants. Others, reposent upon heaps of coals or ashes with their faces turned to the black vault above, slept, or rested from their toil. Others again, opening the white-hot furnace doors, cast fuel on the flames, which came rushing and roaring forth to meet it, and licked it up like oil. Others drew forth with clashing noise upon the ground, great sheets of glowing steel, emitting an insupportable heat, and a dull deep light, like that which reddens in the eyes of savage beasts. Through these bewildering sights and deafening sounds, their conductor led them to where, in a dark portion of the building, one furnace burnt by night and day, so at least they gathered from the motion of his lips, for as yet they could only see him speak, not hear him. The man who had been watching this fire, and whose task was ended for the present, gladly withdrew, and left them with their friend, who, spreading Nell's little cloak upon a heap of ashes, and showing her where she could hang her outer clothes to dry, signed to her and the old man to lie down and sleep. For himself he took his station on a rugged mat before the furnace door, and resting his chin upon his hands, watched the flame as it shone through the iron chinks, and the white ashes as they fell into their bright hot grave below. The warmth of her bed, hard and humble as it was, combined with the great fatigue she had undergone, soon caused the tumult of the place to fall with a gentler sound upon the child's tired ears, and was not long in lulling her to sleep. The old man was stretched beside her, and with her hand upon his neck she lay and dreamed. It was yet night when she awoke, nor did she know how long, or for how shorter time, she had slept. But she found herself protected, both from any cold air that might find its way into the building, and from the scorching heat by some of the workman's clothes, and glancing at their friend, so that he sat in exactly the same attitude, looking with a fixed earnestness of attention towards the fire, and keeping so very still that he did not even seem to breathe. She lay in the state between sleeping and waking, looking so long at his motionless figure that at length she almost feared he had died as he sat there, and softly rising, and drawing close to him, ventured to whisper in his ear. He moved, and glancing from her to the place she had lately occupied, as if to assure himself that it was really the child so near him, looked inquiringly into her face. I feared you were ill, she said. The other men are all in motion, and you are so very quiet. They leave me to myself, he replied. They know my humour. They laugh at me, but don't harm me in it. See yonder there, that's my friend. The fire, said the child, it has been alive as long as I have. The man made answer, we talk and think together all night long.  It's like a book to me, he said. The only book I ever learnt to read, and many an whole story it tells me. It's music, for I should know its voice among a thousand, and there are other voices in its roar. It has its pictures too. You don't know how many strange faces and different scenes I trace in the red-opped holes. It's my memory that fire, and shows me all my life. The child, bending down to listen to his words, could not help from marking with what brightened eyes he continued to speak and muse. Yes, he said with a faint smile. It was the same when I was quite a baby, and crawled about it till I fell asleep. My father watched it then. Had you no mother? asked the child. No, she was dead. Women work hard in these parts. She worked herself to death, they told me. And, as they said so then, the fire has gone on saying the same thing ever since. I suppose it was true. I have always believed it. Were you brought up here, then? said the child. Summer and winter, he replied, secretly at first. But when they found it out, they let him keep me here. So the fire nursed me, the same fire. It has never gone out.  Of course I am. He died before it. I saw him fall down, just there, where those ashes are burning now, and wondered, I remember, why it didn't help him.  Ever since I came to watch it. But there was a while between, and a very cold, dreary while it was. It burned all the time, though, and roared and leaped when I came back, as it used to do in our play days. You may guess, from looking at me, what kind of child I was. But for all the difference between us, I was a child. And when I saw you in the street and height, you put me in mind of myself, as I was after he died, and made me wish to bring you to the fire. I thought of those old times again, when I saw you sleeping by it. You should be sleeping now. Lie down again, poor child. Lie down again. With that he led her to her rude couch, and covering her with the clothes that she had found herself enveloped when she woke, returned to his seat, once he moved no more, unless to feed the furnace, but remained motionless as a statue. The child continued to watch him for a little time, but soon yielded to the drowsiness that came upon her. And in the dark, strange place and on the heap of ashes, slept as peacefully as if the room had been a palace chamber, and the bed, a bed of down. When she awoke again, broad day was shining through the lofty openings in the walls, and stealing in slanting rays but midway down seemed to make the building darker than it had been at night. The clang and tumult were still going on, and the remorseless fires were burning fiercely as before, for few changes of night and day brought rest or quiet there. Her friend parted his breakfast, a scanty mess of coffee and some coarse bread, with the child and her grandfather, and inquired whether they were going. She told him that they sought some distant country place, remote from towns or even other villages, and with a faltering tongue inquired what road they would do best to take. I know little of the country, he said, shaking his head, for such as I, pass all our lives before our furnace doors, and seldom go forth to breathe, but there are such places yonder. And far from here, said Nell, I surely, how could they be near us, and be green and fresh.  We are here, and we must go on, said the child boldly, for she saw that the old man listened with anxious ears to this account. Rough people, paths never made for little feet like yours, a gismal blighted way, is there no turning back, my child? There is none, cried Nell, pressing forward. If you can direct us, too, if not, pray do not seek to turn us from our purpose. Indeed, you do not know the danger that we shun, and how right and true we are in flying from it, or you would not try to stop us. I am sure you would not.  I'll direct you from the door the best I can. I wish I could do more. He showed them then by which road they must leave the town, and what course they should hold when they had gained it. He lingered so long on these instructions that the child with a fervent blessing tore herself away and stayed to hear no more. But before they had reached the corner of the lane, the man came running after them, and, pressing her hand, left something in it. Two old, battered, smoke-encrusted penny-pieces. Who knows what they shone as brightly in the eyes of angels as golden gifts that have been chronicled on tombs? And thus they separated, the child to lead her sacred charge, farther from guilt and shame, the labourer to attach a fresh interest to the spot where his guests had slept, and read new histories in his furnace fire. End of Chapter 44 Chapter 45 of the Old Curiosity Shop This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Recorded by Mill Nicholson The Old Curiosity Shop by Charles Dickens Chapter 45 In all their journeying, they had never longed so ardently, they had never so pined and wearied for the freedom of pure air and open country as now. No, not even on that memorable morning, when deserting their old home, they abandoned themselves to the mercies of a strange world, and left all the dumb and senseless things they had known and loved behind. Not even then had they so yearned for the fresh solitudes of wood hillside and field, as now, when the noise and dirt and vapour of the great manufacturing town, reeking with lean misery and hungry wretchedness, hemmed them in on every side, and seemed to shut out hope and render escape impossible. Two days and nights, thought the child, he said, two days and nights we should have to spend among such scenes as these. Oh, if we live to reach the country once again, if we get clearer these dreadful places, though it is only to lie down and die, with what a grateful heart I shall thank God for so much mercy. With thoughts like these, and with some vague design of travelling to a great distance among streams and mountains, where only very poor and simple people lived, and where they might maintain themselves by very humble helping work and farms, free from such terrors as that from which they fled. The child with no resource but the poor man's gift, and no encouragement but that which flowed from her own heart, and its sense of the truth and right of what she did, nerfed herself to this last journey and boldly pursued her task. We shall be very slow to day, dear," she said, as they toiled painfully through the streets. My feet are sore, and I have pains in all my limbs from the wet of yesterday. I saw that he looked at us and thought of that when he said how long we should be upon the road. It was a dreary way, he told us of. Returned her grandfather piteously, is there no other road? Will you not let me go some other way than this? Places lie beyond these," said the child firmly, where we may live in peace, and be tempted to do no harm. We will take the road that promises to have that end, and we would not turn out of it if it were a hundred times worse than our fears led us to expect. We would not, dear, would we? No, replied the old man, wavering in his voice, no less than in his manner. No, let us go on. I am ready. I am quite ready, Nell. The child walked with more difficulty than she had led her companion to expect, for the pains that wracked her joints were of no common severity, and every exertion increased them. But they rung from her no complaint, or look of suffering, and though the two travellers proceeded very slowly, they did proceed. Clearing the town in course of time, they began to feel that they were fairly on their way. A long suburb of red brick houses, some with patches of garden ground, where coal dust and factory smoke darkened the shrinking leaves and coarse-ranked flowers, and where the struggling vegetation sickened and sank under the hot breath of kiln and furnace, making them by its presence seem yet more blighting and unwholesome than in the town itself. A long, flat, straggling suburb passed, they came, by slow degrees, upon a cheerless region, where not a blade of grass was seen to grow, where not a bud put forth its promise in the spring, where nothing green could live but on the surface of the stagnant pools, which here and there lay idly sweltering by the black roadside. Advancing more and more into the shadow of this mournful place, its dark, depressing influence stole upon their spirits and filled them with a dismal gloom. On every side, and far as the eye could see into the heavy distance, tall chimneys crowding on each other and presenting that endless repetition of the same dull, ugly form which is the horror of oppressive dreams, poured out their plague of smoke, obscured the light, and made foul the melancholy air. On mounds of ashes by the wayside, sheltered only by a few rough boards or rotten penthouse roofs, strange engines spun and writhed, like tortured creatures, clanking their iron chains, shrieking in their rapid whirl from time to time, as though in torment unendurable, and making the ground tremble with their agonies. Dismantled houses, here and there appeared, tottering to the earth, propped up by fragments of others that had fallen down, unroofed, windowless, blackened, desolate, but yet inhabited. Men, women, children, worn in their looks and ragged in attire, tended the engines, fed their tributary fire, begged upon the road, or scowled half-naked from the doorless houses. Then came more of the wrathful monsters, whose like they almost seemed to be in their wildness and their untamed air, screeching and turning round and round again, and still before, behind and to the right and left, was the same interminable perspective of brick towers, never ceasing in their black vomit, blasting all things living or inanimate, shutting out the face of day, and closing in on all these horrors of the dense, dark cloud. But night-time in this dreadful spot, night, when the smoke was changed to fire, when every chimney spirited up its flame, and places that had been dark vaults all day now shone red hot, with figures moving to and fro within their blazing jaws, and calling to one another with hoarse cries. Night, when the noise of every strange machine was aggravated by the darkness, when the people near them looked wilder and more savage, when bands of unemployed labourers paraded the roads, or clustered by torchlight round their leaders, who told them in stern language of their wrongs and urged them on to frightful cries and threats, when maddened men armed with sword and fire-brand, spurning the tears and prayers of women who would restrain them, rushed forth on errands of terror and destruction, to work no ruin half so surely as their own. Night, when carts came rumbling by, filled with rude coffins, for contagious disease and death had been busy with the living crops, when orphans cried and distracted women shrieked and followed in their wake. Night, when some called for bread and some for drink to drown their cares, and some with tears and some with staggering feet, and some with bloodshot eyes, went brooding home. Night, which unlike the night that heaven sends on earth, brought with it no peace, nor quiet, nor signs of blessed sleep, who shall tell the terrors of the night to the young wandering child. And yet she lay down, with nothing between her and the sky, and with no fear for herself, for she was past it now, put up a prayer for the poor old man. So very weak and spent, she felt, so very calm and unresisting, that she had no thought of any wants of her own, but prayed that God would raise up some friend for him. She tried to recall the way they had come, and to look in the direction where the fire by which they had slept last night was burning. She had forgotten to ask the name of the poor man, their friend, and when she had remembered him in her prayers, it seemed ungrateful not to turn one look towards the spot where he was watching. A penny loaf was all they had had that day. It was very little, but even hunger was forgotten in the strange tranquillity that crapped over her senses. She lay down, very gently, and with a quiet smile upon her face, fell into a slumber. It was not like sleep, and yet it must have been, or why those pleasant dreams of the little scholar all night long. Morning came. Much weaker, diminished powers even of sight and hearing, and yet the child made no complaint, perhaps would have made none even if she had not had that inducement to be silent, travelling by her side. She felt a hopelessness of their ever being extricated together from that forlorn place, a dull conviction that she was very ill, perhaps dying, but no fear or anxiety. A loathing of food that she was not conscious of, until they expended their last penny in the purchase of another loaf, prevented her partaking even of this poor a past, her grandfather ate greedily, which she was glad to see. Their way lay through the same scenes as yesterday, with no variety or improvement. There was the same thick air, difficult to breathe, the same blighted ground, the same hopeless prospect, the same misery and distress. Objects appeared more dim, the noise less, the path more rugged and uneven, for some time she stumbled, and became roused, as it were, in the effort to prevent herself from falling.  Toward the afternoon her grandfather complained bitterly of hunger. She approached one of the wretched hovels by the wayside, and knocked with her hand upon the door. What would you have here? Said a gaunt man, opening it. Charity, a morsel of bread. Do you see that? Returned the man hoarsely, pointing to a kind of bundle on the ground. That's a dead child. I and five hundred other men were thrown out of work three months ago. That is my third dead child. And last, do you think I have charity to bestow, or a morsel of bread to spare? The child recoiled from the door. And it closed upon her. Impelled by strong necessity, she knocked at another. A neighbouring one, which, yielding to the slight pressure of her hand, flew open. It seemed that a couple of poor families lived in this hovel. For two women, each among children of her own, occupied different portions of the room. In the centre stood a grave gentleman in black, who appeared to have just entered, and who held by the arm a boy.  You may thank me for restoring him to you. He was brought before me this morning, charged with theft, and with any other boy it would have gone hard, I assure you. But, as I had compassion on his infirmities, and thought he might have learnt no better, I have managed to bring him back to you. Take more care of him for the future. And will you give me back my son? said the other woman hastily, rising and confronting him. Will you give me back my son, sir, who was transported for the same offence? Was he deaf and dumb, woman? asked the gentleman sternly. Was he not, sir? You know he was not. He was, cried the woman.  Her boy may have learnt no better. Where did mine learn better? Where could he? Who was there to teach him better? Or where was it to be learnt? Peace, woman, said the gentleman. Your boy was in possession of all his senses. He was, cried the mother, and he was the more easy to be led astray because he had them. If you save this boy, because he may not know right from wrong, why did you not save mine who has never taught the difference? You gentlemen have as good a right to punish her boy, that God has kept in ignorance of sound and speech, as you have to punish mine, that you kept in ignorance yourselves. How many of the girls and boys, of men and women too, that are brought before you and you don't pity, are deaf and dumb in their minds, and go wrong in that state, and are punished in that state, body and soul. Why you gentlemen are quarrelling among yourselves, whether they ought to learn this or that. Be a just man, sir, and give me back my son. You are desperate, said the gentleman, taking out his snuff box, and I am sorry for you. I am desperate, returned the woman, and you have made me so. Give me back my son, to work for these helpless children. Be a just man, sir, and as you have had mercy upon this boy, give me back my son. The child had seen and heard enough to know that this was not a place at which to ask for arms. She led the old man softly from the door, and they pursued their journey. With less and less of hope or strength as they went on, but with an undiminished resolution, not to betray by any word or sigh, her sinking state. So long as she had energy to move, the child, throughout the remainder of that hard day, compelled herself to proceed, not even stopping to rest as frequently as usual, to compensate in some measure for the tardy pace at which she was obliged to walk. Evening was drawing on, but had not closed in when, still travelling among the same dismal objects, they came to a busy town. Faint and spiritless as they were, its streets were insupportable. After humbly asking for relief at some doors and being repulsed, they agreed to make their way out of it as speedily as they could, and try if the inmates of any lone house beyond would have more pity on their exhausted state. They were dragging themselves along through the last street, and the child felt that the time was close at hand when her enfeebled powers would bear no more. There appeared before them at this juncture, going in the same direction as themselves, a traveller on foot, who with a portmanteau strapped to his back, leaned upon a stout stick as he walked, and read from a book which he held in his other hand. It was not an easy matter to come up with him, and beseech his aid, for he walked fast, and was a little distance in advance. At length he stopped, to look more attentively at some passage in his book. Animated with a ray of hope, the child shot on before her grandfather, and, going close to the stranger without rousing him by the sound of her footsteps, began in a few faint words to implore his help. He turned his head. He turned his head. The child clapped her hands together, uttered a wild shriek, and fell senseless at his feet. End of Chapter 45 Chapter 46 of The Old Curiosity Shop This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recorded by Mill Nicholson. The Old Curiosity Shop by Charles Dickens Chapter 46 It was the poor schoolmaster. No other than the poor schoolmaster. Scarcely less moved and surprised by the sight of the child than she had been on recognizing him, he stood for a moment silent and confounded by this unexpected apparition without even the presence of mind to raise her from the ground. But, quickly recovering his self-possession, he threw down his stick and book, and dropping on one knee beside her, endeavored by such simple means as occurred to him to restore her to herself, while her grandfather, standing idly by, wrung his hands and implored her with many endearing expressions to speak to him, were it only a word. She is quite exhausted, said the schoolmaster, glancing upward into his face. You have taxed her powers too far, friend. She is perishing of want, rejoined the old man. I never thought how weak and ill she was till now.  There was a small inn within sight, to which it would seem he had been directing his steps when so unexpectedly overtaken. Towards this place he hurried with his unconscious burden, and rushing into the kitchen, and calling upon the company there assembled to make way for God's sake, deposited it on a chair before the fire. The company, who rose in confusion at the schoolmaster's entrance, did as people usually do under such circumstances. Everybody called for his or her favorite remedy which nobody brought, each cried for more air at the same time carefully excluding what air there was by closing round the object of sympathy, and all wondered why somebody else didn't do whatever it never appeared to occur to them might be done by themselves. The landlady, however, who possessed more readiness and activity than any of them, and who had with all a quicker perception of the merits of the case, soon came running in with a little hot brandy and water, followed by her servant-girl, carrying vinegar, heart-sorn, smelling salts, and such other restoratives, which, being duly administered, recovered the child so far as to enable her to thank them in a faint voice, and to extend her hand to the poor schoolmaster, who stood with an anxious face hard by. Without suffering her to speak another word, or so much as to stir her finger any more, the woman's straightway carried her off to bed, and having covered her up warm, bathed her cold feet, and wrapped them in flannel, they dispatched a messenger for the doctor.  Then he looked at her tongue, then he felt her pulse again, and while he did so he eyed a half-empty wine-glass, as if in profound abstraction. I should give her, said the doctor at length, a teaspoonful every now and then of hot brandy and water. Why? That's exactly what we've done, sir, said the delighted landlady. I should also, observed the doctor who had passed the foot-bath on the stairs, I should also, said the doctor in the voice of an oracle, put her feet in hot water, and wrap them up in flannel. I should likewise, said the doctor with increased solemnity, give her something light for supper. The wing of a roasted fowl now. Why, goodness gracious me, sir, it's cooking at the kitchen fire this instant. cried the landlady, and so indeed it was, for the schoolmaster had ordered it to be put down, and it was getting on so well that the doctor might have smelted if he had tried. Perhaps he did. You may, then, said the doctor, rising gravely, give her a glass of hot, mulled, port wine, if she likes wine. And a toast, sir, suggested the landlady. I, said the doctor, and the tone of a man who makes a dignified concession, and a toast of bread. But be very particular to make it of bread, if you please, mom. With which parting injunction, slowly and portentously delivered, the doctor departed, leaving the whole house in admiration of that wisdom which tallied so closely with their own. Everybody said he was a very shrewd doctor indeed, and knew perfectly what people's constitutions were, which there appears some reason to suppose he did. While her supper was preparing, the child fell into a refreshing sleep, from which they were obliged to rouse her when it was ready. As she evinced extraordinary uneasiness on learning that her grandfather was below stairs, and as she was greatly troubled at the thought of their being apart, he took his supper with her. Finding her still very restless on this head, they made him up a bed in an inner room to which he presently retired. The key of this chamber happened, by good fortune, to be on that side of the door which was in Nell's room. She turned it on him when the landlady had withdrawn, and crept to bed again with a thankful heart. The schoolmaster sat for a long time, smoking his pipe by the kitchen fire, which was now deserted, thinking with a very happy face on the fortunate chance which had brought him so opportunely to the child's assistance, and parrying as well in his simple way he could, the inquisitive cross-examination of the landlady, who had a great curiosity to be made acquainted with every particular of Nell's life and history. The poor schoolmaster was so open-hearted, and so little versed in the most ordinary cunning or deceit, that she could not have failed to succeed in the first five minutes, but that he happened to be unacquainted with what she wished to know, and so he told her. The landlady by no means satisfied with this assurance, which she considered an ingenious evasion of the question, rejoined that he had his reasons, of course. Heaven forbid that she should wish to pry into the affairs of her customers, which indeed were no business of hers, who had so many of her own. She had merely asked a simple question, and to be sure she knew it would meet with a civil answer. She was quite satisfied—quite. She had rather, perhaps, that he would have said at once, that he didn't choose to be communicative, because that would have been plain and intelligible. However, she had no right to be offended, of course. He was the best judge, and had a perfect right to say what he pleased. Nobody could dispute that for a moment. Oh, dear, no. I assure you, my good lady," said the mild schoolmaster, that I have told you the plain truth. As I hope to be saved, I have told you the truth. Why, then, I do believe you are in earnest," rejoined the landlady, with ready good humour, and I'm very sorry I have teased you, but curiosity, you know, is the curse of our sex, and that's the fact. The landlord scratched his head, as if he thought the curse sometimes involved the other sex likewise, but he was prevented from making any remark to that effect, if he had it in contemplation to do so, by the schoolmaster's rejoinder. You should question me for half a dozen hours at a sitting, and welcome, and I would answer you patiently for the kindness of heart you have shown to-night, if I could, he said. As it is, please to take care of her in the morning, and let me know early how she is, and to understand that I am paymaster for the three. So, parting with them on most friendly terms, not the less cordial, perhaps, for this last direction, the schoolmaster went to his bed and the host and hostess to theirs. The report in the morning was that the child was better, but was extremely weak, and would at least require a day's rest, and careful nursing, before she could proceed upon her journey. The schoolmaster received this communication with perfect cheerfulness, observing that he had a day to spare, two days for that matter, and could very well afford to wait. As the patient was to sit up in the evening, he appointed to visit her in her room at a certain hour, and rambling out with his book did not return until the hour arrived. Nell could not help weeping when they were left alone. Where at, and outside of her pale face and wasted figure, the simple schoolmaster shed a few tears himself, at the same time showing in very energetic language how foolish it was to do so, and how very easily it could be avoided if one tried. It makes me unhappy, even in the midst of all this kindness, said the child, to think that we should be a burden upon you. How can I ever thank you? If I had not met you so far from home, I must have died, and he would have been left alone. Well, not talk about dying, said the schoolmaster, and as to burdens I have made my fortune, since you slept at my cottage. Indeed! cried the child joyfully. Oh, yes! returned her friend, I have been appointed, Clark and schoolmaster, to a village a long way from here, and a long way from the old one, as you may suppose, at five and thirty pounds a year, five and thirty pounds. I am very glad, said the child, so very, very glad. I am on my way there now, presumed the schoolmaster. They allowed me the stagecoach higher, outside stagecoach higher, all the way. Bless you, they grudge me nothing, but as the time at which I am expected there, left me ample leisure, I determined to walk instead. How glad I am, to think I did so. How glad should we be? Yes, yes, said the schoolmaster, moving restlessly in his chair. Certainly that's very true. But you, where are you going? Where are you coming from? What have you been doing since you left me? What had you been doing before? Now tell me. Do tell me. I know very little of the world, and perhaps you are better fitted to advise me in its affairs, than I am qualified to give advice to you, but I am very sincere, and I have a reason. You have not forgotten it for loving you. I have felt since that time, as if my love for him who died, had been transferred to you who stood beside his bed. If this, he added, looking upwards, is the beautiful creation that springs from ashes, let its peace prosper with me, as I deal tenderly and compassionately by this young child. The plain, frank kindness of the honest schoolmaster, the affectionate earnestness of his speech and manner, the truth which was stamped upon his every word and look, gave the child a confidence in him which the utmost arts of treachery and assimilation could never have awakened in her breast. She told him all, that they had no friend or relative, that she had fled with the old man to save him from a madhouse, and all the miseries he dreaded, that she was flying now to save him from himself, and that she sought an asylum in some remote and primitive place, where the temptation before which he fell would never enter, and her late sorrows and distresses could have no place. The schoolmaster heard her with astonishment. This child, he thought, as this child, heroically persevered, and all doubts and dangers, struggled with poverty and suffering, upheld and sustained by strong affection, and the consciousness of rectitude alone. And yet the world is full of such heroism. Have I yet to learn that at the hardest and best-born trials are those which are never chronicled in any earthly record, and are suffered every day? And should I be surprised to hear the story of this child? What more he thought or said matters not. It was concluded that Nell and her grandfather should accompany him to the village, whether he was bound, and that he should endeavour to find them some humble occupation by which they could subsist. We shall be sure to succeed, said the schoolmaster heartily. The cause is too good a one to fail. They arranged to proceed upon their journey next evening, as a stage wagon, which travelled for some distance on the same road as they must take, would stop at the inn to change horses, and the driver for a small gratuity would give Nell a place inside. A bargain was soon struck when the wagon came, and in due time it rolled away, with the child comfortably bestowed among the softer packages, her grandfather and the schoolmaster walking on beside the driver, and the landlady and all the good folks of the inn screaming out their good wishes and farewells. What a soothing, luxurious, drowsy way of travelling to lie inside that slowly moving mountain, listening to the tinkling of the horses' bells, the occasional smacking of the carter's whip, the smooth rolling of the great broad wheels, the rattle of the harness, the cheery good-nights of passing travellers jogging past on little short-stepped horses, all made pleasantly indistinct by the thick awning which seemed made for lazy listening under till one fell asleep. The very going to sleep, still with an indistinct idea, as the head jogged to and fro upon the pillow, of moving onward with no trouble or fatigue, and hearing all these sounds like dreamy music lulling to the senses, and the slow waking up and finding one's self, staring out through the breezy curtain half opened in the front, far up into the cold bright sky with its countless stars, and downward at the driver's lantern dancing on like its namesake, jack of the swamps and marshes, and sideways at the dark grim trees, and forward at the long bear road rising up, up, up, until it stopped abruptly at a sharp high ridge as if there were no more road, and all beyond was sky, and the stopping at the inn to bait, and being helped out, and going into a room with fire and candles and winking very much, and being agreeably reminded that the night was cold and anxious for very comfort's sake to think it colder than it was. What a delicious journey was that journey in the wagon! Then the going on again, so fresh at first and shortly afterwards so sleepy. The waking from a sound nap as the mail came dashing past like a highway comet, with gleaming lamps and rattling hooves and visions of a guard behind, standing up to keep his feet warm, and of a gentleman in a fur cap opening his eyes and looking wild and stupefied, the stopping at the turnpike where the man was gone to bed, and knocking at the door until he answered with a smothered shout from under the bed clothes in the little room above, where the faint light was burning, and presently came down night-capped and shivering to throw the gate wide open and wish all wagons off the road except by day. The cold sharp interval between night and morning, the distant streak of light widening and spreading, and turning from grey to white, and from white to yellow, and from yellow to burning red, the presence of day, with all its cheerfulness and life, men and horses at the plow, birds in the trees and hedges, and boys in solitary fields, fighting them away with rattles. They're coming to a town, people busy in the markets, light carts and chasers round the tavern-yard, tradesmen standing at their doors, men running horses up and down the street for sale, pigs plunging and grunting in the dirty distance, getting off with long strings at their legs, running into clean chemist shops and being dislodged with brooms by apprentices, the night-coach changing horses, the passengers cheerless, cold, ugly and discontented with three months' growth of hair in one night, the coachman fresher from a band-box and exquisitely beautiful by contrast, so much bustle, so many things in motion, such a variety of incidents, when was there a journey with so many delights as that journey in the wagon? Sometimes walking for a mile or two while her grandfather rode inside, and sometimes even prevailing upon the schoolmaster to take her place and lie down to rest, Nell travelled on very happily, until they came to a large town where the wagon stopped and where they spent a night. They passed a large church, and in the streets were a number of old houses, built of a kind of earth or plaster, crossed and recrossed in a great many directions with black beams, which gave them a remarkable and very ancient look. The doors too were arched and low, some with oaken portals and quaint benches where the former inhabitants had sat on summer evenings. The windows were latticed in little diamond panes that seemed to wink and blink upon the passengers as if they were dim of sight. They had long since got clear of the smoke and furnaces, except in one or two solitary instances, where a factory, planted among fields, withered the space about it like a burning mountain. When they had passed through this town, they entered again upon the country and began to draw near their place of destination. It was not so near, however, but that they spent another night upon the road. Not that their doing so was quite an act of necessity, but that the schoolmaster, when they approached within a few miles of his village, had a fidgety sense of his dignity as the new clerk, and was unwilling to make his entry in dusty shoes and travel-disordered dress. It was a fine, clear autumn morning, when they came upon the scene of his promotion and stopped to contemplate its beauties. See, here's the church! cried the delighted schoolmaster in a low voice, and that old building close beside it is the schoolhouse, I'll be sworn, five and thirty pounds a year in this beautiful place. They admired everything—the old grey porch, the mullioned windows, the venerable gravestones dotting the green churchyard, the ancient tower, the very weather-cock, the brown-thatched roofs of cottage, barn, and homestead, peeping from among the trees, the stream that rippled by the distant water-mill, the blue Welsh mountains far away. It was for such a spot the child had wearied in the dense, dark, miserable haunts of labour. Upon her bed of ashes, and amidst the squalid horrors through which they had forced their way, visions of such scenes, beautiful indeed, but not more beautiful than this sweet reality, had been always present to her mind. They had seemed to melt into a dim and airy distance, as the prospect of ever beholding them again grew fainter, but as they receded she had loved and panted for them more. I must leave you somewhere for a few minutes, said the schoolmaster, at length breaking the silence into which they had fallen in their gladness. I have a letter to present, and inquiries to make, you know. Where shall I take you, to the little inn, yonder? Let us wait here. rejoined Nell. The gate is open.  A good place, too, said the schoolmaster, leading the way towards it, disencumbering himself of his portmanteau, and placing it on the stone seat. Be sure that I come back with good news, and am not long gone.  The child watched him from the porch, until the intervening foliage hit him from her view, and then stepped softly out into the old church yard. So solemn and quiet that every rustle of her dress upon the fallen leaves, which strewed the path, and made her footsteps noiseless, seemed an invasion of its silence. It was a very aged, ghostly place, the church had been built many hundreds of years ago, and had once had a convent or monastery attached, for arches in ruins, remains of aureal windows, and fragments of blackened walls were yet standing. While other portions of the old building, which had crumbled away and fallen down, were mingled with the church yard at earth, and overgrown with grass, as if they too claimed a burying place, and sought to mix their ashes with the dust of men. Hard by these gravestones of dead years, and forming a part of the ruin which some pains had been taken to render habitable in modern times, were two small dwellings with sunken windows and oaken doors, fast hastening to decay, empty, and desolate. Upon these tenements, the attention of the child became exclusively riveted. She knew not why. The church, the ruin, the antiquated graves, had equal claims at least upon the stranger's thoughts, but from the moment when her eyes first rested on these two dwellings, she could turn to nothing else. Even when she had made the circuit of the enclosure, and returning to the porch, sat pensively waiting for their friend, she took her station where she could still look upon them, and felt as if fascinated towards that spot.