Old Curiosity Shop

Charles Dickens

Description

Beautiful, honest Nell Trent lives with her devoted Grandfather in his Old Curiosity Shop, an enchanting shop of odds and ends. Desperate to make a better life for his Nell, Grandfather secretly gambles and gets deeply into debt with the unscrupulous Quilp. When what little money they have is lost in a game of cards, Quilp claims The Old Curiosity Shop as payment for the loans Released in installments from 1840 to 1841, Charles Dicken's The Old Curiosity Shop caused such a sensation at the time that crowds of avid readers were waiting on the docks of New York to hear news of their heroine when the ship with the last episode approached the port.

Informations

• Publié par: The Floating Press
• Date de parution: 01 mai 2009
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781775410492
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP
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CHARLES DICKENS
 
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The Old Curiosity Shop First published in 1841.
ISBN 978-1-775410-49-2
© 2009 THE FLOATING PRESS.
While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike.
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Contents
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Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 57 Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Chapter 55 Chapter 56 Chapter 57 Chapter 58 Chapter 59 Chapter 60 Chapter 61 Chapter 62 Chapter 63 Chapter 64 Chapter 65 Chapter 66 Chapter 67 Chapter 68 Chapter 69 Chapter 70 Chapter 71 Chapter 72 Chapter 73
Chapter 1
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Night is generally my time for walking. In the summer I often leavehome early in the morning, and roam about fields and lanes all day,or even escape for days or weeks together; but, saving in thecountry, I seldom go out until after dark, though, Heaven bethanked, I love its light and feel the cheerfulness it sheds upon theearth, as much as any creature living.
I have fallen insensibly into this habit, both because it favours myinfirmity and because it affords me greater opportunity of speculatingon the characters and occupations of those who fill the streets. Theglare and hurry of broad noon are not adapted to idle pursuits likemine; a glimpse of passing faces caught by the light of a street-lampor a shop window is often better for my purpose than their fullrevelation in the daylight; and, if I must add the truth, night is kinderin this respect than day, which too often destroys an air-built castleat the moment of its completion, without the least ceremony or remorse.
That constant pacing to and fro, that never-ending restlessness, thatincessant tread of feet wearing the rough stones smooth and glossy—is itnot a wonder how the dwellers in narrows ways can bear to hearit! Think of a sick man in such a place as Saint Martin's Court,listening to the footsteps, and in the midst of pain and wearinessobliged, despite himself (as though it were a task he must perform)to detect the child's step from the man's, the slipshod beggar fromthe booted exquisite, the lounging from the busy, the dull heelof the sauntering outcast from the quick tread of an expectantpleasure-seeker—think of the hum and noise always being present to hissense, and of the stream of life that will not stop, pouring on, on, on,through all his restless dreams, as if he were condemned to lie,dead but conscious, in a noisy churchyard, and had no hope of restfor centuries to come.
Then, the crowds for ever passing and repassing on the bridges (onthose which are free of toil at last), where many stop on fineevenings looking listlessly down upon the water with some vagueidea that by and by it runs between green banks which grow widerand wider until at last it joins the broad vast sea—where some halt torest from heavy loads and think as they look over the parapet that tosmoke and lounge away one's life, and lie sleeping in the sun upon ahot tarpaulin, in a dull, slow, sluggish barge, must be happinessunalloyed—and where some, and a very different class, pause withheaver loads than they, remembering to have heard or read in oldtime that drowning was not a hard death, but of all means of suicidethe easiest and best.
Covent Garden Market at sunrise too, in the spring or summer, whenthe fragrance of sweet flowers is in the air, over-powering even theunwholesome streams of last night's debauchery, and driving thedusky thrust, whose cage has hung outside a garret window all nightlong, half mad with joy! Poor bird! the only neighbouring thing at allakin to the other little captives, some of whom, shrinking from thehot hands of drunken purchasers, lie drooping on the path already,while others, soddened by close contact, await the time when theyshall be watered and freshened up to please more sober company,and make old clerks who pass them on their road to business,wonder what has filled their breasts with visions of the country.
But my present purpose is not to expatiate upon my walks. The storyI am about to relate, and to which I shall recur at intervals, aroseout of one of these rambles; and thus I have been led to speak ofthem by way of preface.
One night I had roamed into the City, and was walking slowly on inmy usual way, musing upon a great many things, when I wasarrested by an inquiry, the purport of which did not reach me, butwhich seemed to be addressed to myself, and was preferred in a softsweet voice that struck me very pleasantly. I turned hastily roundand found at my elbow a pretty little girl, who begged to be directedto a certain street at a considerable distance, and indeed in quiteanother quarter of the town.
It is a very long way from here,' said I, 'my child.'
'I know that, sir,' she replied timidly. 'I am afraid it is a very longway, for I came from there to-night.'
'Alone?' said I, in some surprise.
'Oh, yes, I don't mind that, but I am a little frightened now, for Ihad lost my road.'
'And what made you ask it of me? Suppose I should tell you wrong?'
'I am sure you will not do that,' said the little creature,' you are sucha very old gentleman, and walk so slow yourself.'
I cannot describe how much I was impressed by this appeal and theenergy with which it was made, which brought a tear into the child'sclear eye, and made her slight figure tremble as she looked up intomy face.
'Come,' said I, 'I'll take you there.'
She put her hand in mind as confidingly as if she had known mefrom her cradle, and we trudged away together; the little creatureaccommodating her pace to mine, and rather seeming to lead andtake care of me than I to be protecting her. I observed that everynow and then she stole a curious look at my face, as if to make quitesure that I was not deceiving her, and that these glances (very sharpand keen they were too) seemed to increase her confidence at everyrepetition.
For my part, my curiosity and interest were at least equal to thechild's, for child she certainly was, although I thought it probablyfrom what I could make out, that her very small and delicate frameimparted a peculiar youthfulness to her appearance. Though morescantily attired than she might have been she was dressed withperfect neatness, and betrayed no marks of poverty or neglect.
'Who has sent you so far by yourself?' said I.
'Someone who is very kind to me, sir.'
'And what have you been doing?'
'That, I must not tell,' said the child firmly.
There was something in the manner of this reply which caused me tolook at the little creature with an involuntary expression of surprise;for I wondered what kind of errand it might be that occasioned her tobe prepared for questioning. Her quick eye seemed to read mythoughts, for as it met mine she added that there was no harm inwhat she had been doing, but it was a great secret—a secret whichshe did not even know herself.
This was said with no appearance of cunning or deceit, but with anunsuspicious frankness that bore the impress of truth. She walked onas before, growing more familiar with me as we proceeded andtalking cheerfully by the way, but she said no more about her home,beyond remarking that we were going quite a new road and asking ifit were a short one.
While we were thus engaged, I revolved in my mind a hundreddifferent explanations of the riddle and rejected them every one. Ireally felt ashamed to take advantage of the ingenuousness or gratefulfeeling of the child for the purpose of gratifying my curiosity. I lovethese little people; and it is not a slight thing when they, who are sofresh from God, love us. As I had felt pleased at first by herconfidence I determined to deserve it, and to do credit to the naturewhich had prompted her to repose it in me.
There was no reason, however, why I should refrain from seeing theperson who had inconsiderately sent her to so great a distance bynight and alone, and as it was not improbable that if she foundherself near home she might take farewell of me and deprive me ofthe opportunity, I avoided the most frequented ways and took themost intricate, and thus it was not until we arrived in the street itselfthat she knew where we were. Clapping her hands with pleasure andrunning on before me for a short distance, my little acquaintancestopped at a door and remaining on the step till I came up knocked atit when I joined her.
A part of this door was of glass unprotected by any shutter, which Idid not observe at first, for all was very dark and silent within, and Iwas anxious (as indeed the child was also) for an answer to oursummons. When she had knocked twice or thrice there was a noiseas if some person were moving inside, and at length a faint lightappeared through the glass which, as it approached very slowly, thebearer having to make his way through a great many scatteredarticles, enabled me to see both what kind of person it was whoadvanced and what kind of place it was through which he came.
It was an old man with long grey hair, whose face and figure as heheld the light above his head and looked before him as heapproached, I could plainly see. Though much altered by a