The Old Curiosity Shop

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'I love her,' croaked the dwarf.

'You're very good, Sir,' returned Brass, 'I am sure. Is there any
other order, sir, that I can take a note of, besides this little
matter of Mr Richard?'

'None,' replied the dwarf, seizing the saucepan. 'Let us drink the
lovely Sarah.'

'If we could do it in something, sir, that wasn't quite boiling,'
suggested Brass humbly, 'perhaps it would be better. I think it
will be more agreeable to Sarah's feelings, when she comes to hear
from me of the honour you have done her, if she learns it was in
liquor rather cooler than the last, Sir.'

But to these remonstrances, Mr Quilp turned a deaf ear. Sampson
Brass, who was, by this time, anything but sober, being compelled
to take further draughts of the same strong bowl, found that,
instead of at all contributing to his recovery, they had the novel
effect of making the counting-house spin round and round with
extreme velocity, and causing the floor and ceiling to heave in a
very distressing manner. After a brief stupor, he awoke to a
consciousness of being partly under the table and partly under the
grate. This position not being the most comfortable one he could
have chosen for himself, he managed to stagger to his feet, and,
holding on by the admiral, looked round for his host.

Mr Brass's first impression was, that his host was gone and had
left him there alone--perhaps locked him in for the night. A
strong smell of tobacco, however, suggested a new train of ideas,
he looked upward, and saw that the dwarf was smoking in his
hammock.

'Good bye, Sir,' cried Brass faintly. 'Good bye, Sir.'

'Won't you stop all night?' said the dwarf, peeping out. 'Do stop
all night!'

'I couldn't indeed, Sir,' replied Brass, who was almost dead from
nausea and the closeness of the room. 'If you'd have the goodness
to show me a light, so that I may see my way across the yard,
sir--'

Quilp was out in an instant; not with his legs first, or his head
first, or his arms first, but bodily--altogether.

'To be sure,' he said, taking up a lantern, which was now the only
light in the place. 'Be careful how you go, my dear friend. Be
sure to pick your way among the timber, for all the rusty nails are
upwards. There's a dog in the lane. He bit a man last night, and
a woman the night before, and last Tuesday he killed a child--but
that was in play. Don't go too near him.'

'Which side of the road is he, sir?' asked Brass, in great dismay.

'He lives on the right hand,' said Quilp, 'but sometimes he hides
on the left, ready for a spring. He's uncertain in that respect.
Mind you take care of yourself. I'll never forgive you if you
don't. There's the light out--never mind--you know the way--
straight on!'
Quilp had slily shaded the light by holding it against his breast,
and now stood chuckling and shaking from head to foot in a rapture
of delight, as he heard the lawyer stumbling up the yard, and now
and then falling heavily down. At length, however, he got quit of
the place, and was out of hearing.

The dwarf shut himself up again, and sprang once more into his
hammock.

CHAPTER 63

The professional gentleman who had given Kit the consolatory piece
of information relative to the settlement of his trifle of business
at the Old Bailey, and the probability of its being very soon
disposed of, turned out to be quite correct in his
prognostications. In eight days' time, the sessions commenced. In
one day afterwards, the Grand jury found a True Bill against
Christopher Nubbles for felony; and in two days from that finding,
the aforesaid Christopher Nubbles was called upon to plead Guilty
or Not Guilty to an Indictment for that he the said Christopher did
feloniously abstract and steal from the dwelling-house and office
of one Sampson Brass, gentleman, one Bank Note for Five Pounds
issued by the Governor and Company of the Bank of England; in
contravention of the Statutes in that case made and provided, and
against the peace of our Sovereign Lord the King, his crown and
dignity.

To this indictment, Christopher Nubbles, in a low and trembling
voice, pleaded Not Guilty; and here, let those who are in the habit
of forming hasty judgments from appearances, and who would have had
Christopher, if innocent, speak out very strong and loud, observe,
that confinement and anxiety will subdue the stoutest hearts; and
that to one who has been close shut up, though it be only for ten
or eleven days, seeing but stone walls and a very few stony faces,
the sudden entrance into a great hall filled with life, is a rather
disconcerting and startling circumstance. To this, it must be
added, that life in a wig is to a large class of people much more
terrifying and impressive than life with its own head of hair; and
if, in addition to these considerations, there be taken into
account Kit's natural emotion on seeing the two Mr Garlands and the
little Notary looking on with pale and anxious faces, it will
perhaps seem matter of no very great wonder that he should have
been rather out of sorts, and unable to make himself quite at home.

Although he had never seen either of the Mr Garlands, or Mr
Witherden, since the time of his arrest, he had been given to
understand that they had employed counsel for him. Therefore, when
one of the gentlemen in wigs got up and said 'I am for the
prisoner, my Lord,' Kit made him a bow; and when another gentleman
in a wig got up and said 'And I'm against him, my Lord,' Kit
trembled very much, and bowed to him too. And didn't he hope in
his own heart that his gentleman was a match for the other
gentleman, and would make him ashamed of himself in no time!

The gentleman who was against him had to speak first, and being in
dreadfully good spirits (for he had, in the last trial, very nearly
procured the acquittal of a young gentleman who had had the
misfortune to murder his father) he spoke up, you may be sure;
telling the jury that if they acquitted this prisoner they must
expect to suffer no less pangs and agonies than he had told the
other jury they would certainly undergo if they convicted that
prisoner. And when he had told them all about the case, and that
he had never known a worse case, he stopped a little while, like a
man who had something terrible to tell them, and then said that he
understood an attempt would be made by his learned friend (and here
he looked sideways at Kit's gentleman) to impeach the testimony of
those immaculate witnesses whom he should call before them; but he
did hope and trust that his learned friend would have a greater
respect and veneration for the character of the prosecutor; than
whom, as he well knew, there did not exist, and never had existed,
a more honourable member of that most honourable profession to
which he was attached. And then he said, did the jury know Bevis
Marks? And if they did know Bevis Marks (as he trusted for their
own character, they did) did they know the historical and elevating
associations connected with that most remarkable spot? Did they
believe that a man like Brass could reside in a place like Bevis
Marks, and not be a virtuous and most upright character? And when
he had said a great deal to them on this point, he remembered that
it was an insult to their understandings to make any remarks on
what they must have felt so strongly without him, and therefore
called Sampson Brass into the witness-box, straightway.

Then up comes Mr Brass, very brisk and fresh; and, having bowed to
the judge, like a man who has had the pleasure of seeing him
before, and who hopes he has been pretty well since their last
meeting, folds his arms, and looks at his gentleman as much as to
say 'Here I am--full of evidence--Tap me!' And the gentleman
does tap him presently, and with great discretion too; drawing off
the evidence by little and little, and making it run quite clear
and bright in the eyes of all present. Then, Kit's gentleman takes
him in hand, but can make nothing of him; and after a great many
very long questions and very short answers, Mr Sampson Brass goes
down in glory.

To him succeeds Sarah, who in like manner is easy to be managed by
Mr Brass's gentleman, but very obdurate to Kit's. In short, Kit's
gentleman can get nothing out of her but a repetition of what she
has said before (only a little stronger this time, as against his
client), and therefore lets her go, in some confusion. Then, Mr
Brass's gentleman calls Richard Swiveller, and Richard Swiveller
appears accordingly.

Now, Mr Brass's gentleman has it whispered in his ear that this
witness is disposed to be friendly to the prisoner--which, to say
the truth, he is rather glad to hear, as his strength is considered
to lie in what is familiarly termed badgering. Wherefore, he
begins by requesting the officer to be quite sure that this witness
kisses the book, then goes to work at him, tooth and nail.

'Mr Swiveller,' says this gentleman to Dick, when he had told his
tale with evident reluctance and a desire to make the best of it:
'Pray sir, where did you dine yesterday?'--'Where did I dine
yesterday?'--'Aye, sir, where did you dine yesterday--was it near
here, sir?'--'Oh to be sure--yes--just over the way.'--'To be sure.
Yes. just over the way,' repeats Mr Brass's gentleman, with a
glance at the court.--'Alone, sir?'--'I beg your pardon,' says Mr
Swiveller, who has not caught the question--'Alone, sir?' repeats
Mr Brass's gentleman in a voice of thunder, 'did you dine alone?
Did you treat anybody, sir? Come!'--'Oh yes, to be sure--yes, I
did,' says Mr Swiveller with a smile.--'Have the goodness to banish
a levity, sir, which is very ill-suited to the place in which you
stand (though perhaps you have reason to be thankful that it's only
that place),' says Mr Brass's gentleman, with a nod of the head,
insinuating that the dock is Mr Swiveller's legitimate sphere of
action; 'and attend to me. You were waiting about here, yesterday,
in expectation that this trial was coming on. You dined over the
way. You treated somebody. Now, was that somebody brother to the
prisoner at the bar?'--Mr Swiveller is proceeding to explain--'Yes
or No, sir,' cries Mr Brass's gentleman--'But will you allow me--'
--'Yes or No, sir'--'Yes it was, but--'--'Yes it was,' cries the
gentleman, taking him up short. 'And a very pretty witness YOU
are!'

Down sits Mr Brass's gentleman. Kit's gentleman, not knowing how
the matter really stands, is afraid to pursue the subject. Richard
Swiveller retires abashed. Judge, jury and spectators have visions
of his lounging about, with an ill-looking, large-whiskered,
dissolute young fellow of six feet high. The reality is, little
Jacob, with the calves of his legs exposed to the open air, and
himself tied up in a shawl. Nobody knows the truth; everybody
believes a falsehood; and all because of the ingenuity of Mr
Brass's gentleman.

Then come the witnesses to character, and here Mr Brass's gentleman
shines again. It turns out that Mr Garland has had no character
with Kit, no recommendation of him but from his own mother, and
that he was suddenly dismissed by his former master for unknown
reasons. 'Really Mr Garland,' says Mr Brass's gentleman, 'for a
person who has arrived at your time of life, you are, to say the
least of it, singularly indiscreet, I think.' The jury think so
too, and find Kit guilty. He is taken off, humbly protesting his
innocence. The spectators settle themselves in their places with
renewed attention, for there are several female witnesses to be
examined in the next case, and it has been rumoured that Mr Brass's
gentleman will make great fun in cross-examining them for the
prisoner.

Kit's mother, poor woman, is waiting at the grate below stairs,
accompanied by Barbara's mother (who, honest soul! never does
anything but cry, and hold the baby), and a sad interview ensues.
The newspaper-reading turnkey has told them all. He don't think it
will be transportation for life, because there's time to prove the
good character yet, and that is sure to serve him. He wonders what
he did it for. 'He never did it!' cries Kit's mother. 'Well,'
says the turnkey, 'I won't contradict you. It's all one, now,
whether he did it or not.'

Kit's mother can reach his hand through the bars, and she clasps it--
God, and those to whom he has given such tenderness, only know in
how much agony. Kit bids her keep a good heart, and, under
pretence of having the children lifted up to kiss him, prays
Barbara's mother in a whisper to take her home.

'Some friend will rise up for us, mother,' cried Kit, 'I am sure.
If not now, before long. My innocence will come out, mother, and
I shall be brought back again; I feel confidence in that. You must
teach little Jacob and the baby how all this was, for if they
thought I had ever been dishonest, when they grew old enough to
understand, it would break my heart to know it, if I was thousands
of miles away.--Oh! is there no good gentleman here, who will
take care of her!'

The hand slips out of his, for the poor creature sinks down upon
the earth, insensible. Richard Swiveller comes hastily up, elbows
the bystanders out of the way, takes her (after some trouble) in
one arm after the manner of theatrical ravishers, and, nodding to
Kit, and commanding Barbara's mother to follow, for he has a coach
waiting, bears her swiftly off.

Well; Richard took her home. And what astonishing absurdities in
the way of quotation from song and poem he perpetrated on the road,
no man knows. He took her home, and stayed till she was recovered;
and, having no money to pay the coach, went back in state to Bevis
Marks, bidding the driver (for it was Saturday night) wait at the
door while he went in for 'change.'

'Mr Richard, sir,' said Brass cheerfully, 'Good evening!'

Monstrous as Kit's tale had appeared, at first, Mr Richard did,
that night, half suspect his affable employer of some deep villany.
Perhaps it was but the misery he had just witnessed which gave his
careless nature this impulse; but, be that as it may, it was very
strong upon him, and he said in as few words as possible, what he
wanted.

'Money?' cried Brass, taking out his purse. 'Ha ha! To be sure,
Mr Richard, to be sure, sir. All men must live. You haven't
change for a five-pound note, have you sir?'

'No,' returned Dick, shortly.

'Oh!' said Brass, 'here's the very sum. That saves trouble.
You're very welcome I'm sure.--Mr Richard, sir--'
Dick, who had by this time reached the door, turned round.

'You needn't,' said Brass, 'trouble yourself to come back any more,
Sir.'

'Eh?'

'You see, Mr Richard,' said Brass, thrusting his hands in his
pockets, and rocking himself to and fro on his stool, 'the fact is,
that a man of your abilities is lost, Sir, quite lost, in our dry
and mouldy line. It's terrible drudgery--shocking. I should say,
now, that the stage, or the--or the army, Mr Richard--or
something very superior in the licensed victualling way--was the
kind of thing that would call out the genius of such a man as you.
I hope you'll look in to see us now and then. Sally, Sir, will be
delighted I'm sure. She's extremely sorry to lose you, Mr Richard,
but a sense of her duty to society reconciles her. An amazing
creature that, sir! You'll find the money quite correct, I think.
There's a cracked window sir, but I've not made any deduction on
that account. Whenever we part with friends, Mr Richard, let us
part liberally. A delightful sentiment, sir!'

To all these rambling observations, Mr Swiveller answered not one
word, but, returning for the aquatic jacket, rolled it into a tight
round ball: looking steadily at Brass meanwhile as if he had some
intention of bowling him down with it. He only took it under his
arm, however, and marched out of the office in profound silence.
When he had closed the door, he re-opened it, stared in again for
a few moments with the same portentous gravity, and nodding his
head once, in a slow and ghost-like manner, vanished.

He paid the coachman, and turned his back on Bevis Marks, big with
great designs for the comforting of Kit's mother and the aid of Kit
himself.

But the lives of gentlemen devoted to such pleasures as Richard
Swiveller, are extremely precarious. The spiritual excitement of
the last fortnight, working upon a system affected in no slight
degree by the spirituous excitement of some years, proved a little
too much for him. That very night, Mr Richard was seized with an
alarming illness, and in twenty-four hours was stricken with a
raging fever.

CHAPTER 64

Tossing to and fro upon his hot, uneasy bed; tormented by a fierce
thirst which nothing could appease; unable to find, in any change
of posture, a moment's peace or ease; and rambling, ever, through
deserts of thought where there was no resting-place, no sight or
sound suggestive of refreshment or repose, nothing but a dull
eternal weariness, with no change but the restless shiftings of his
miserable body, and the weary wandering of his mind, constant still
to one ever-present anxiety--to a sense of something left undone,
of some fearful obstacle to be surmounted, of some carking care
that would not be driven away, and which haunted the distempered
brain, now in this form, now in that, always shadowy and dim, but
recognisable for the same phantom in every shape it took: darkening
every vision like an evil conscience, and making slumber horrible--
in these slow tortures of his dread disease, the unfortunate
Richard lay wasting and consuming inch by inch, until, at last,
when he seemed to fight and struggle to rise up, and to be held
down by devils, he sank into a deep sleep, and dreamed no more.

He awoke. With a sensation of most blissful rest, better than
sleep itself, he began gradually to remember something of these
sufferings, and to think what a long night it had been, and whether
he had not been delirious twice or thrice. Happening, in the midst
of these cogitations, to raise his hand, he was astonished to find
how heavy it seemed, and yet how thin and light it really was.
Still, he felt indifferent and happy; and having no curiosity to
pursue the subject, remained in the same waking slumber until his
attention was attracted by a cough. This made him doubt whether he
had locked his door last night, and feel a little surprised at
having a companion in the room. Still, he lacked energy to follow
up this train of thought; and unconsciously fell, in a luxury of
repose, to staring at some green stripes on the bed-furniture, and
associating them strangely with patches of fresh turf, while the
yellow ground between made gravel-walks, and so helped out a long
perspective of trim gardens.

He was rambling in imagination on these terraces, and had quite
lost himself among them indeed, when he heard the cough once more.
The walks shrunk into stripes again at the sound, and raising
himself a little in the bed, and holding the curtain open with one
hand, he looked out.

The same room certainly, and still by candlelight; but with what
unbounded astonishment did he see all those bottles, and basins,
and articles of linen airing by the fire, and such-like furniture
of a sick chamber--all very clean and neat, but all quite
different from anything he had left there, when he went to bed!
The atmosphere, too, filled with a cool smell of herbs and vinegar;
the floor newly sprinkled; the--the what? The Marchioness?

Yes; playing cribbage with herself at the table. There she sat,
intent upon her game, coughing now and then in a subdued manner as
if she feared to disturb him--shuffling the cards, cutting,
dealing, playing, counting, pegging--going through all the
mysteries of cribbage as if she had been in full practice from her
cradle! Mr Swiveller contemplated these things for a short time,
and suffering the curtain to fall into its former position, laid
his head on the pillow again.

'I'm dreaming,' thought Richard, 'that's clear. When I went to
bed, my hands were not made of egg-shells; and now I can almost see
through 'em. If this is not a dream, I have woke up, by mistake,
in an Arabian Night, instead of a London one. But I have no doubt
I'm asleep. Not the least.'

Here the small servant had another cough.

'Very remarkable!' thought Mr Swiveller. 'I never dreamt such a
real cough as that before. I don't know, indeed, that I ever
dreamt either a cough or a sneeze. Perhaps it's part of the
philosophy of dreams that one never does. There's another--and
another--I say!--I'm dreaming rather fast!'

For the purpose of testing his real condition, Mr Swiveller, after
some reflection, pinched himself in the arm.

'Queerer still!' he thought. 'I came to bed rather plump than
otherwise, and now there's nothing to lay hold of. I'll take
another survey.'

The result of this additional inspection was, to convince Mr
Swiveller that the objects by which he was surrounded were real,
and that he saw them, beyond all question, with his waking eyes.

'It's an Arabian Night; that's what it is,' said Richard. 'I'm in
Damascus or Grand Cairo. The Marchioness is a Genie, and having
had a wager with another Genie about who is the handsomest young
man alive, and the worthiest to be the husband of the Princess of
China, has brought me away, room and all, to compare us together.
Perhaps,' said Mr Swiveller, turning languidly round on his pillow,
and looking on that side of his bed which was next the wall, 'the
Princess may be still--No, she's gone.'

Not feeling quite satisfied with this explanation, as, even taking
it to be the correct one, it still involved a little mystery and
doubt, Mr Swiveller raised the curtain again, determined to take
the first favourable opportunity of addressing his companion. An
occasion presented itself. The Marchioness dealt, turned up a
knave, and omitted to take the usual advantage; upon which Mr
Swiveller called out as loud as he could--'Two for his heels!'

The Marchioness jumped up quickly and clapped her hands. 'Arabian
Night, certainly,' thought Mr Swiveller; 'they always clap their
hands instead of ringing the bell. Now for the two thousand black
slaves, with jars of jewels on their heads!'

It appeared, however, that she had only clapped her hands for joy;
for directly afterward she began to laugh, and then to cry;
declaring, not in choice Arabic but in familiar English, that she
was 'so glad, she didn't know what to do.'

'Marchioness,' said Mr Swiveller, thoughtfully, 'be pleased to draw
nearer. First of all, will you have the goodness to inform me
where I shall find my voice; and secondly, what has become of my
flesh?'

The Marchioness only shook her head mournfully, and cried again;
whereupon Mr Swiveller (being very weak) felt his own eyes affected
likewise.

'I begin to infer, from your manner, and these appearances,
Marchioness,' said Richard after a pause, and smiling with a
trembling lip, 'that I have been ill.'

'You just have!' replied the small servant, wiping her eyes. 'And
haven't you been a talking nonsense!'

'Oh!' said Dick. 'Very ill, Marchioness, have I been?'

'Dead, all but,' replied the small servant. 'I never thought you'd
get better. Thank Heaven you have!'

Mr Swiveller was silent for a long while. By and bye, he began to
talk again, inquiring how long he had been there.

'Three weeks to-morrow,' replied the servant.

'Three what?' said Dick.

'Weeks,' returned the Marchioness emphatically; 'three long, slow
weeks.'

The bare thought of having been in such extremity, caused Richard
to fall into another silence, and to lie flat down again, at his
full length. The Marchioness, having arranged the bed-clothes more
comfortably, and felt that his hands and forehead were quite cool--
a discovery that filled her with delight--cried a little more,
and then applied herself to getting tea ready, and making some thin
dry toast.

While she was thus engaged, Mr Swiveller looked on with a grateful
heart, very much astonished to see how thoroughly at home she made
herself, and attributing this attention, in its origin, to Sally
Brass, whom, in his own mind, he could not thank enough. When the
Marchioness had finished her toasting, she spread a clean cloth on
a tray, and brought him some crisp slices and a great basin of weak
tea, with which (she said) the doctor had left word he might
refresh himself when he awoke. She propped him up with pillows, if
not as skilfully as if she had been a professional nurse all her
life, at least as tenderly; and looked on with unutterable
satisfaction while the patient--stopping every now and then to
shake her by the hand--took his poor meal with an appetite and
relish, which the greatest dainties of the earth, under any other
circumstances, would have failed to provoke. Having cleared away,
and disposed everything comfortably about him again, she sat down
at the table to take her own tea.

'Marchioness,' said Mr Swiveller, 'how's Sally?'

The small servant screwed her face into an expression of the very
uttermost entanglement of slyness, and shook her head.