The Old Curiosity Shop

Chapter 3

Charles Dickens

THE CHILD was closely followed by an elderly man of remarkably hard features and forbidding aspect, and so low in stature as to be quite a dwarf, though his head and face were large enough for the body of a giant. His black eyes were restless, sly, and cunning; his mouth and chin, bristly with the stubble of a coarse hard beard; and his complexion was one of that kind which never looks clean or wholesome. But what added most to the grotesque expression of his face was a ghastly smile, which, appearing to be the mere result of habit and to have no connection with any mirthful or complacent feeling, constantly revealed the few discoloured fangs that were yet scattered in his mouth, and gave him the aspect of a panting dog. His dress consisted of a large high-crowned hat, a worn dark suit, a pair of capacious shoes, and a dirty white neckerchief sufficiently limp and crumpled to disclose the greater portion of his wiry throat. Such hair as he had was of a grizzled black, cut short and straight upon his temples, and hanging in a frowzy fringe about his ears. His hands, which were of a rough, coarse grain, were very dirty; his fingernails were crooked, long, and yellow.

There was ample time to note these particulars, for besides that they were sufficiently obvious without very close observation, some moments elapsed before any one broke silence. The child advanced timidly towards her brother and put her hand in his, the dwarf (if we may call him so) glanced keenly at all present, and the curiosity-dealer, who plainly had not expected his uncouth visitor, seemed disconcerted and embarrassed.

“Ah!” said the dwarf, who with his hand stretched out above his eyes had been surveying the young man attentively, “that should be your grandson, neighbour!”

“Say rather that he should not be,” replied the old man. “But he is.”

“And that?” said the dwarf, pointing to Dick Swiveller.

“Some friend of his, as welcome here as he,” said the old man.

“And that?” inquired the dwarf, wheeling round and pointing straight at me.

“A gentleman who was so good as to bring Nell home the other night when she lost her way, coming from your house.”

The little man turned to the child as if to chide her or express his wonder, but as she was talking to the young man, held his peace, and bent his head to listen.

“Well, Nelly,” said the young fellow aloud. “Do they teach you to hate me, eh?”

“No, no. For shame. Oh, no!” cried the child.

“To love me, perhaps?” pursued her brother with a sneer.

“To do neither,” she returned. “They never speak to me about you. Indeed they never do.”

“I dare be bound for that,” he said, darting a bitter look at the grandfather. “I dare be bound for that Nell. Oh! I believe you there!”

“But I love you dearly, Fred,” said the child.

“No doubt!”

“I do indeed, and always will,” the child repeated with great emotion, “but oh! If you would leave off vexing him and making him unhappy, then I could love you more.”

“I see!” said the young man, as he stooped carelessly over the child, and having kissed her, pushed her from him: “There—get you away now you have said your lesson. You needn’t whimper. We part good friends enough, if that’s the matter.”

He remained silent, following her with his eyes, until she had gained her little room and closed the door; and then turning to the dwarf, said abruptly,

“Harkee, Mr—”

“Meaning me?” returned the dwarf. “Quilp is my name. You might remember. It’s not a long one—Daniel Quilp.”

“Harkee, Mr. Quilp, then,” pursued the other, “You have some influence with my grandfather there.”

“Some,” said Mr. Quilp emphatically.

“And are in a few of his mysteries and secrets.”

“A few,” replied Quilp, with equal dryness.

“Then let me tell him once for all, through you, that I will come into and go out of this place as often as I like, so long as he keeps Nell here; and that if he wants to be quit of me, he must first be quit of her. What have I done to be made a bugbear of, and to be shunned and dreaded as if I brought the plague? He’ll tell you that I have no natural affection; and that I care no more for Nell, for her own sake, than I do for him. Let him say so. I care for the whim, then, of coming to and fro and reminding her of my existence. I WILL see her when I please. That’s my point. I came here to-day to maintain it, and I’ll come here again fifty times with the same object and always with the same success. I said I would stop till I had gained it. I have done so, and now my visit’s ended. Come Dick.”

“Stop!” cried Mr. Swiveller, as his companion turned toward the door. “Sir!”

“Sir, I am your humble servant,” said Mr. Quilp, to whom the monosyllable was addressed.

“Before I leave the gay and festive scene, and halls of dazzling light, sir,” said Mr. Swiveller, “I will with your permission, attempt a slight remark. I came here, sir, this day, under the impression that the old min was friendly.”

“Proceed, sir,” said Daniel Quilp; for the orator had made a sudden stop.

“Inspired by this idea and the sentiments it awakened, sir, and feeling as a mutual friend that badgering, baiting, and bullying, was not the sort of thing calculated to expand the souls and promote the social harmony of the contending parties, I took upon myself to suggest a course which is THE course to be adopted to the present occasion. Will you allow me to whisper half a syllable, sir?”

Without waiting for the permission he sought, Mr. Swiveller stepped up to the dwarf, and leaning on his shoulder and stooping down to get at his ear, said in a voice which was perfectly audible to all present,

“The watch-word to the old min is—fork.”

“Is what?” demanded Quilp.

“Is fork, sir, fork,” replied Mr. Swiveller slapping his pocket. “You are awake, sir?”

The dwarf nodded. Mr. Swiveller drew back and nodded likewise, then drew a little further back and nodded again, and so on. By these means he in time reached the door, where he gave a great cough to attract the dwarf’s attention and gain an opportunity of expressing in dumb show, the closest confidence and most inviolable secrecy. Having performed the serious pantomime that was necessary for the due conveyance of these idea, he cast himself upon his friend’s track, and vanished.

“Humph!” said the dwarf with a sour look and a shrug of his shoulders, “so much for dear relations. Thank God I acknowledge none! Nor need you either,” he added, turning to the old man, “if you were not as weak as a reed, and nearly as senseless.”

“What would you have me do?” he retorted in a kind of helpless desperation. “It is easy to talk and sneer. What would you have me do?”

“What would I do if I was in your case?” said the dwarf.

“Something violent, no doubt.”

“You’re right there,” returned the little man, highly gratified by the compliment, for such he evidently considered it; and grinning like a devil as he rubbed his dirty hands together. “Ask Mrs. Quilp, pretty Mrs. Quilp, obedient, timid, loving Mrs. Quilp. But that reminds me—I have left her all alone, and she will be anxious and know not a moment’s peace till I return. I know she’s always in that condition when I’m away, thought she doesn’t dare to say so, unless I lead her on and tell her she may speak freely and I won’t be angry with her. Oh! well-trained Mrs. Quilp.”

The creature appeared quite horrible with his monstrous head and little body, as he rubbed his hands slowly round, and round, and round again—with something fantastic even in his manner of performing this slight action—and, dropping his shaggy brows and cocking his chin in the air, glanced upward with a stealthy look of exultation that an imp might have copied and appropriated to himself.

“Here,” he said, putting his hand into his breast and sidling up to the old man as he spoke; “I brought it myself for fear of accidents, as, being in gold, it was something large and heavy for Nell to carry in her bag. She need be accustomed to such loads betimes though, neighbor, for she will carry weight when you are dead.”

“Heaven send she may! I hope so,” said the old man with something like a groan.

“Hope so!” echoed the dwarf, approaching close to his ear; “neighbour, I would I knew in what good investment all these supplies are sunk. But you are a deep man, and keep your secret close.”

“My secret!” said the other with a haggard look. “Yes, you’re right—I—I—keep it close—very close.”

He said no more, but taking the money turned away with a slow, uncertain step, and pressed his hand upon his head like a weary and dejected man. The dwarf watched him sharply, while he passed into the little sitting-room and locked it in an iron safe above the chimney-piece; and after musing for a short space, prepared to take his leave, observing that unless he made good haste, Mrs. Quilp would certainly be in fits on his return.

“And so, neighbour,” he added, “I’ll turn my face homewards, leaving my love for Nelly and hoping she may never lose her way again, though her doing so HAS procured me an honour I didn’t expect.” With that he bowed and leered at me, and with a keen glance around which seemed to comprehend every object within his range of vision, however, small or trivial, went his way.

I had several times essayed to go myself, but the old man had always opposed it and entreated me to remain. As he renewed his entreaties on our being left along, and adverted with many thanks to the former occasion of our being together, I willingly yielded to his persuasions, and sat down, pretending to examine some curious miniatures and a few old medals which he placed before me. It needed no great pressing to induce me to stay, for if my curiosity has been excited on the occasion of my first visit, it certainly was not diminished now.

Nell joined us before long, and bringing some needle-work to the table, sat by the old man’s side. It was pleasant to observe the fresh flowers in the room, the pet bird with a green bough shading his little cage, the breath of freshness and youth which seemed to rustle through the old dull house and hover round the child. It was curious, but not so pleasant, to turn from the beauty and grace of the girl, to the stooping figure, care-worn face, and jaded aspect of the old man. As he grew weaker and more feeble, what would become of this lonely little creature; poor protector as he was, say that he died—what would be her fate, then?

The old man almost answered my thoughts, as he laid his hand on hers, and spoke aloud.

“I’ll be of better cheer, Nell,” he said; “there must be good fortune in store for thee—I do not ask it for myself, but thee. Such miseries must fall on thy innocent head without it, that I cannot believe but that, being tempted, it will come at last!”

She looked cheerfully into his face, but made no answer.

“When I think,” said he, “of the many years—many in thy short life—that thou has lived with me; of my monotonous existence, knowing no companions of thy own age nor any childish pleasures; of the solitude in which thou has grown to be what thou art, and in which thou hast lived apart from nearly all thy kind but one old man; I sometimes fear I have dealt hardly by thee, Nell.”

“Grandfather!” cried the child in unfeigned surprise.

“Not in intention—no no,” said he. “I have ever looked forward to the time that should enable thee to mix among the gayest and prettiest, and take thy station with the best. But I still look forward, Nell, I still look forward, and if I should be forced to leave thee, meanwhile, how have I fitted thee for struggles with the world? The poor bird yonder is as well qualified to encounter it, and be turned adrift upon its mercies—Hark! I hear Kit outside. Go to him, Nell, go to him.”

She rose, and hurrying away, stopped, turned back, and put her arms about the old man’s neck, then left him and hurried away again—but faster this time, to hide her falling tears.

“A word in your ear, sir,” said the old man in a hurried whisper. “I have been rendered uneasy by what you said the other night, and can only plead that I have done all for the best—that it is too late to retract, if I could (though I cannot)—and that I hope to triumph yet. All is for her sake. I have borne great poverty myself, and would spare her the sufferings that poverty carries with it. I would spare her the miseries that brought her mother, my own dear child, to an early grave. I would leave her—not with resources which could be easily spent or squandered away, but with what would place her beyond the reach of want for ever. You mark me sir? She shall have no pittance, but a fortune—Hush! I can say no more than that, now or at any other time, and she is here again!”

The eagerness with which all this was poured into my ear, the trembling of the hand with which he clasped my arm, the strained and starting eyes he fixed upon me, the wild vehemence and agitation of his manner, filled me with amazement. All that I had heard and seen, and a great part of what he had said himself, led me to suppose that he was a wealthy man. I could form no comprehension of his character, unless he were one of those miserable wretches who, having made gain the sole end and object of their lives and having succeeded in amassing great riches, are constantly tortured by the dread of poverty, and beset by fears of loss and ruin. Many things he had said which I had been at a loss to understand, were quite reconcilable with the idea thus presented to me, and at length I concluded that beyond all doubt he was one of this unhappy race.

The opinion was not the result of hasty consideration, for which indeed there was no opportunity at that time, as the child came directly, and soon occupied herself in preparations for giving Kit a writing lesson, of which it seemed he had a couple every week, and one regularly on that evening, to the great mirth and enjoyment both of himself and his instructress. To relate how it was a long time before his modesty could be so far prevailed upon as it admit of his sitting down in the parlour, in the presence of an unknown gentleman—how, when he did set down, he tucked up his sleeves and squared his elbows and put his face close to the copy-book and squinted horribly at the lines—how, from the very first moment of having the pen in his hand, he began to wallow in blots, and to daub himself with ink up to the very roots of his hair—how, if he did by accident form a letter properly, he immediately smeared it out again with his arm in his preparations to make another—how, at every fresh mistake, there was a fresh burst of merriment from the child and louder and not less hearty laugh from poor Kit himself—and how there was all the way through, notwithstanding, a gentle wish on her part to teach, and an anxious desire on his to learn—to relate all these particulars would no doubt occupy more space and time than they deserve. It will be sufficient to say that the lesson was given—that evening passed and night came on—that the old man again grew restless and impatient—that he quitted the house secretly at the same hour as before—and that the child was once more left alone within its gloomy walls.

And now that I have carried this history so far in my own character and introduced these personages to the reader, I shall for the convenience of the narrative detach myself from its further course, and leave those who have prominent and necessary parts in it to speak and act for themselves.

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