The Old Curiosity Shop - Charles Dickens (good books for high schoolers .txt) 📗

lost some money last night—out of my bedroom, I am sure. Unless it was taken by somebody in jest—only in jest, dear grandfather, which would make me laugh heartily if I could but know it—’

‘Who would take money in jest?’ returned the old man in a hurried manner. ‘Those who take money, take it to keep. Don’t talk of jest.’

‘Then it was stolen out of my room, dear,’ said the child, whose last hope was destroyed by the manner of this reply.

‘But is there no more, Nell?’ said the old man; ‘no more anywhere? Was it all taken—every farthing of it—was there nothing left?’

‘Nothing,’ replied the child.

‘We must get more,’ said the old man, ‘we must earn it, Nell, hoard it up, scrape it together, come by it somehow. Never mind this loss. Tell nobody of it, and perhaps we may regain it. Don’t ask how;—we may regain it, and a great deal more;—but tell nobody, or trouble may come of it. And so they took it out of thy room, when thou wert asleep!’ he added in a compassionate tone, very different from the secret, cunning way in which he had spoken until now. ‘Poor Nell, poor little Nell!’

The child hung down her head and wept. The sympathising tone in which he spoke, was quite sincere; she was sure of that. It was not the lightest part of her sorrow to know that this was done for her.

‘Not a word about it to any one but me,’ said the old man, ‘no, not even to me,’ he added hastily, ‘for it can do no good. All the losses that ever were, are not worth tears from thy eyes, darling. Why should they be, when we will win them back?’

‘Let them go,’ said the child looking up. ‘Let them go, once and for ever, and I would never shed another tear if every penny had been a thousand pounds.’

‘Well, well,’ returned the old man, checking himself as some impetuous answer rose to his lips, ‘she knows no better. I ought to be thankful of it.’

‘But listen to me,’ said the child earnestly, ‘will you listen to me?’

‘Aye, aye, I’ll listen,’ returned the old man, still without looking at her; ‘a pretty voice. It has always a sweet sound to me. It always had when it was her mother’s, poor child.’

‘Let me persuade you, then—oh, do let me persuade you,’ said the child, ‘to think no more of gains or losses, and to try no fortune but the fortune we pursue together.’

‘We pursue this aim together,’ retorted her grandfather, still looking away and seeming to confer with himself. ‘Whose image sanctifies the game?’

‘Have we been worse off,’ resumed the child, ‘since you forgot these cares, and we have been travelling on together? Have we not been much better and happier without a home to shelter us, than ever we were in that unhappy house, when they were on your mind?’

‘She speaks the truth,’ murmured the old man in the same tone as before. ‘It must not turn me, but it is the truth; no doubt it is.’

‘Only remember what we have been since that bright morning when we turned our backs upon it for the last time,’ said Nell, ‘only remember what we have been since we have been free of all those miseries—what peaceful days and quiet nights we have had—what pleasant times we have known—what happiness we have enjoyed. If we have been tired or hungry, we have been soon refreshed, and slept the sounder for it. Think what beautiful things we have seen, and how contented we have felt. And why was this blessed change?’

He stopped her with a motion of his hand, and bade her talk to him no more just then, for he was busy. After a time he kissed her cheek, still motioning her to silence, and walked on, looking far before him, and sometimes stopping and gazing with a puckered brow upon the ground, as if he were painfully trying to collect his disordered thoughts. Once she saw tears in his eyes. When he had gone on thus for some time, he took her hand in his as he was accustomed to do, with nothing of the violence or animation of his late manner; and so, by degrees so fine that the child could not trace them, he settled down into his usual quiet way, and suffered her to lead him where she would.

When they presented themselves in the midst of the stupendous collection, they found, as Nell had anticipated, that Mrs Jarley was not yet out of bed, and that, although she had suffered some uneasiness on their account overnight, and had indeed sat up for them until past eleven o’clock, she had retired in the persuasion, that, being overtaken by storm at some distance from home, they had sought the nearest shelter, and would not return before morning. Nell immediately applied herself with great assiduity to the decoration and preparation of the room, and had the satisfaction of completing her task, and dressing herself neatly, before the beloved of the Royal Family came down to breakfast.

‘We haven’t had,’ said Mrs Jarley when the meal was over, ‘more than eight of Miss Monflathers’s young ladies all the time we’ve been here, and there’s twenty-six of ‘em, as I was told by the cook when I asked her a question or two and put her on the free-list. We must try ‘em with a parcel of new bills, and you shall take it, my dear, and see what effect that has upon ‘em.’

The proposed expedition being one of paramount importance, Mrs Jarley adjusted Nell’s bonnet with her own hands, and declaring that she certainly did look very pretty, and reflected credit on the establishment, dismissed her with many commendations, and certain needful directions as to the turnings on the right which she was to take, and the turnings on the left which she was to avoid. Thus instructed, Nell had no difficulty in finding out Miss Monflathers’s Boarding and Day Establishment, which was a large house, with a high wall, and a large garden-gate with a large brass plate, and a small grating through which Miss Monflathers’s parlour-maid inspected all visitors before admitting them; for nothing in the shape of a man—no, not even a milkman—was suffered, without special license, to pass that gate. Even the tax-gatherer, who was stout, and wore spectacles and a broad-brimmed hat, had the taxes handed through the grating. More obdurate than gate of adamant or brass, this gate of Miss Monflathers’s frowned on all mankind. The very butcher respected it as a gate of mystery, and left off whistling when he rang the bell.

As Nell approached the awful door, it turned slowly upon its hinges with a creaking noise, and, forth from the solemn grove beyond, came a long file of young ladies, two and two, all with open books in their hands, and some with parasols likewise. And last of the goodly procession came Miss Monflathers, bearing herself a parasol of lilac silk, and supported by two smiling teachers, each mortally envious of the other, and devoted unto Miss Monflathers.

Confused by the looks and whispers of the girls, Nell stood with downcast eyes and suffered the procession to pass on, until Miss Monflathers, bringing up the rear, approached her, when she curtseyed and presented her little packet; on receipt whereof Miss Monflathers commanded that the line should halt.

‘You’re the wax-work child, are you not?’ said Miss Monflathers.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ replied Nell, colouring deeply, for the young ladies had collected about her, and she was the centre on which all eyes were fixed.

‘And don’t you think you must be a very wicked little child,’ said Miss Monflathers, who was of rather uncertain temper, and lost no opportunity of impressing moral truths upon the tender minds of the young ladies, ‘to be a wax-work child at all?’

Poor Nell had never viewed her position in this light, and not knowing what to say, remained silent, blushing more deeply than before.

‘Don’t you know,’ said Miss Monflathers, ‘that it’s very naughty and unfeminine, and a perversion of the properties wisely and benignantly transmitted to us, with expansive powers to be roused from their dormant state through the medium of cultivation?’

The two teachers murmured their respectful approval of this home-thrust, and looked at Nell as though they would have said that there indeed Miss Monflathers had hit her very hard. Then they smiled and glanced at Miss Monflathers, and then, their eyes meeting, they exchanged looks which plainly said that each considered herself smiler in ordinary to Miss Monflathers, and regarded the other as having no right to smile, and that her so doing was an act of presumption and impertinence.

‘Don’t you feel how naughty it is of you,’ resumed Miss Monflathers, ‘to be a wax-work child, when you might have the proud consciousness of assisting, to the extent of your infant powers, the manufactures of your country; of improving your mind by the constant contemplation of the steam-engine; and of earning a comfortable and independent subsistence of from two-and-ninepence to three shillings per week? Don’t you know that the harder you are at work, the happier you are?’

‘“How doth the little—”’ murmured one of the teachers, in quotation from Doctor Watts.

‘Eh?’ said Miss Monflathers, turning smartly round. ‘Who said that?’

Of course the teacher who had not said it, indicated the rival who had, whom Miss Monflathers frowningly requested to hold her peace; by that means throwing the informing teacher into raptures of joy.

‘The little busy bee,’ said Miss Monflathers, drawing herself up, ‘is applicable only to genteel children.

“In books, or work, or healthful play”

is quite right as far as they are concerned; and the work means painting on velvet, fancy needle-work, or embroidery. In such cases as these,’ pointing to Nell, with her parasol, ‘and in the case of all poor people’s children, we should read it thus:

 

“In work, work, work. In work alway Let my first years be past, That I may give for ev’ry day Some good account at last.”’

 

A deep hum of applause rose not only from the two teachers, but from all the pupils, who were equally astonished to hear Miss Monflathers improvising after this brilliant style; for although she had been long known as a politician, she had never appeared before as an original poet. Just then somebody happened to discover that Nell was crying, and all eyes were again turned towards her.

There were indeed tears in her eyes, and drawing out her handkerchief to brush them away, she happened to let it fall. Before she could stoop to pick it up, one young lady of about fifteen or sixteen, who had been standing a little apart from the others, as though she had no recognised place among them, sprang forward and put it in her hand. She was gliding timidly away again, when she was arrested by the governess.

‘It was Miss Edwards who did that, I KNOW,’ said Miss Monflathers predictively. ‘Now I am sure that was Miss Edwards.’

It was Miss Edwards, and everybody said it was Miss Edwards, and Miss Edwards herself admitted that it was.

‘Is it not,’ said Miss Monflathers, putting down her parasol to take a severer view of the offender, ‘a most remarkable thing, Miss Edwards, that you have an attachment to the lower classes which always draws you to their sides; or, rather, is it not a most extraordinary thing that all I say and do will not wean you from propensities which your original station in life have unhappily rendered habitual to you, you extremely vulgar-minded girl?’

‘I really intended no harm, ma’am,’ said a sweet voice. ‘It was a momentary impulse, indeed.’

‘An impulse!’ repeated Miss Monflathers