He was sitting in his easy chair one day, and Nell upon a stool beside him, when a man outside the door inquired if he might enter. “Yes,” he said without emotion, “it was Quilp, he knew. Quilp was master there. Of course he might come in.” And so he did.
“I’m glad to see you well again at last, neighbour,” said the dwarf sitting down opposite to him. “You’re quite strong now?”
“Yes,” said the old man feebly, “yes.”
“I don’t want to hurry you, you know neighbour,” said the dwarf raising his voice, for the old man’s senses were duller than they had been; “but as soon as you can arrange your future proceedings, the better.”
“Surely,” said the old man. “The better for all parties.”
“You see,” pursued Quilp after a short pause, “the goods being once removed, this house would be uncomfortable; uninhabitable in fact.”
“You say true,” returned the old man. “Poor Nell too, what would she do?”
“Exactly,” bawled the dwarf nodding his head; “that’s very well observed. Then will you consider about it neighbour?”
“I will certainly,” replied the old man. “We shall not stop here.”
“So I supposed,” said the dwarf. “I have sold the things. They have not yielded quite as much as they might have done, but pretty well—pretty well. Today’s Tuesday. When shall they be moved? There’s no hurry—shall we say this afternoon?”
“Say Friday morning,” returned the old man.
“Very good” said the dwarf. “So be it—with the understanding that I can’t go beyond that day neighbour, on any account.”
“Good” returned the old man. “I shall remember it.”
Mr. Quilp seemed rather puzzled by the strange, even, spiritless way in which all this was said; but as the old man nodded his head and repeated “on Friday morning. I shall remember it,” he had no excuse for dwelling upon the subject any further, and so took a friendly leave with many expressions of goodwill and many compliments to his friend on his looking so remarkably well; and went below stairs to report progress to Mr. Brass.
All that day and all the next, the old man remained in this state. He wandered up and down the house and into and out of the various rooms, as if with some vague intent of bidding them adieu, but he referred neither by direct allusions nor in any other manner to the interview of the morning or the necessity of finding some other shelter. An indistinct idea he had that the child was desolate and in want of help, for he often drew her to his bosom and bade her be of good cheer, saying that they would not desert each other; but he seemed unable to contemplate their real position more distinctly, and was still the listless, passionless creature, that suffering of mind and body had left him.
We call this a state of childishness, but it is the same poor hollow mockery of it, that death is of sleep. Where, in the dull eyes of doting men, are the laughing light and life of childhood, the gaiety that has known no check, the frankness that has felt no chill, the hope that has never withered, the joys that fade in blossoming? Where, in the sharp lineaments of rigid and unsightly death, is the calm beauty of slumber, telling of rest for the waking hours that are past, and gentle hopes and loves for those which are to come? Lay death and sleep down, side by side, and say who shall find the two akin. Send forth the child and childish man together, and blush for the pride that libels our own old happy state, and gives its title to an ugly and distorted image.
Thursday arrived, and there was no alteration in the old man. But a change came upon him that evening as he and the child sat silently together.
In a small dull yard below his window there was a tree—green and flourishing enough, for such a place—and as the air stirred among its leaves, it threw a rippling shadow on the white wall. The old man sat watching the shadows as they trembled in this patch of light until the sun went down, and when it was night and the moon was slowly rising he still sat in the same spot.
To one who had been tossing on a restless bed so long, even these few green leaves and this tranquil light, although it languished among chimneys and housetops, were pleasant things. They suggested quiet places afar off, and rest, and peace.
The child thought more than once that he was moved, and had forborne to speak. But now he shed tears—tears that it lightened her aching heart to see—and making as though he would fall upon his knees, besought her to forgive him.
“Forgive you—what?” said Nell, interposing to prevent his purpose. “Oh grandfather, what should I forgive?”
“All that is past, all that has come upon thee Nell, all that was done in that uneasy dream,” returned the old man.
“Do not talk so,” said the child. “Pray do not. Let us speak of something else.”
“Yes, yes, we will,” he rejoined. “And it shall be of what we talked of long ago—many months—months is it, or weeks, or days? which is it Nell?”
“I do not understand you”—said the child.
“It has come back upon me today, it has all come back since we have been sitting here. I bless thee for it Nell!”
“For what dear grandfather?”
“For what you said when we were first made beggars, Nell. Let us speak softly. Hush! for if they knew our purpose downstairs, they would cry that I was mad and take thee from me. We will not stop here another day. We will go far away from here.”
“Yes, let us go,” said the child earnestly. “Let us begone from
