The Old Curiosity Shop

“Eh?” said Brass, holding his head on one side, and throwing it a little back, as connoisseurs do. “Now I look at it again, I fancy I see a—yes, there certainly is something in the smile that reminds me of—and yet upon my word I—”

Now, the fact was, that Sampson, having never seen anything in the smallest degree resembling this substantial phantom, was much perplexed; being uncertain whether Mr Quilp considered it like himself, and had therefore bought it for a family portrait; or whether he was pleased to consider it as the likeness of some enemy. He was not very long in doubt; for, while he was surveying it with that knowing look which people assume when they are contemplating for the first time portraits which they ought to recognise but don't, the dwarf threw down the newspaper from which he had been chanting the words already quoted, and seizing a rusty iron bar, which he used in lieu of poker, dealt the figure such a stroke on the nose that it rocked again.

“Is it like Kit—is it his picture, his image, his very self?” cried the dwarf, aiming a shower of blows at the insensible countenance, and covering it with deep dimples. “Is it the exact model and counterpart of the dog—is it—is it—is it?” And with every repetition of the question, he battered the great image, until the perspiration streamed down his face with the violence of the exercise.

Although this might have been a very comical thing to look at from a secure gallery, as a bull-fight is found to be a comfortable spectacle by those who are not in the arena, and a house on fire is better than a play to people who don't live near it, there was something in the earnestness of Mr Quilp's manner which made his legal adviser feel that the counting-house was a little too small, and a deal too lonely, for the complete enjoyment of these humours. Therefore, he stood as far off as he could, while the dwarf was thus engaged; whimpering out but feeble applause; and when Quilp left off and sat down again from pure exhaustion, approached with more obsequiousness than ever.

“Excellent indeed!” cried Brass. “He he! Oh, very good Sir. You know,” said Sampson, looking round as if in appeal to the bruised animal, “he's quite a remarkable man—quite!”

“Sit down,” said the dwarf. “I bought the dog yesterday. I've been screwing gimlets into him, and sticking forks in his eyes, and cutting my name on him. I mean to burn him at last.”

“Ha ha!” cried Brass. “Extremely entertaining, indeed!”

“Come here,” said Quilp, beckoning him to draw near. “What's injudicious, hey?”

“Nothing Sir—nothing. Scarcely worth mentioning Sir; but I thought that song—admirably humorous in itself you know—was perhaps rather—”

“Yes,” said Quilp, “rather what?”

“Just bordering, or as one may say remotely verging, upon the confines of injudiciousness perhaps, Sir,” returned Brass, looking timidly at the dwarf's cunning eyes, which were turned towards the fire and reflected its red light.

“Why?” inquired Quilp, without looking up.

“Why, you know, sir,” returned Brass, venturing to be more familiar: “—the fact is, sir, that any allusion to these little combinings together, of friends, for objects in themselves extremely laudable, but which the law terms conspiracies, are—you take me, sir?—best kept snug and among friends, you know.”

“Eh!” said Quilp, looking up with a perfectly vacant countenance. “What do you mean?”

“Cautious, exceedingly cautious, very right and proper!” cried Brass, nodding his head. “Mum, sir, even here—my meaning, sir, exactly.”

“YOUR meaning exactly, you brazen scarecrow,—what's your meaning?” retorted Quilp. “Why do you talk to me of combining together? Do I combine? Do I know anything about your combinings?”

“No no, sir—certainly not; not by any means,” returned Brass.

“if you so wink and nod at me,” said the dwarf, looking about him as if for his poker, “I'll spoil the expression of your monkey's face, I will.” “Don't put yourself out of the way I beg, sir,” rejoined Brass, checking himself with great alacrity. “You're quite right, sir, quite right. I shouldn't have mentioned the subject, sir. It's much better not to. You're quite right, sir. Let us change it, if you please. You were asking, sir, Sally told me, about our lodger. He has not returned, sir.”

“No?” said Quilp, heating some rum in a little saucepan, and watching it to prevent its boiling over. “Why not?”

“Why, sir,” returned Brass, “he—dear me, Mr Quilp, sir—”

“What's the matter?” said the dwarf, stopping his hand in the act of carrying the saucepan to his mouth.

“You have forgotten the water, sir,” said Brass. “And—excuse me, sir—but it's burning hot.”

Deigning no other than a practical answer to this remonstrance, Mr Quilp raised the hot saucepan to his lips, and deliberately drank off all the spirit it contained, which might have been in quantity about half a pint, and had been but a moment before, when he took it off the fire, bubbling and hissing fiercely. Having swallowed this gentle stimulant, and shaken his fist at the admiral, he bade Mr Brass proceed.

“But first,” said Quilp, with his accustomed grin, “have a drop yourself—a nice drop—a good, warm, fiery drop.”

“Why, sir,” replied Brass, “if there was such a thing as a mouthful of water that could be got without trouble—”

“There's no such thing to be had here,” cried the dwarf. “Water for lawyers! Melted lead and brimstone, you mean, nice hot blistering pitch and tar—that's the thing for them—eh, Brass, eh?”

“Ha ha ha!” laughed Mr Brass. “Oh very biting! and yet it's like being tickled—there's a pleasure in it too, sir!”

“Drink that,” said the dwarf, who had by this time heated some more. “Toss it off, don't leave any heeltap, scorch your throat and be happy!”

The wretched Sampson took a few short sips of the liquor, which immediately distilled itself into burning tears, and in that form came rolling down his cheeks into the pipkin again, turning the colour of his face and eyelids to a deep red, and giving rise to a violent fit of coughing, in the midst of which he was still heard to declare, with the constancy of a martyr, that it was “beautiful indeed!” While he was yet in unspeakable agonies, the dwarf renewed their conversation.

“The lodger,” said Quilp, “—what about him?” “He is still, sir,” returned Brass, with intervals of coughing, “stopping with the Garland family. He has only been home once, Sir, since the day of the examination of that culprit. He informed Mr Richard, sir, that he couldn't bear the house after what had taken place; that he was wretched in it; and that he looked upon himself as being in a certain kind of way the cause of the occurrence.—A very excellent lodger Sir. I hope we may not lose him.”

“Yah!” cried the dwarf. “Never thinking of anybody but yourself—why don't you retrench then—scrape up, hoard, economise, eh?”

“Why, sir,” replied Brass, “upon my word I think Sarah's as good an economiser as any going. I do indeed, Mr Quilp.”

“Moisten your clay, wet the other eye, drink, man!” cried the dwarf. “You took a clerk to oblige me.”

“Delighted, sir, I am sure, at any time,” replied Sampson. “Yes, Sir, I did.”

“Then now you may discharge him,” said Quilp. “There's a means of retrenchment for you at once.”

“Discharge Mr Richard, sir?” cried Brass.

“Have you more than one clerk, you parrot, that you ask the question? Yes.”

“Upon my word, Sir,” said Brass, “I wasn't prepared for this-”

“How could you be?” sneered the dwarf, “when I wasn't? How often am I to tell you that I brought him to you that I might always have my eye on him and know where he was—and that I had a plot, a scheme, a little quiet piece of enjoyment afoot, of which the very cream and essence was, that this old man and grandchild (who have sunk underground I think) should be, while he and his precious friend believed them rich, in reality as poor as frozen rats?”

“I quite understood that, sir,” rejoined Brass. “Thoroughly.”

“Well, Sir,” retorted Quilp, “and do you understand now, that they're not poor—that they can't be, if they have such men as your lodger searching for them, and scouring the country far and wide?”

“Of course I do, Sir,” said Sampson.

“Of course you do,” retorted the dwarf, viciously snapping at his words. “Of course do you understand then, that it's no matter what comes of this fellow? of course do you understand that for any other purpose he's no man for me, nor for you?”

“I have frequently said to Sarah, sir,” returned Brass, “that he was of no use at all in the business. You can't put any confidence in him, sir. If you'll believe me I've found that fellow, in the commonest little matters of the office that have been trusted to him, blurting out the truth, though expressly cautioned. The aggravation of that chap sir, has exceeded anything you can imagine, it has indeed. Nothing but the respect and obligation I owe to you, sir—”

As it was plain that Sampson was bent on a complimentary harangue, unless he received a timely interruption, Mr Quilp politely tapped him on the crown of his head with the little saucepan, and requested that he would be so obliging as to hold his peace.

“Practical, sir, practical,” said Brass, rubbing the place and smiling; “but still extremely pleasant—immensely so!”

“Hearken to me, will you?” returned Quilp, “or I'll be a little more pleasant, presently. There's no chance of his comrade and friend returning. The scamp has been obliged to fly, as I learn, for some knavery, and has found his way abroad. Let him rot there.”

“Certainly, sir. Quite proper.—Forcible!” cried Brass, glancing at the admiral again, as if he made a third in company. “Extremely forcible!”

“I hate him,” said Quilp between his teeth, “and have always hated him, for family reasons. Besides, he was an intractable ruffian; otherwise he would have been of use. This fellow is pigeon-hearted and light-headed. I don't want him any longer. Let him hang or drown—starve—go to the devil.”

“By all means, sir,” returned Brass. “When would you wish him, sir, to—ha, ha!—to make that little excursion?”

“When this trial's over,” said Quilp. “As soon as that's ended, send him about his business.”

“It shall be done, sir,” returned Brass; “by all means. It will be rather a blow to Sarah, sir, but she has all her feelings under control. Ah, Mr Quilp, I often think, sir, if it had only pleased Providence to bring you and Sarah together, in earlier life, what blessed results would have flowed from such a union! You never saw our dear father, sir?—A charming gentleman. Sarah was his pride and joy, sir. He would have closed his eyes in bliss, would Foxey, Mr Quilp, if he could have found her such a partner. You esteem her, sir?”

“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

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.”